Bare Necessities

by Colleen Winters

    Very clever, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, he thought as he fished patiently, seated on the river-cut bank above the flowing water. You thought of everything to take with you to make your exile not only survivable but relatively comfortable; spare generators, lighting and heat sources, devices to purify water, a shelter from the elements. Yes, you thought of everything.
    He sighed and smiled wryly at his inner summary then plucked gently at the sleeve of his old uniform. The maroon fabric, exposed to nearly a year of harsh sunlight, humidity, and abrasion, shredded like tissue under his fingers, exposing the blue skin beneath. Everything but the necessities required for the construction of durable clothing.
     With a soft snort of disgust at his lapse, he flicked his line skillfully at the water's surface, the lure of bright metal tempting the fish below to bite. You remembered the basics required for hunting... why not remember something as simple as needles? Just because your House does not spawn tailors does not mean you should have forgotten such a practical thing.
     A sharp tug on the line interrupted his self-castigating train of thought. Snapping his fishing rod upward he braced himself as the fish below hit the line with frantic force. The small rip he'd made in his sleeve spread quickly as he worked to keep the fish on the hook. He ignored it. Ten minutes later Thrawn dragged his prize up onto the bank beside him. The fish was speckled brown above, bright yellow below, and at 10 kilos offered several day's worth of decent eating. Any leftovers would be dried to add to the stock of food he had to build for the winter months.
     "At least I remembered a knife as well as fishhooks!" he muttered to himself as he gutted the fish and began to clean it.
     The coughing roar of a hunting deo'dn caused him to stop his activities and scan the area carefully. The hunting call had been far closer than he'd have preferred. This particular native felinoid had not been formally named by the Chiss biologists who had originally surveyed this world years ago, but in appearance they were very similar to the deo'dns of home. Only larger and more aggressive when hungry. Now he wished he had remembered to bring his longbow.
     Thrawn looked sharply into the woods as a subtle movement caught his eye. The movement repeated itself; the lash of a striped feline tail, twitching in the forest gloom. The animal to which it was attached crouched in heavy brush not 20 meters away. His military mind appreciated the silence of the deo'dn's stalking approach even as he faced the danger of becoming its next meal.
     Gripping his fish, Thrawn backed down over the steep cut of the river bank, never taking his eyes from the place where the deo'dn invisibly lurked. The animals preferred to take their prey from the rear; it went against their instincts to attack while their quarry could see them. As soon as the river bank hid him from the predator's sight he began to run swiftly along the narrow bit of shore exposed by the summer-ebbed river. The deo'dn would pause to snatch up the gutted fish scraps before pursuing, which gave him a head start for home. Once in the clearing that held his house he knew would be safe, for animals of this sort would not normally pursue prey into the open. From behind came a roar of fury, much closer than he'd estimated. Adrenaline kicked in, lending Thrawn a burst of energy. He lengthened his stride, thinking with some humor that if nothing else his exile had certainly put him in top physical condition.
     The river cut began to diminish and he splashed his way across a rocky ford, holding fish and fishing pole clear of the water as he plunged through the waist-deep stream. Gaining the bank, he heard the deo'dn pause for a moment on the opposite shore with a growl of frustration. Uttering a hungry snarl it splashed into the ford after him. Thrawn ran on without bothering to turn his head to check on its position, he could track its progress by sound only too well.
     Tearing through a large patch of berry bushes he burst through the last bit of dense shrubbery and emerged into the clearing. His dwelling was not fancy, but it was sturdy, and offered decent protection against the hungrier denizens of this nameless world. With a final effort he sprinted the 20 meters to his home, tossed the fishing pole aside and snatched up the ax that hung beside the door. Spinning smoothly, he dropped to one knee, prepared to defend himself, but as he had expected the deo'dn had not pursued him across the clearing. Instead the felinoid paced with thwarted anger just under the edge of the forest, its black and white striped hide rippling over powerful muscles.
     The great cat's glossy coat was unmarred by its run through the forest, Thrawn noticed with some envy. Unlike his threadbare uniform, which now hung down in many flayed shreds from his scratched and bleeding legs. The berry bushes were well-armed with thorns - a hazard Thrawn had chosen to ignore in the interests of expediency. Now he was home safely with his life and his supper both, but his clothing had paid the price.
