Jim Baens Universe-Vol 1 Num 6

by Eric Flint

  L. Sprague de Camp is the author of over 120 science fiction and fantasy books, as well as hundreds of short stories.

  Slan Hunter, Part 3

  Written by A. E. van Vogt and Kevin J. Anderson

  Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

  CHAPTER 29

  On the sheer edge of the red-stone balcony overlooking the glassed-over canyons of Mars, Jem Lorry stood with his old father. The head of the Tendrilless Authority had a calm smile on his face, as if content just to be next to his ambitious son before Jem's departure to meet with President Kier Gray. He was glad of his son's apparent change of heart. To an outside observer, it might have looked like a tender father-son moment.

  Jem wanted to kill him.

  Even with the urgent need to cement their victory on Earth, the old man did not seem inclined to hurry. Altus was calm and confident that everything would work out exactly as it should. Jem, however, understood that things worked out only when someone with drive and vision took charge of the reins of history.

  "A beautiful view, is it not, my son?" Altus said. "Look at the white rocks, the rusty cliffs, the red dust. We tendrilless have been here in Cimmerium so long, I think the need to see red has supplanted my desire for lush greenery."

  Jem had always wanted to see red. Blood red.

  Even though the wide Martian canyon was covered over with a transparent roof, the enclosed space was vast enough that breezes wafted up from side canyons, air currents moving about from the exchangers, filters, and processing machinery. Far below lay a bone-dry riverbed from ancient days, a ribbon of broken rocks. It seemed a very long way to fall.

  "I would be happy to let the humans have this place instead of us. Let Mars be their new Botany Bay. Since you don't want me to kill them all, that seems a perfect alternative. Exile the few surviving humans here and have them scrabble tooth-and-nail for an existence."

  Mildly, the old man looked at his son. "Come now, Jem, when have you ever had to fight 'tooth-and-nail' to survive? You had a comfortable life. You don't fool me with your imagined hardships."

  "Imagined? I know what those people are really like. Primitive, prejudiced, easily led by propaganda. They're a danger to themselves, and they deserve the punishment that we'll impose on them. I don't know what else Kier Gray expects."

  Altus seemed troubled. "You are supposed to arrange a peace, negotiate acceptable terms."

  "Negotiate? Father, they are broken and defeated. They have very little leverage. We should be able to get what we want, for the good of the tendrilless."

  The older man heaved a long sigh. "Perhaps you aren't the best choice to go to this summit meeting after all, Jem. I'm afraid you may not approach the matter with the same goals as the Authority."

  He felt a moment of panic. "No, Father, you can count on me. You know I have the bright future of our race in my heart. I will do what's best for all of us."

  Altus considered. "Maybe we should wait until we hear from Joanna Hillory before we make any brash decisions. She'll have reached Earth by now. If she's found Cross, then the strategic balance has changed."

  Jem tried to control his impatience and temper. "If you were going to kill Cross, I should have been the one to go there. In fact, I can make that my priority, after I've dealt with Kier Gray and his summit."

  Altus scratched his beard, pursing his lips. "The more I think about it, maybe I should be the one to go talk with President Gray personally. He and I can resolve this war."

  "The war is over, Father, even before our occupation ships arrive. Someday you'll recognize what I have accomplished and grant me the reward I deserve."

  The old man patted him condescendingly on the shoulder. "Now, Jem, don't feel bad. Of course I am proud of you. You're my son. But right now I can do a better job. I'll suggest it to the Authority. I'm very sorry, son."

  Jem lashed out. "If you had spent years on assignment there, cut off from your heritage, living in their squalor, you'd think differently about humans. You can't know what it was like to be among them."

  The old man remained silent for a long moment. He clutched the decorative rail with his sinewy hands and leaned over the drop-off. Like a playful child, Altus worked up a mouthful of spit and let the droplet fall, watching it drift downward in the low gravity, bounced along in the air currents until finally it disappeared. Smiling, he turned back to his impatient son. "Actually, I can, Jem. You see, in my younger years I, too, served on Earth. I was part of the initial spy organization that helped set up and infiltrate the humans' Air Center."

  Jem reeled backward. "You were on Earth? Impossible."

  "Why is that impossible? You think me so incompetent?"

  "I just didn't think you had ever set foot away from Mars. That you would—" He cut himself off before he finished his sentence. That you would ever leave your comfortable council chair and do anything active with your life.

  "My experiences were not quite so horrific as you make yours out to be." Altus continued to gaze out at the stark cliffs, reminiscing. He actually had a smile on his wrinkled face. Jem wanted to strike him, to wipe off that beatific expression, but he held himself silent to hear what his father would say. "I worked among them, lived among them, talked to them. It was very difficult at first, pretending to be a mere human and knowing their unreasonable prejudices against the slans. I had to parrot their words so no one would suspect me."

  "Of course you did, Father. We tendrilless hate the slans as well."

