Free The Godwhale (S.F. Masterworks) by T. J. Bass

a bulky swelling of his vocal cords. He tried again, but the splashing cries of anguish around him drowned out his call. His hand slipped on a deep cold face, open-mouthed and silted. He tried to relax and breathe deeply. The lights came closer and he noticed that the humans were not administering aid to the writhing bodies. They just sorted through them, shovelling some into the munching maw of the bulky machine that accompanied them.
    ‘Not much meat on this one,’ he heard them say. ‘A calorie is a calorie.’ The body they handled seemed still and lifeless, but Larry couldn’t be sure. He dragged himself out of their path, cursing his weakness. Weakness? His mannequin was gone. His movements attracted a light beam.
    ‘Relax,’ said the masked Protein Harvester. ‘Let me disconnect you first, or you’ll tear off your perfusion tubules.’ A rough hand steadied his sore trunk while vascular catheters were withdrawn from a buttonhole incision in his left lower rib cage.
    ‘He’s a live one,’ called another worker. ‘Is he ready for Rehab?’
    ‘No. I don’t think so,’ said the first. ‘No legs, but he’s strong. The bad gases haven’t gotten to him yet.’
    Then Larry noticed that the bitter taste was not confined to the fluids. The air was acrid too. It burned his throat and lungs – a strong metallic bite. The rough hand towed him through the shallows and deposited him, wet, cold, and naked, in a hallway. Hundreds of bodies littered the floor as far as he could see. Most appeared to be breathing, but little else. An occasional moan. A white-garbed attendant wandered among them, making notes and checking nameplates.
    ‘Over here,’ called Larry.
    As the attendant approached, his empty-eyed stare chilled Larry more than the cold floor. Like a zombie whose soul has gone on before him, he glanced down at Larry – staring through him – scratched a card, and turned to walk away. The thin lips hadn’t moved.
    ‘Wait . . . I’m still alive.’
    ‘So?’ said the attendant over his shoulder. ‘That is a matter for the Hall Committee.’
    Larry quieted, crawling into a corner in search of warmth. The body-strewn passage stretched on for perhaps a quarter of a mile, but echoes told of many side corridors. Chills rattled. Sleep numbed.
    Aroused from his pre-coma by a murmur of voices and machines, he saw the orange Resuscitator approaching on wide soft wheels, administering shocks and stimulants as it came. Five satiny-robed elders rode the meck – rode high on the meck’s back, seated around their table of printouts and readers. They bent over their viewers, squinting out of wrinkled faces and asking their dull routine questions in a monotone lost behind the shrill cries of the hall patients being aroused by the meck’s sparking probes and needle injectors. Bundles and squeeze-bottles were distributed. The meck plucked Larry’s Identoplate.
    ‘I don’t understand the code on your plate, Larry – er – Dever,’ said the Committeeman. ‘Have you been in Suspension a very long time?’
    Larry nodded – afraid that the sound of his voice might attract other vultures.
    ‘He is bright-eyed, alert,’ offered the second Committeeman. ‘Do we have anything on his skills?’
    ‘His plate doesn’t even fit into our reader. What do you do?’
    Larry’s mind raced. Skills? ‘Where’s my mannequin?’ he asked. ‘If I could share and update I’d know which of my skills would fit your needs.’
    ‘Mannequin?’ The blank stares were back. Two of the Citizens nodded off to sleep, drooling saliva on their smocks.
    ‘Mannequin was my companion cyber, my legs. Ask OLGA about me. My genes are precious. I’m awaiting an advancement along the lines of the Todd-Sage breakthrough.’
    Another Committeeman dozed off. The first now leaned forward and studied Larry’s truncated, naked form. ‘Why – your legs are gone. You’re handicapped.’
    With a murmur the other members stirred. They whispered