Death and Taxes

  *****

  Hunting Licence

  I keep thinking about the skinny kid who sold me my hunting licence. Of course, none of us are fat nowadays; with the famines no one would dare to be, even if he could. But this kid had a particularly “lean and hungry” look. I suspected him of being a vegetarian, with a jaundiced outlook on the whole history of the ancient sport of hunting.

  Still, he did his job well. Before he let me fill out the form, he went through the whole lecture about observing the boundaries of the hunting reserve; no shooting in the cleared zone around the edges; prescribed rifles only; and all the rest of it. He reminded me that all insurance policies carried a no-payment clause on hunters, and that, in the event of serious injury, I might have up to a six hours’ wait before the four-times-a-day moratorium allowed one of the rescue teams to cart me out. I’d heard it all the previous three years, and waited impatiently for my licence.

  At last he let me fill it out, and stamped it with the big official seal, with the date and “Good for four (4) days”. That was two days less than last year, but of course, hunting is popular, and everyone has to be allowed a turn. The cost was up, too; but it always is.

  I went through the usual search at the entrance to the reserve and listened to that same lecture again, with stress on the cleared safety zone. The guard added, “Once you’re in the wooded area, you can shoot whatever you see. Animals are sufficiently scarce these days that there aren’t likely to be any protected ones wandering in; and we check pretty thoroughly for them, anyway. If anything does get in, it’s yours.”

  That sounded like a nice bonus, though an unlikely one. We’ve had to learn to make our controls rigid, what with more people and fewer resources every year. Nothing but birds were likely to get in, and they weren’t worth the cost of a high-powered bullet.

  It pays to know a bit of wood lore – especially how to move quietly, so the other hunters won’t hear you. Some of them, who can afford it, blaze away at every sound, even though you can’t count a kill you use more than one shot on; and no one likes the idea of lying around wounded, waiting for the rescue team. I had practiced a lot, whenever I got a pass to a park; if I wasn’t an expert, at least I wasn’t a blundering fool.

  I worked my way in slowly and cautiously, listening to occasional shots, wondering how many of them were wasted. When I found a spot that suited me, I snuggled down into cover and waited.

  My first year out, I was so busy dodging the other hunters that I didn’t get a single kill myself; but the next year I got sensible enough to curb my impatience and wait in ambush, and I got one. Last year I played it that way from the start, and I got two. If my luck was that good again this year, I’d make the List.

  I pushed away that thought: it could get me too excited, and I had to stay cool.

  The wait seemed long; I had to keep checking my impulse to get up and try to find a better ambush spot. But finally I heard cautious steps approaching, from nearly the direction I’d figured on. He was coming slowly enough that I could inch my way around to get lined up, without making any noise myself. I couldn’t stop my pulse from speeding up, but I was able to make my breath stay even.

  I hadn’t got the direction quite right; I had to swing my rifle at the last moment; and my cover wasn’t as good as I’d thought, either: he spotted my motion, and fired as fast as I did. And we both hit.

  It’s pretty bad, at first. You don’t know how serious your wound is, not when it’s right in the body. A nick on the arm, and you can walk out for help; a really bad wound, and you don’t have time to wonder. But in between, you can’t move much, and you wonder if you’ll last till rescue. Of course, my anti-pain hypo kicked in the minute its sensor felt my shock, but the waiting’s still grim.

  After the drug began to take effect, I was able to think about other things, and I called out to him, to see if I’d killed him. Not instantly, anyway, for he answered – voice a little dull, but his own anti-pain shot would do that.

  “How are you?”

  He was a good sport. He could have refused to answer, leaving me wondering; but he spoke up. “I’m in a bad way. I think you can count me on your score. How many you got?”

  “Three – four, if I get to count you. How many you got?”

  “Four.”

  “Thought you were an Ace already, the way you snapped off that shot – and hit.”

  “Well, if you die, too, I’ll be on the List, even if I don’t live to see it.”

  We were silent for a few minutes, thinking of the List – the hunters’ aspiration, the Hall of Fame that makes the risks so worth it. There are some names with two or even three stars – double and triple Aces; but few of us last that long: luck steps in. Look at this guy: he was obviously better than I am, but I got him anyway.

  You know the odds, but you go out anyhow. Even when you’ve got your five, you still go back. But most of us don’t last even that long, so there’s a sort of superstition about not thinking beyond the current five. Just to get on the List at all is the height of ambition for most of us: to have posterity know we were real men, successful hunters of the most dangerous game on Earth.

  He interrupted my thoughts. “I think ours is the best method.”

  “Method?”

  “Of population control.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I didn’t think about it that way much.

  “You know, in some countries, you don’t get a chance. I hear some of them just kill off nine out of every ten babies born. Some execute everyone over thirty-five. And there are actually countries that limit the number of children their people can have. Imagine, having your sex life regulated. We’d kill any politician who tried that one on us!”

  “Some countries hold lotteries,” I said. “That gives you a chance to keep on surviving.”

  “Yeah, but what kind of a life is that? Doing nothing, just waiting to see if some computer picks you. In our way, we get the chance to win out against the odds, by our own skill. And we face the danger voluntarily – but not meekly.”

  “You’re right. Every man wants to go down fighting – and knowing he’ll be remembered and honoured when he’s gone.”

  We fell silent; since we agreed, there wasn’t much else to say about that; and my thoughts went back to the List again. Not with a sense of glory, this time, but with frustration. If I died now, I wouldn’t be on the List. He was only my number four. I’d be his number five, and he’d have his place secure, live or die; but I wouldn’t.

  That was when I started thinking about the kid in the licence office. I couldn’t figure out why. There was no way he could be of any help to me or my score. The search teams would come in after the sonics had laid out everybody in the woods, and check all the death scenes, noting whose rifle had killed whom. I’d be his fifth, and he would be my fourth, only. You can’t alter numbers. Why did I think about that kid?

  Wait – not the kid himself: something he’d said, that was it...something in the regulations. What was it?

  He’d asked me how many kills I had. I’d said, three. And he said, “You could make your Ace this time. Remember, every one-shot kill counts.”

  Of course it does. Why had he emphasized it like that? Or had he meant nothing? Just making conversation? No matter: it meant something to my subconscious – only I couldn’t quite dig it out. I fumed and strained for long minutes, then gave up as a wave of weakness hit me. And then I had it. Every one-shot kill counts...

  I called out to my companion. No answer. Was he dead? I had to be sure. Slowly, careful not to over-exert myself, I dragged myself over to him, and felt for a pulse. I checked several times, not wanting to fool myself with the strength of my own hope. There was no pulse. I had four kills. I could get five.

  They might argue about it a bit, I suppose, though I’m sure they’ll accept it in the end. But just to make sure, I’m putting this description on my pocket recorder, addressed to the local news media. I’m the first guy to think of this, so by the time they’
re through spreading the story, no one would think of denying me a place on the List. Finally, I make this affirmation that I am not mortally wounded, and I am clear-headed enough to legally waive my rights as an already wounded man. That makes me legitimate prey for anyone except the guy who’s already shot me once.

  Then, with my own rifle, with my own finger (or toe, if I have to)...

  Every kill counts...