     The deo'dn slunk back into the shadows of the forest, deciding to search for easier prey. Thrawn watched it depart with a thoughtful frown. That sturdy, naturally-camouflaged pelt would make excellent protective clothing, if I had a way to prepare the hide and sew the skins properly. Trapping an animal like the deo'dn would take some careful planning, but was well within his capabilities. Preserving the hides without knowledge of the tanning process and creating the clothing without basic tools such as needles was another matter entirely. Shaking his head in annoyance, he settled down in front of his home to finish preparing the fish. While his hands completed this now-routine task, his mind picked away at the various elements of his dilemma.

     He continued to mull over the problem that evening as he lay on his bed. Stretched out on his back he looked up at the shelves that lined the upper third of the walls of his small sleeping-room. They were filled with items such as parts for the generator, emergency food stocks brought from home, medical supplies and medicines, and electronic data stores containing a wealth of information -- practically his entire library.
     The information they held was only available as long as the devices had power. The generator that powered his settlement was of small capacity, but the data stores required little. Reading was one of those civilized pleasures he treasured now in his time of exile. Although much of his time was spent in repairs to equipment and home, and in procuring the means of survival, there was always time to read during the heat of midday, or the long winter nights. Some of the smaller data stores ran on solar power, which was fine except for the grey winter months. By mid-winter, their batteries would not usually carry them through a long, cold evening, which meant they could only be used when cabled in to the generator. Still, much of his store of written knowledge was available any time he required it. His main problem now was the particular knowledge he needed lately did not reside in his collection. He had manuals on ship and hyperdrive repair. Books of military history and tactics, discourses on Chiss artworks and antiquities, technical journals of every description, and not one book on tanning hides or making clothing out of natural materials.
    Covered with a blanket nearly as worn as his clothing, Thrawn let his gaze travel over the shelves, ticking off the familiar mental inventory. A metal container brightly marked with warning symbols sat next to the standard Chiss Expansionary Force medical kit. He frowned up at the thing. It contained stocks of a powerful drug used in low doses as a surgical anesthetic. In higher doses it was used to end the sufferings of those beyond medical repair. His people had left him with enough of the drug to kill a squad of soldiers. They would not have forced me to take it, he thought with a scowl, but they made certain I had plenty with me, just in case I wanted to perform the executioner's work that they refused to do. Cowards.
    He was far too practical to throw the drugs away, but the container's presence irked him and he glared at it for a moment before letting his focus drift onward. Suddenly he returned his stare to the container and his red eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred to him. That kit should contain injectors -- with needles of a sort. Perhaps I could salvage a few and turn them to more productive uses? He smiled. Using them to preserve my life rather than end it would be ironic, would it not?
    Rising, he reached up and took down the box from its place on the shelf. The layer of dust on its top bore mute witness to the fact that he had not touched it since his arrival.
     Seating himself cross-legged on the bed, he adjusted the light to give himself a well-lit area for his investigations, and carefully opened the box. Inside were 20 long tubes in separately-wrapped packs labeled, "Sterile Self-administering Injectors". Self-administering? He thought as he opened one of the packets. Only medical personnel would use such oxymoronic labeling. I am no medical officer. What am I supposed to understand by reading such a description?! Self-administering indeed.
     He tore open the packet and upended it. The object inside slid out into his hand and he turned it over in the light to give it closer inspection. It was a slender, blunted ovoid with a knurled middle section made to offer a good grip to the user. The needle was apparently sealed and retracted inside the external housing, which made sense to Thrawn. A clever design. The needle is protected and kept sterile at the same time. The upper end of the injector terminated in a bezel which turned easily. It was printed with numbered tic-marks. He turned the bezel to its limit hoping that it would unscrew and afford him access to the injector's inner workings. No such luck. The bezel made one full turn then stopped with finality. Thrawn gave it a tight smile. Of course, sealed to be safe from the prying fingers of children, soldiers, and Commanders with no medical training beyond Basic Rescue. Well, there is more than one way to open something...
     Half-rising he reached across to the packing crate that served him as storage and night stand. Pliers, he thought as he poked through the array of small tools he preferred to have close to hand. Here they are.