  "The humans don't even know of the existence of tendrilless. I felt sorry for them in their ignorance. But life there wasn't so bad. We made great progress setting up newspapers and radio stations, silently taking over their communications so that we could manipulate their fears. It was easy for us to help them because we did everything so much better than a mere human could. They thought we were geniuses. The hardest part was never letting on how smart we really were."

  "That's what I did," Jem said. "That's how I became the President's chief advisor."

  "Yes, yes." Altus didn't sound interested at all. "I wonder if it's possible that President Gray knew who you were all along and simply didn't let on. Your mental shields are some of the best I've ever seen, but he's a smart man. Gray may have figured it out."

  "Don't be ridiculous! It was because of my talent and skill that no one suspected."

  "Even so, you were with him all that time—did you ever suspect Gray is a slan, even a rogue tendrilless? Or were his mental shields even better than your own?"

  Jem scowled but didn't answer.

  "At any rate, I found some things quite admirable about human society—their music, their congenial friendship, ah, and some of their gourmet foods. Nothing like what we have here on Mars. You blinded yourself with hate, and that is not the mark of a good diplomat." Again, that annoying paternal pat on his shoulder. "You see, Earth is where I met your mother. She was another worker in the communications towers. Oh, she was beautiful, had such a musical laugh. She had chestnut-brown hair and large blue eyes, a delicate chin. Your features remind me of her very much."

  Jem tried to grasp what his father was saying. "My mother was also part of the operation? She was one of the tendrilless slans sent to infiltrate the cities?"

  "No, no." Altus chuckled. "She was one of them, a human. She was very sweet. I wish you could have met her."

  Jem choked. "You're lying. That can't be."

  "Your mother was the best thing I found on Earth, kind and caring. She played a musical instrument, a stringed device they called a guitar, and her voice was like gold. She and I liked to dance. We must have spent three or four nights a week out in clubs and ballrooms. We even won a prize once. Hmm, I think I've still got the ribbon in my quarters somewhere. I took it with me when I left Earth after your mother died."

  "This can't be!" Jem searched inside himself as if he could suddenly discover a fatal flaw, a hitherto-unsuspected weakness in his genes.

  "Oh, it is, Jem. You're only half-slan, you see."


  "That means I'm half-human." His stomach roiled and he felt as if he was going to vomit. "I'm half-human!"

  "It's nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. You can't help who you are. In fact, we can use it to our advantage after I go to Earth. Don't worry, I'll bring you there in due time. We would seem the perfect go-betweens in creating a new world order. You could have a good deal of interim power. Ah, your mother would have been proud—"

  In a fury, Jem whirled and struck his father in the face, making the old man snap backward in stunned surprise. A large red mark stood out on his left cheek. "Calm yourself! I won't stand for this sort of behavior."

  Jem roared and grabbed his father by the collar, screaming in his face with such force that spittle flew onto his cheeks. "You betrayed our race. You fell in love with a weakling human. You slept with the enemy."

  "She was your mother, Jem."

  "I will never accept that." He felt cold steel within him. "And you are no longer my father. You're a traitor. I will never let you go to Earth in my place."

  With strength fueled by adrenaline and anger, he lifted the old man. Altus seemed no more than a large rag doll in the low Martian gravity. Without taking time to think, merely following his instincts, Jem hurled his father over the guard rail and sent him falling into his beloved Martian canyon. His thin terrified wail vanished into the background breezes.

  Jem stared for a long moment, shaking after what he had just done, not from horror or grief, but merely surprised at how he had reacted. The old man had certainly deserved it; he would have ruined everything. Worse, if the news got out that Jem was half human . . .

  He silently vowed to keep his heritage a secret. Certainly his father would never have told such an embarrassing fact to any of his peers. No one need ever know about his tainted blood.

  He leaned over the deep, breathless drop, gathered a mouthful of saliva, and then he, too, let a long droplet of spit drop into the void. He was just full of impulsive decisions today.

  Jem made his way back to the Authority chambers. It would be a long time before anyone discovered what had happened to old Altus, and by that time he would be long gone to Earth, where he would have consolidated his rule.

  Inside the crystalline meeting chamber, all alone, he climbed to his father's traditional seat and lounged in the comfortable chair behind the impressive bench. Then he rang the prominent summoning tone, knowing the other Authority members would rush to the emergency meeting.

  The group of old men arrived, hastily straightening their robes, donning their ceremonial caps. They looked up to see Jem Lorry sitting in the middle of their high bench and no sign of Altus anywhere. From his high position, the younger man looked down upon the other council members. "I am prepared to depart for Earth. I just wanted you to know that I'm on my way."

  After today, all the tendrilless would be willing if not eager to follow him, despite the blood on his hands. The proof would be in his strength of rule. "I am going to meet with President Gray—and I will accept his surrender."

  CHAPTER 30

  The pain and emptiness did not go away, but after an infinite falling moment Jommy found the strength to endure. Even as he heard the humming engines of the tendrilless scout combing the wreckage for him, searching for him, Jommy discovered a lifeline within himself: He thought of Kathleen, beautiful Kathleen, and somehow he found the resolve to raise his head up. To survive.

