by D. F. Jones
The Xeno hunting went on. It had been difficult enough when they were active, but now that they were unseen and unheard the task became impossible. Only fifteen or twenty remained, but they were scattered over the whole eastern seaboard from New York to Louisiana. Likely areas were still drenched with the knock-down gas, but nothing was produced. The Intelligence Center, plotting and recording all operations, nursed a growing suspicion that once a zone had been attacked, the Xeno avoided it, moving closer to human habitation where the gas was not used. It was the Abdera experience all over again, but until Xeno tipped its hand, there could be no certainty.
For those close to Freedman, life became difficult. Tense and on edge, he called the Center twice daily, despite Arcasso’s repeated assurances that any news would be passed on the moment it came in. In bed, bath, office, or car, he had a radio pouring news into his ear. The fact that he could not say what he was waiting for only increased his agitation. He remained totally convinced — Xeno might be silent and unseen, but it was sure as hell up to something.
He was right.
*
The girl — once a state champion — swam effortlessly, her goal a raft floating well out in the middle of the lake. Behind her, in the shallows, a spirited game of “keep away” was in progress. No one followed her to the raft.
Reaching the float, she hauled herself out, grateful for the warming sunlight. She took off her cap, shook her hair loose, and for a time looked idly at the scene: the glittering water, the bathers on the distant shore. Her mind wandered, enjoying subconsciously the sensation of being young and healthy on a beautiful day.
She untied the halter-neck of her suit, pulling it down to her waist, and for a time leaned back on her arms, surrendering herself to the sun, her eyes closed. The sharp cry of a bird broke her reverie; a flock of ducks took off, honking discordantly. She turned and stretched out, aware of the sensuous pleasure of the coarse canvas against her breasts. Head resting on arms, she felt the sun and wind caressing her. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the float, she dozed.
A small, gleaming shape detached itself from the top of a tree on the deserted north shore of the lake, launching into a shallow glide. Halfway to its target, it ingested air and emitted a faint burp of sound as it climbed sharply and resumed its fast glide. Close to the raft, it banked, wings glistening in the sun as it made two silent circles.
It touched down on the raft and was still, legs splayed, watching its prey.
It crawled closer to the sleeping figure until it was almost touching one leg. Again it waited, motionless, the terrible golden eyes watching, devoid of expression.
The wings folded back, disappearing against the flanks of the shimmering body. Slowly, its touch as light as the faint breeze, it reached up to her thigh with its forelegs, and paused again. The girl did not move. With infinite care, the Xeno crawled onto her thigh.
The girl stirred. Instantly the Xeno froze and remained still until she lapsed back into sleep. The creature’s back arched slightly. The tail curved down below the body until it barely touched the girl’s flesh and extruded a tiny spot of clear, numbing fluid. A needlelike ovipositor slid out of its protective sheath in the tail. Pink and moist, it went through the center of the spot of fluid, into the girl’s thigh. The Xeno remained still for about five seconds, except for a minute pulsation in the tail. Gently the ovipositor withdrew from the girl’s body, back into its own. The tail straightened, and at the same instant the wings spread. With the faintest sound the Xeno lifted into the air, darting away like a giant dragonfly. Once clear of the girl, it took in more air, jetting upwards, flashing back toward shore. Its day’s work was complete.
The girl stirred again, rubbing the back of her leg with the other foot. Then she slept again, totally unaware of the alien life within her.
There were many like her.
*
The significance of Xeno’s virtual disappearance did not become apparent until ten days after the attacks ceased. Two youths camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains gave the first news; one, returning to camp with wood for the fire, saw a Xeno on his sleeping buddy’s shoulder. It flew off instantly, but the teenager, though badly scared, acted responsibly and quickly got his companion to the nearest doctor. The physician immediately confirmed the presence of a “bite” on the victim’s shoulder.
The report shattered the fragile calm in both Washington and Abdera: Now it was clear why the Xenos had stopped attacking. But the truly alarming news was the Xeno’s location — it had traveled far beyond the area of its last attack. The area in which the fifteen or twenty Xenos could be implanting humans and animals had now expanded tenfold; the maps of “designated areas” had been rendered completely useless.