     As he lifted the pliers, the injector, which he'd kept balanced on his right thigh, began to roll off toward the floor. Without thinking he slapped his left hand over it to arrest its fall. A soft pop of compressed air and an immediate sting in his leg informed him of his mistake. Cursing softly, he snatched the injector free. His leg tingled and burned. The small device felt markedly lighter. How much did I just give myself?! he thought in horrified chagrin. That was so very foolish of you. Even a recruit would not have made such an error! He held up the injector to find the business end now sported a long, sharp piece of fine metal that gleamed wetly.
     Well, at least I found the needle! he thought with a dry chuckle. Much good it will do me if I die of an accidental drug overdose. His lips felt numb. Shakily he laid first the injector, then the pliers down on the crate, nearly falling as he did so. The room swam dangerously and his body felt remote, almost as if it was no longer his own.
     I do not understand beings who would take drugs for amusement purposes, he thought fuzzily, I do not find this at all enjoyable. With a last effort he stretched out on his bed, noticing the light seemed much dimmer, even though he was positive he had not turned it down. Foolish, foolish, he sighed as he felt the heavy numbness spread into his entire body. If you never wake who will write your tomb-marker? By all rights it should say something appropriate: "Here rests Mitth'raw'nuruodo, dead of ignorance..." Eyes wide he watched as the room faded to black and he drowned in coldness.

     A wall, almost obscured by white-flowering trul vines, blocked his path. He opened the door in the wall and stepped through, into the formal gardens where the professors taught their students on days when the weather was fair. His heart lightened to see a familiar form seated on a low bench, dictating notes to an autoscribe which floated obediently nearby.
     Of all the valuable things the K'rell'n traders had brought to their homeworld of Csilla over the years, Thrawn and his fellow students prized Roan above them all. She was an ethnologist, and while not a K'rell'n herself, she had been married to one of the traders, and so belonged to their House and traveled with them. When her husband had died during one of their trips, Roan had elected to stay on Csilla, to learn their customs and language, and to share her store of alien knowledge in turn. The University had taken her in gladly and made a place for her, treasuring her willingness to teach as well as her ability to adapt to their customs.
     By the time Thrawn had entered the University, Roan had become a fixture, known for her challenging courses. She was one of the few professors to recognize his formidable intelligence and truly stretch his capabilities. For that, he respected her as he respected few others.
     She looked as he had last seen her; a female humanoid of medium height, fine-boned and slender, her hair, now white with age, pulled back at the nape of her neck and tied with fine cord. He had long since become used to the sight of her ivory skin and strange eyes, so unlike the glowing red eyes of his own folk. Roan's were jet black, held within settings of white, like rare agates. Unlike the flatness of real stones, her eyes were filled with light, and could flash with excitement or snap with anger, depending upon her mood. Now she looked up and saw him and her eyes widened with surprise and joy.
     "Mitth'raw'nuruodo! My honored student! I am so glad to see you again! I had thought..." her voice trailed off at his grave expression. "What is wrong? Did the Elders not bring you home?"
     "No, they did not, O'ba'jn," he replied quietly, using the formal term 'honored teacher' to his old professor. "Much as I am pleased to see you, too, I strongly suspect I am not here at all in any physical sense, but am simply suffering from drug-induced hallucinations."
     "Well, if such is the case, we might as well enjoy our visit while we may," said Roan in a practical tone. "If we both are dreaming, there is no law that states we cannot dream of the same thing." She continued with barely a pause, "And why, dear student, are you suffering from delirium?"
     With a sigh of embarrassment, Thrawn told his teacher of his clothing dilemma. She listened in silence, the long fingers of her hands steepled below her chin. Mercifully, she did not laugh when he finished with an accounting of his disastrous attempt to find a needle for sewing.
     "For all I know," he finished, "this entire scene may be generated by some neurological spasm before I suffer final brain death."
     Roan looked at him, seeming to look through him somehow. "I do not think you are close to dying, my good student. You do not have that feel to you, if you know what I mean."
     "No, I don't, O'ba'jn, but I will trust your word on the matter. It makes me feel a little better and for that I thank you."
     "Hmmph. I wouldn't tell you something just to make you feel better. You should know me well enough to know that if I tell you a thing it is because I think it is true."
     "That is so, O'ba'jn. You of all people have always spoken the truth to me and to everyone." Thrawn found the knowledge comforting. The Chiss rulers who had decreed his exile had soured him somewhat on people's motivations. Roan did not suffer from political aspirations and so spoke honestly.
     "Now as to your problem with clothing. Did you not read the instructions I gave you on the tanning of hides and the techniques of manufacture?"
