Gnaw

By Mike Smithwick

It was almost a holy calling.

The hunger that chewed away at their insides day and night, churning and never blessing them with peace. Not even for a moment.

He was a pilot. One of the few. One of the few who could see the sun and know what it was, smell the ground and feel the wind on his face and remember the stars.

He had many brothers. Few were at his level though. The rest were closer to the purity of their existence. Almost innocent. Although more common in numbers they were the blessed ones. Blinded by their complete hunger, unpolluted by the memories of the past. They were closer to the vessels and tendons and muscles that formed their bodies. They were primal energy taken physical form. They were as wolves. And as wolves they had to go out and feed.

His brothers were the harvesters. Kept locked up in the hold, their time would come shortly when the prey was within their grasp. Only then would they be freed.

The Pax was quick to destroy the barriers that separated the human from the animalistic. And as with most drugs, it affected people differently and in different proportions. The few tens-of-thousands who were freed from their cages of civilization were likewise affected differently. Most would become as the harvesters. All limits were removed. There was no more remorse, memory, or meaning. Except for one thing: that ever present hunger.

A few were not nearly so lucky. They were higher level operators. Some would coordinate the harvesters. Others remembered just enough to repair their boats and prepare them for the next hunt. And the highest few were able to remember how to fly.

They became pilots.

They envied the harvesters.

It had been a few days out from their home. He never quite knew. Their time was measured relative to that gap between meals. Little more.

They had no names for each other. Except for some of the high operators, few spoke in little more than sounds so names were useless. Late at night in the few moments of silence