All evening Freedman sat alone in his small library, staring at his dated maps, thinking bitterly of the lost time. If only they had struck at once — but they hadn’t. Once more, Xeno had kept that one step in front.
Arcasso called at around 9:00 P.M. Mark immediately noticed that his voice was slurred, his responses slow and clumsy — he’d been drinking heavily. Well aware of the significance of the Blue Ridge report, the Walter Reed group had killed and dissected two of their Xenos; in each case four microscopie eggs had been found in the ovipositor track.
Four! Was this a new adaptation of Xeno — or had they always implanted that many? Suppose the later eggs were prevented from growing by changes in the host’s blood; suppose the second and subsequent eggs could only grow when the demands of the first had been met and the host’s metabolism had been restored to normal?
Shortly before midnight his wife came in to find her husband clutching a half-empty glass, his eyes filled with despair.
“I know you’re worried, dear,” she said gently, “but this won’t help. Come to bed. It may not seem so bad in the morning.”
He managed a faint smile, shaking his head slowly. “No, dear. It’ll get worse every day from now on. We’ve lost. Earth has a new, dreadful life form. We’ll fight, but — ” He shrugged helplessly.
“Perhaps we deserve it. Perhaps God meant it to happen,” she said hesitantly.
Suddenly there were tears in his eyes. “Do you really believe that?” She came to him, knelt at his feet, and took his hands in hers. “Do you not believe it?”
He had no answer.
*
Up on the rim of Abdera Hollow, Jaimie and his wife had been asleep for some time. Suddenly he awoke. The windows were open; a gentle pine-scented breeze moved the parted curtains. Shane was not beside him, but this was no great surprise; she was well into her fourth month of pregnancy, and her frequent trips to the bathroom were now a part of life.
For a time he lay still, waiting for her to return. He dozed, then jerked awake again. Still she had not returned. He raised his head from the pillow, looked toward the bathroom door, and saw no light beneath it. Now fully alert, he sat up. Could she have fallen, or be sleepwalking? Silently, he slid out of bed, fumbling for his robe.
He padded barefooted to the top of the stairs. From somewhere below came a reflected glow of light.
Puzzled, he moved quickly down the staircase. The light came from the kitchen, through the half-open door. He reached it and peered in.
Shane stood by the icebox, half-turned away from him, eating. Even as he saw her, she heard him. She turned sharply, her expression a mixture of fright and guilt.
Blood dripped from the corners of her mouth. In her hand, red with blood, was a piece of raw liver.
For an instant, he was paralyzed with shock. Then the realization hit him with blinding force: This was not the craving of a pregnant woman. Now he knew why the Xeno had not touched her. It was not because of what had happened, but because of what was still to come.
“No!” he screamed. “Oh, God, Shane — no!”
Epilogue
Julius Pechall, professor of ancient languages, switched off the projector, suddenly aware of the silence as the faint hum of the micro-reader stopped.
/> For a time he pondered what he had read. Obviously it had been a thinly disguised novel, written soon after God’s Finding. He guessed that one of the characters had been the author — Malin, perhaps? None of them had great depth; the story was the important thing.
What did it matter? The story gave him a few interesting sidelights for his paper — providing he trod carefully on the theology. But aside from that, it made him wonder what the world had been like back in that golden, but very sinful, age. It was a time that seemed so remote, yet little more than one hundred years had elapsed since the God first struck, ending the wicked ways, the fornication.
He prayed at once for absolution. He realized he had been very close to Impure Thought, and even for a researcher, normally granted some leeway, that could be very dangerous. One could be sent south.
He got up, donned his lightweight metallic suit, gloves, and helmet, and adjusted the heating. It was fairly safe in New Washington, Alaska, at this time of the year. But even in the capital of United North America, with all its defenses, there was no guarantee against the scourges of a vengeful God.
He hurried toward the airlock, reciting to himself the Prayer for Preservation. It would not be wise to be late for the dawn service.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
Epilogue