     He stared at his old teacher blankly. "Instructions?"
     "Yes, instructions. In the book I packed for you. You did find it, didn't you?"
     "What book?" He asked in confusion. "I do not remember any data store covering such subjects."
     Roan chuckled. "They did make you leave in haste. Mitth'raw'nuruodo, you've been sleeping with my book for your pillow since the day they took you from here. Did none of that wisdom seep into your mind?"
     "Sleeping with...?" He stared at Roan, who dreamlike, had begun to fade away. "Wait! Where is it then?"
     "Where it has been all along, my student. You've had it next to your wonderful brain all this time. Only think like your old teacher for a moment..." her voice echoed to him in the encroaching darkness, "and you will understand."

     He woke with a shudder; cold, stiff, and murderously thirsty. The lamp above his bed beamed down upon him and the grey light of dawn shone in through the one small window. Only morning? He thought in surprise. I must not have given myself such a large dose as I'd feared. He sat up, surprised at how weak he felt. His muscles quivered as if the simple act of sitting were almost too much for them. Standing was a major effort of will. The wall offered some support as he staggered into the main room of his home. Once there he half-collapsed into the lone chair and poured himself a cup of water from the bottle he'd left standing out on the table. As he drank his gaze fell on the chronometer attached to the wall near the door. Lambent red eyes widened in shock.
     Four days?! I've been unconscious for four days! He could scarcely believe what he saw. His initial thirst quenched, he began to eat some berries he had dried, chewing slowly in concession to his very empty stomach. I must have driven the entire amount into myself. It is a miracle that I am not dead. That line of thought cause him to recall Roan's words about his not looking as if he were about to die and he smiled at the memory.
     "You were right, my honored teacher," he murmured aloud. "Hallucination or not, you were right."
     Thinking about their dream-conversation brought her parting words to mind. She said she had given me a book... what book? He looked at more of the data stores shelved in this room of his home. They were all familiar titles, none of them from Roan, and none having to do with primitive living. He sighed and rested his head in his hands, waiting for the residual dizziness to pass. I may not be dead, but I feel half-dead to be sure. I'm dehydrated and starved for nourishment. I think I will drink and eat a little more, then I will lie down and rest for an hour or two. That should help clear the remnants of the drug from my system.
     Levering himself to his feet, Thrawn made his way outside to the small shelter that served as bathhouse. Washing his face, rinsing out his mouth (which felt as if a pack of tzan moths had nested in it) and caring for his other physical needs served to make him feel somewhat more alive. On his return trip he retrieved the fillets of the fish he had set out to dry four days ago. Fortunately the small mammalian scavengers that populated the meadow preferred vegetarian fare, so his hard-won food supply was only somewhat chewed here and there by the more adventurous of the animals.
     Breaking off a piece, he nibbled at it as he paced slowly around the shelter's interior, looking closer at his collection of data stores. They bore technical titles - libraries of information in each; none of it useful in his current situation. With a full cup of water in hand, Thrawn returned to his sleeping chamber and walked around the bed, inspecting the titles of the data stores in this room as well. The collection in here contained more in the way of cultural information: treatises on art, philosophy, and psychology, but nothing presented itself as being the information Roan had mentioned.
     I was dreaming... perhaps all of her words were merely made up by my subconscious mind out of leftover snatches of conversations and lectures I had with her in the past? He breathed a soft sigh of disappointment. That is too bad. It seemed so real, that dream-encounter. Thrawn settled himself on the edge of his bed, sipping at the water. Roan did tell me to think as she would -- that sounded like something she would say. He laughed out loud. If I had been thinking like her from the start, I would not have nearly killed myself by accident in such a stupid way! Roan O'ba'jn is a cautious person and very methodical. It would have been unlike her to plunge into taking apart a device she did not understand thoroughly. No, she only attempts what she first understands. Like the Renunciates, those Chiss who choose to live their lives in their small enclaves without benefit of modern conveniences. To write about them, she first lived with them for several years to learn how they managed their affairs so her research papers would be accurate. He took another sip of water and put the cup down on the crate. She is so very exacting. She was willing to live without power, climate control, or modern clothing... The sequence of thoughts finally clicked in his hung-over mind. She lived for five years as I am living now! She wrote theses, research papers! Published a book...
