Healer lf-3

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Pity the atheist in a culture like that."

  ("There are none! How can there be? When these beings speak of their deity, they're not referring to an abstraction or an ephemeral being. Their goddess is incarnate! And she's with them everywhere! She can maintain a continuous contact with her race—it's not control or anything like that, but a hint of presence. She has powers none of them possess and she doesn't die! She was with them when they were planet-bound, she was with them when they made their first leap into space. She has guided them throughout their entire recorded history. It's not a simple thing to say 'no' to all that.")

  "All right, so she's divine as far as they're concerned, but how can she change an entire race into an army of berserk killers? She must have some sort of mind control."

  ("I can see you have no historical perspective on the power of religion. Human history is riddled with atrocities performed in the names of supposedly benign gods whose only manifestations were in books and tradition. This creature is not merely a force behind her culture ... she is her culture. Her followers attack and slaughter because it is divine will.")

  Dalt sighed. "Looks like we're really up against the wall. We were planning to send probes through the passages to try to locate the star system where the assaults originate so we could launch a counteroffensive. Now it makes no difference. Sixty thousand light-years is an incomprehensible distance in human terms. If there was just some way we could get to her, maybe we could give her a nice concentrated dose of the horrors. That'd shake her up."

  ("I'm afraid not, Steve. You see, this creature is the source of the horrors.")

  Dalt sat in stunned silence, then: "You always hinted that the horrors might be more than just a psychological disorder."

  ("You must admit, I'm rarely wrong.")

  "Yes, rarely wrong," Dalt replied tersely. "And frequently insufferable. But again: Why?"

  ("As I mentioned before, the human mind appears to be extraordinarily sensitive to her powers. She can reach across an entire galaxy and touch one of them. I believe she's been doing that for ages. At first she may only have been able to leave a vague impression. Long ago she was probably probing this arm of the galaxy and left an image within a fertile mind that started the murderous Kali cult in ancient India. Its members worshiped a many-armed goddess of death that bears a striking resemblance to our enemy. So for all practical purposes, we might as well call her Kali, since her given name is a mish-mash of consonants.")

  "Whatever happened to the cult?"

  ("Died out. Perhaps she went back to concentrating on her own race, which was probably moving into space at about that time, and no doubt soon became busy with the task of annihilating the other races they encountered along the way.

  ("Then came a hiatus and her attention returned to us. Her powers had grown since last contact and although she was still unable to control a human mind, she found she could inundate it with such a flood of terror that the individual would withdraw completely from reality.")

  "The horrors, in other words."

  ("Right. She kept this up, biding her time until her race could devise a means of bridging the gap between the two races. They did. The apparatus occupies the space of a small town and is psionically activated. You know the rest of the story.")

  "Yeah," Dalt replied, "and I can see what's coming, too. She's toying with us, isn't she? Playing a game of fear and terror, nibbling at us until we turn against each other. Humiliation, demoralization—they're dirty weapons."

  ("But not her final goal, I fear. Eventually she'll tire of the game and just wipe us out. And with ease! All she has to do is open the passage, slip through a short-timed planetary bomb, close the passage and wait for the bang.")

  "In two standard days," Dalt said in a shocked whisper, "she could destroy every inhabited planet in Occupied Space!"

  ("Probably wouldn't even take her that long. But we've quite a while to go before it comes to that. She's in no hurry. She'll probably chip away at us for a few centuries before delivering the coup de grace.") Pard went silent for a while. ("Which reminds me: I saw a major assault force gathered on the beach. If she really wanted to strike a demoralizing blow ...")

  "You don't think she'll hit Fed Central, do you?"

  ("With a second chance at interstellar unity almost within reach, can you think of a better target?")

  "No, I can't," Dalt replied pensively. The thought of alien berserkers charging through the streets was not a pleasant one. "There must be a way to strike back."

  ("I'm sure there is. We just haven't thought of it yet. Sleep on it.")