  Sharp agony was like a spear in the back of his head. He gasped and let himself collapse breathlessly onto the rubble, struggling to hide in a dim hole. The scout ship had driven away the murderous scavengers, but he did not dare let himself fall into the hands of the tendrilless.

  He could feel the biting scrape of rough stone on his cheek, discovered raw skin and a bit of blood marring the concrete debris, but that was a mere distraction, a tiny whisper compared to the bellow of hurt inside his head.

  The mob had slashed his tendrils off! It was as if they had lopped the wings off a bird or pulled the fins from a fish.

  When the sounds of the enemy ship finally faded, giving up the search, he got to his hands and knees and coughed, but each jarring motion, each inhaled breath, sent more thunder through his brain. He fought against passing out, and then he retched, squeezing his eyes shut. His body was wracked with tremendous waves, but he crashed through them like a small boat against a hurricane.

  With the mental silence yelling inside him, he could hear the blood rushing behind his ears. But he strained to hear something else, anything else, afraid he might pick up the noises of laughing scavengers returning for him, knife-wielding Deacon and his brutal gang. How long would the tendrilless ship frighten them off? They had left him alive, but maybe he was better off dead.

  Jommy bit back a moan and forced himself not to follow that line of thought. He was still alive. He was still himself, with or without his tendrils.

  He opened his eyes into the fading light of dusk. The sky was a darkening blue with a scudding of clouds and finger-paint smears of smoke from the burning buildings. All of his senses—even the normal ones—were different now, blunted. He felt shut off. When he got to his feet, his balance was gone. Jommy reeled like a drunken man and then stumbled once more. He fell back onto his scraped hands, then with a grunt of effort, he stood up again, swaying but managing to remain erect.

  Weaving, he made his way through the rubble, barely able to see, hoping the scout ship wouldn't return. He accidentally found shelter, the corner of a collapsed room, and he curled up behind a fallen block of structural stone, shuddering. And night fell.

  He had been born a slan. All his life he had unconsciously depended on his tendrils, like a cat used its tail for balance. Every waking moment the slender fibers in the back of his head had picked up the signals of thoughts, the endless droning babble of other people, other minds. It was like the background noise of the ocean in a coastal village, always there, soothing and comforting. He hadn't even noticed it—and now it was entirely gone.

  His dreams and thoughts were like fever visions, recollections and hallucinations. Jommy remembered going to sleep when he was just a little boy. His mother had sung him lullabies, but she did more than just give him the soothing music of her voice; her comforting thoughts wove a nest around him, letting him know he was protected, that she would always be there for him. Everything had changed when he was nine years old—and now he was faced with an even greater shift, a handicap.

  Without his tendrils, Jommy felt both blind and deaf.

  After fearing it for so long, he gingerly touched the back of his head and felt the raw stumps. The nerve endings sent a rocket of pain through him. He drew his fingertips away, saw only tiny specks of red. Though Deacon had sliced him, Jommy's slan healing powers had halted the bleeding. He was in no danger from the injury, at least.

  But now what was he to do?

  Next morning, after a dizzying and pain-wracked night without sleep, he picked his way forward, stumbling again. The palace wreckage shifted with an ominous patter of falling stones and sliding rubble, and he knew he could fall through at any moment.

  "I am not helpless," he said aloud, then repeated it to reinforce the thought.

  He blinked and looked around, trying to see in the growing dawn light. All of his senses and impressions seemed muffled, muted . . . useless. But he reminded himself that this was how normal human beings lived every day, and they managed to survive without enhanced senses or telepathic powers. Yes, he could smell rock dust and old sooty smoke. With his ears he could hear the sounds of distant aircraft cruising overhead.

  But he no longer had the ability to sense Kathleen in his head. He had lost that connection with her. Forever.

  He staggered through the rubble. The secure vault containing his disintegrator weapon was sealed again, and he had no way of defending himself. Another failure! He had come so close, but he couldn't find any means to retrieve the disintegrator now. He was too weak. He didn't know what he could do.

  In
all of the desperate situations he had encountered, Jommy had never felt so powerless. Previously, he had been so cocky, so sure of himself, never doubting that he would find a way out of any trouble he might encounter. Now all he could think of was to get back to the serenity of Granny's ranch, where he could be with Kathleen, where he could heal . . . though he would never be what he was before.

  Disoriented and still in great pain, he could barely remember where he had hidden his car. He paused in a bombed-out street, holding onto a twisted iron girder. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to concentrate, dragging the memory to the front of his mind, until he knew which direction to go. He slumped against a scarred wall, his knees trembling.

  He felt dull and listless, unaware . . . and when the sharp-edged shadow fell over him from a descending tendrilless scout ship, he leaped to his feet. He hadn't even heard it coming! The enemy had found him! Jommy was entirely exposed, out in the open. He looked around, but could find no place to hide.