     He sat up straight, staring sightlessly ahead as he tried to pry from drug-fuzzy memory the exact words Roan had spoken to him.
     "You've been sleeping with my book for your pillow since the day they took you from here." That is what she said to me. He turned to look at the rumpled object at the head of his bed.
     My pillow? You can't sleep on a data store, it is uncomfortably hard and inflexible and there is a chance the pressure would crack its housing and render it worthless. Thrawn poked his fingers into the pillow, feeling its springy outer layer give until they met a firmer inner core. I remember finding this in with my bedroll with a note from my teacher saying that I would want it. I thought at the time it was simply a touching gesture from one of the few people who wished me well. But she said she'd given me a book - a data store. What else could she have meant? A data store is a book, or many books. Except to a Renunciate, of course, who wouldn't touch such a thing. No modern data stores for them! Just books made in the old way, of leather and cloth and pages of fiber. Softer, yet more durable than...
     Eyes widening, he snatched up his pillow and squeezed it firmly between both hands, heart suddenly racing in excitement. It gave to the pressure, up to a point. The core of it was flexible, yet solid. Trying not to hope too much, Thrawn picked up a fine knife from his night stand and carefully cut open the seam on one end of the pillow. He pulled off the cover and examined the innards. These consisted of layers of batting; a natural plant fiber from the feel of it, rolled up over a firm inner core. Gently he unrolled the layers, at last revealing a rectangular object packaged neatly in some sort of waterproof cloth. Stuffing the batting back into the pillow, he opened the packet and pulled out a book -- a real book, bound in leather.
     The cover was tooled with a simple design of a !oara flower. Opening the book, the title page immediately caught his attention: A Compendium of Simple Living, the Daily Orders of the Rustic Houses, by Roan of Nafomr with the assistance of N'koti'ryn'da, Chief Celebrant. Under the title and names of the authors was an inscription, written in Roan's precise script.
     "To My Honored Student, Mitth'raw'nuruodo, from your old teacher Roan, Greetings. Accept this as textbook for what promises to be a most challenging course. I will consider you Graduated with Highest Honors when I see you stand before me alive and well."
     To know that his teacher had such confidence in him warmed his heart. Thrawn turned to the Table of Contents and smiled in gratified wonder. It held a listing of practically all of the information he'd been lacking. Quickly he flipped to the section titled On the Tanning and Curing of Leather Goods. The paper of the pages was thin but strong and the finely printed text carried a wealth of data. Lying down on his bed, he settled his head on the now-softer pillow, propped the book atop his chest and began to read hungrily. It was almost like having his old teacher present in the room. He could hear her voice, lecturing to him about the theories involved in preservation, how to acquire the natural chemicals needed, how to prepare the raw materials. Better still, the chapters were illustrated with drawings of tools and techniques.
     Ah, my honored teacher, of all the gifts you have given me, this gift of knowledge may be the greatest of all.

     The wind this morning was bitingly cold, nipping sharply at his bare chest through the opening of his shirt as he peered out the door. The air smelled crisp, promising an early winter. Thrawn pulled on an extra shirt, fastening the neck opening securely. From its peg by the door he took his cloak of deo'dn fur and threw it around his shoulders. It made a warm barricade against the cold. Thus kitted out he left his home, stringing his longbow as he strode toward the forest. The deo'dn's striped hide offered excellent camouflage for his hunting forays.
     This works so well to conceal me from the eyes of the creatures I hunt, I wonder if it will deceive the eyes of sapient visitors as efficiently? I hope someday to find out in practice, he thought with a grim smile. I shall do my best to survive until the day arrives when I have an opportunity to leave this world. Thanks to Roan O'ba'jn and her scholarship my chances of staying healthy while exiled have greatly improved.
     That evening he began to read slowly through the chapter titled "The Culture of Medicinal Plants" and admiring the artistry of his teacher's botanical drawings. He pulled the coverlet of small pelts over his body and relaxed in the warmth. Scraping hides, tanning skins, designing, and sewing clothing and bedding had not been pleasant or easy, but he had derived a certain satisfaction from conquering the technical problems involved. By the end of the summer he had produced products that while they would not have earned him fashion awards at home, certainly did the job. It is amazing what a difference having the means to produce the bare necessities makes to one's quality of life, he thought, as he turned a page. Now, I have the luxury of learning while I wait. I do not intend to waste the opportunity.

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