  Good idea. See you in the morning.

  Morning brought Lenda with news that some of the flitter-probes were outfitted and ready. He invited Dalt to take a look at them. Lacking both the heart to tell Lenda that the probes were a futile gesture and anything better to do, he agreed to go along.

  Arriving at a hangar atop one of the lesser buildings in the complex, he saw five drones completed and a sixth in the final stages. They looked like standard models except for the data-gathering instruments afixed to the hulls.

  "They look like they've been sealed for pressurization," Dalt noted.

  Lenda nodded. "Some of the sensors require it." ("I know what you're thinking!") Pard said. Tell me.

  ("You want to equip these flitters with blaster cannon and attack Kali's island, don't you? Forget it! There are so many energy dampers in that temple that a blaster wouldn't even warm her skin if you could get near her. And you wouldn't. Her guards would cut you to ribbons.")

  Maybe there's a way around that. He turned to Lenda. "Have Petrical meet me here. I have an errand to run but I'll be back shortly."

  Lenda gave him a puzzled look as he walked away.

  Dalt headed for the street. Throw the Mordirak image around me. I don't want to be mobbed out there.

  ("Done. Now tell me where we're going.")

  Not far. He stepped outside and onto the local belt of the moving strol-lane. The streets were crowded. The new incoming representatives had brought their staffs and families and there were tourists constantly arriving to see the first General Council of the new Federation. He let the strol-lane carry him for a few minutes, then debarked before a blank-fronted store with only a simple hand-printed sign over the door: weapons.

  Stepping through the filter field that screened the entrance, he was faced with an impressive array of death-dealing instruments. They gleamed from the racks and cases; they were sleek and sinister and beautiful and deadly.

  "May I help you, sir?" asked a little man with squinty eyes.

  "Where are your combustion weapons?"

  "Ah!" he said, rubbing his palms together. "A sportsman or a collector?"

  "Both."

  "This way, please." He led them to the rear of the shop and placed himself behind a counter. "Now, then. Where does your interest lie? Handguns? Rifles? Shotguns? Automatics?"

  "The last two."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I want an autoshotgun," Dalt said tersely. "Double-barreled with continuous feed."

  "I'm afraid we only have one model along that line."

  "I know. Ibizan makes it."

  The man nodded and searched under the counter. He pulled out a shiny black case, placed it before him, and opened it.

  Dalt inspected it briefly. "That's it. You have waist canisters for the feed?"

  "Of course. The Ibizan is nonejecting, so you'll have to use disintegrating cases, you know."

  "I know. Now. I want you to take this down to the workshop and cut the barrel off"—he drew a line with his finger—"right about here."

  "Sir, you must be joking!" the little man said with visible shock, his eyes widening and losing their perpetual squint. But he could see by Dalt's expression that no joke was intended. He spoke petulantly. "I'm afraid I must see proof of credit before I deface such a fine weapon."

  Dalt fished out a thin alloy disk and handed it over. The gunsmith pressed the disk into
a notch in the counter and the image of Mordirak appeared in the hologram box beside it, accompanied by the number 1. Mordirak had first-class credit anywhere in Occupied Space.

  With a sigh, the man handed back the disk, hefted the weapon, and took it into the enclosed workshop section.

  ("Your knowledge of weaponry is impressive.") A holdover from my game-hunting days. Remember them?

  ("I remember disapproving of them.")

  Well, combustion weapons are still in demand by "sportsmen" who find their sense of masculinity cheated by the lack of recoil in energy weapons.

  ("And just what is this Ibizan supposed to do for you?")

  You'll see.

  The gunsmith reappeared with the foreshortened weapon.

  "You have a target range, I presume," Dalt said. "Yes. On the lower level."

  "Good. Fill the feeder with number-eight end-over-end cylindrical shot and we'll try her out."

  The man winced and complied.

  The target range was elaborate and currently set up with moving, bounding models of Kamedon deer. Sensors within the models rated the marksman's performance on a flashing screen at the firing line that could read "Miss," "Kill," "Wounded," and variations. The firing line was cleared as Dalt hooked the feeder canister to his waist and fed the string of shells into the chambers. Flicking the safety off, he held the weapon against his chest with the barrels pointing downrange and began walking.

  "Left barrel," he said, and pulled the trigger. The Ibizan jerked in his hands; the cannonlike roar was swallowed by the sound dampers but the muzzle flash was a good twenty centimeters in length, and one of the leaping targets was torn in half. "Right barrel," was faintly heard, with similar results. Then a flip of a switch and, "Automatic." The prolonged roar that issued from the rapidly alternating barrels taxed the sound dampers to their limit and when the noise stopped, every target hung in tatters. The indicator screen flashed solid red on and off in confusion.

  "What could you possibly want to hunt with a weapon like that?" the little gunsmith asked, glancing from Dalt to the Ibizan to the ruined range.

  A smug but irresistible reply came to mind. "God."

  "You wanted to see me about something?" Petrical asked.

  "Yes. I have good reason to believe—please don't ask me why—that the next assault will be a big one and will be directed against Fed Central itself. I want you to outfit these flitters with heavy-duty blasters and pick some of your best marksmen to man five of them. I'll take the sixth."

  An amused expression crept over Petrical's face. "And just what do you plan to do with them?"

  "We're going through the passage when it opens up," Dalt replied. "Maybe we can end these attacks once and for all."

  Amusement was abruptly replaced by consternation. "Oh no, you're not! You're too valuable to risk on a suicide mission!"

  "Unfortunately, I'm the only one who can do what must be done," Dalt said with a glare, "and since when do you dictate what I may and may not do."

  But Petrical had been involved in too many verbal brawls on the floor of the General Council to be easily intimidated, even by The Healer. "I'll tell you what I will do, and that's have no part in helping you get yourself killed!"

  "Mr. Petrical," Dalt said in a low voice, "do I have to outfit my own flitter and go through alone?"

  Petrical opened his mouth for a quick reply and then closed it. He knew when he was outflanked. With the new General Council arriving for the emergency session, all that was needed to bring the walls tumbling down upon his head was news that he had let The Healer take the war to the enemy alone—with no backup from the Federation Defense Force.

  "But the probes were your idea. ..."

  "The probes have been rendered obsolete by new information. The only solution is to go through."

  "Well then, let me send a bigger force."

  "No." Dalt shook his head. "If these six flitters can't do the job, then six hundred wouldn't make any difference."

  "All right." Petrical grunted with exasperation. "I'll get the armorers down here and start asking for volunteers."

  Dalt's smile was genuine. "Thanks. And don't delay—we may not have much time. Oh, and have an alarm system set up here in the hangar to notify us the minute a vortex is sighted. We'll live in and around the flitters until the attack comes. I'll brief your men on what to expect and what to do."

  Petrical nodded with obvious reluctance.

  ("Why haven't I been consulted on any of this?") Pard asked indignantly as Dalt returned to his quarters.

  Because I already know your answer.

  ("I'm sure you do. It's all insanity and I want no part of it!")

  You don't have much choice.

  ("Be reasonable!")

  Pard, this is something we must do.

  ("Why?") The voice in his head was angry. ("To live up to your legend?")

  In a way, yes. You and I are the only ones who can beat her.

  ("You're sure of that?")

  Aren't you? Pard did not reply and Dalt felt a sudden chill. Answer me: Are you afraid of this Kali creature?

  ("Yes.")

  Why should you be? You defeated her at every turn when we were battling the horrors.

  ("That was different. There was no direct contact there. We were merely fighting the residue of her influence, a sort of resonating circuit of afterimages. We've only come into direct contact with her once ... on the beach on Clutch. And you know what happened there.")

  Yeah, Dalt replied slowly. We were blasted apart.

  ("Exactly. This creature's psi powers are immense. She's keyed her whole existence toward developing them because her dominion over her race springs from them. I estimate she had a four-thousand-year head start on us. All the defense precautions around her island temple—the energy dampers, the guards with their ridiculous costumes and ancient weapons—would not stand up against a single mercenary soldier in regulation battle gear. They're trappings required by her paranoia. The real defense system of that temple is in her mind. She can psionically fry any brain in her star system that threatens her. Short of an automated Federation dread-naught turning her entire planet to ash—and we have no way of getting one within half a galaxy of her—she's virtually impregnable.")

  Pard paused for effect, then: ("You still want to go after her?")

  Dalt hesitated, but only briefly. Yes.

  ("Insanity!") Pard exploded. ("Sheer, undiluted, raving insanity! Usually I can follow your reasoning, but this is one big blur. Is there some sort of racial urge involved? Do you feel you owe it to humanity to go down fighting? Is this a noble gesture or what?")

  I don't know, exactly.

  ("You're right, you don't know! You owe your race nothing! You've given it far more than it's given you. Your primary responsibility is to yourself. Sacrificing your—our—life is a meaningless gesture!")

  It's not meaningless. And if we succeed, it won't be a sacrifice.

  ("We have about as much chance of defeating her as we have of growing flowers on a neutron star. I forbid it!")

  You can't. You owe it. ("To whom?")

  To me. This is my life and my body. You've augmerited it, improved it, and extended it, true, but you've shared equally in the benefits. It remains my life and you've shared it. I'm asking for an accounting.

  Pard waited a long time before giving his reply. ("Very well, then. We'll go.") There was a definite edge on the thought. ("But neither of us should make any long-range plans.")

  With the flitters armed, the volunteers briefed, and the practice runs made, Dalt and his crew settled down for an uneasy vigil.

  Think we'll have a long wait? Dalt asked.

  ("I doubt it. The Kalians looked almost set to go when I saw them.")

  Well, at least we'll get enough sleep. If there's been any consistency at all in the attacks, it's been their occurrence in daylight hours.

  ("That may not be the case this time. If my guess is right and they are aiming for Fed Central, their tactic
s might be different. For all we know, they may just want to set up a device to destroy the Federation Complex.")

  Dalt groaned softly. That would be a crippling coup.

  ("Nonsense! The Federation is more than a few buildings. It's a concept... an idea."

  It's also an organization; and if there's one thing we need now, it's organization. There's a nucleus of a new Federation growing over at the General Council at this moment. Destroy that and organized resistance will be completely unraveled.

  ("Perhaps not.")

  Kalians are united wholeheartedly behind their goddess. Who've we got?

  ("The Healer, of course.")

  At this point, if the Federation Complex is destroyed, so is The Healer. Dalt glanced up at the alarm terminal with its howlers and flashers ready to go. I just hope that thing goes off in time for us to get through the passage.

  ("If it goes off, it will probably do so because you set it off.")

  What's that supposed to mean?

  ("The passage is psionically activated and directed by Kali, remember? If a psi force of that magnitude appears anywhere on Fed Central, I'll know about it— immediately.")

  "Oh," Dalt muttered aloud. "Well, let's hope it's soon, then. This waiting is nerve-wracking."

  ("I'll be quite happy if they never show up.")

  "We've already been through that!"

  "Pardon me, sir," said a trooper passing within earshot.

  "What is it?" Dalt asked.

  The trooper looked flustered. "I thought you spoke to me."

  "Huh? Oh, no." Dalt smiled weakly. "Just thinking out loud."

  "Yessir." He nodded and walked on by with a quick backward glance.

  ("He thinks you may be crazy,") Pard needled. ("So do I, but for entirely different reasons.")

  Quiet and let me sleep.

  Their vigil was not a long one. Before dawn on the second day, Dalt suddenly found himself wide awake, his sympathetic nervous system vibrating with alarm.