The Shapechanger Scenario

by Simon Hawke

  "What do you want, Mondago?" I said irritably. "I'm tired. Let me sleep."

  "You are sleeping, my dear boy. And quite soundly, I might add. Judging by your readouts, it would take something on the order of a cannon to wake you up right now."

  "Fine, get to the point, Mondago. I was having a perfectly nice dream when you showed up."

  "Ah, yes, that fascinating young bandit queen of yours. Quite charming, in a rather feral way. You seem to have unusual tastes in women."

  "Mondago ..."

  "Yes, yes, very well, I'll come right to the point. There have been a number of interesting new developments Coles thought you should be aware of. In light of what we've learned through your experience here, Purgatory is going to be placed under quarantine. This is all highly classified, of course, and the quarantine will not be officially declared until after you've left, but the orbital station will be refitted as a military garrison and everyone on Purgatory will essentially be held incommunicado until such time as we can devise a foolproof method for differentiating between a human and an ambimorph."

  "Short of implanting everyone with biochips from birth and monitoring them from the moment they can crawl, you mean?"

  "I will assume the question was rhetorical," Mondago said, ignoring my sarcasm. "As I was saying, the quarantine will be officially put in place after you and Breck have left, but you will not be leaving alone. Coles would like Mr. Higgins to accompany you."

  "Wait a minute," I said, "why Higgins? And what if he doesn't want to go? He's got a wife here, you know."

  "Who apparently has more than her share of husbands already ," Mondago said dryly. "One more or less would probably make little difference. Impress Mr. Higgins with the importance of his leaving with you. His ideas on the subject of ambimorphs have aroused a good deal of interest here. We would like to have him on our research staff.''

  "Does he have a choice?"

  "Not really, no. We could arrange for him to be shipped home, but we would prefer his voluntary cooperation. People tend to be more productive when they're working of their own free will."

  "That's a hell of a radical thought for somebody who works for Coles."

  "Yes, I suppose it is, at that. In any case, it would be best if you were the one to bring the matter up. Higgins seems to have a slight antipathy for Breck. He might take it better coming from you. Do try to convince him."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "Good. I doubt it will be all that difficult. He is a scientist, after all. He'll probably jump at the chance. Meanwhile, you recall the ambimorph you knew as the crystal hunter, Nikolai Razin, the one who came back from Draconis 9 with you as-"

  "As Stone, yes, I remember. Christ, Mondago, how the hell could I forget?"

  "Well, we were able to track it for a time until it apparently learned how to control the signals from the biochip it had assimilated from Miss Winters."

  Assimilated. He meant that the creature had absorbed her and ingested her biochip, as well. For a while. Game Control had received intermittent signals from Stone's biochip, but then the signals had become erratic, fluctuating wildly, suggesting that the creature was learning how to control the biochip, something that was supposed to be impossible. Eventually, they had lost the signals altogether.

  "We've started receiving signals from that biochip again," Mondago said.

  It was startling news. I was convinced that the ambimorph Breck and I referred to as "Nikolai Razin," after the crystal hunter whose identity it had assumed, was perhaps the most dangerous of them all. It had come very close to penetrating our security and it was the only ambimorph to have ever been inside the Psychodrome headquarters complex. "Then you've found the creature?" I said, excited.

  "Not exactly" said Mondago. "More like it's found us. The biochip is not responding to an activating signal from Game Control. The creature, which we have code named Chameleon, has learned how to activate its biochip at will and transmit selectively, directly to our satellite network."

  "Does that mean you can't trace it?" I said.

  "No, as long as the signal is identified in time and we can get a fix on it, we are capable of tracing it with some limited success, depending largely on how long Chameleon is transmitting. But what is far more significant and ominous is the fact that Chameleon is now capable of transmitting signals that can completely bypass Game Control."

  I still didn't understand. "What are you telling me? You mean you can trace the signal if you can lock in on it in time, but you can't control it?"

  "Unfortunately, no, we cannot. We are still trying to find ways to block it. Chameleon has been sending us transmissions which are essentially the equivalent of test patterns, as if it were arrogantly showing us what it has learned to do. Although we've had no direct evidence of it as yet, theoretically, what this means is that it's possible for the creature to use our satellite network to tap into psych-fidelity broadcasts."

  It finally sank in and I was stunned. "Are you saying it can make direct telempathic contact with anyone tuned in to the channel it's tapped into?"

  "Exactly."

  "Holy shit."

  "Coles used somewhat stronger terminology himself. You can appreciate how this has caused the situation to escalate alarmingly. If one ambimorph can learn to do this, no doubt others can. This opens up the possibility for psychocybernetic terrorism, with the victims being accessed through the media."

  "But what about the fail-safe systems, the biomonitors built into psy-fi sets? Won't they protect the user?"

  "We don't know. Obviously, we're hoping that they will, but the fail-safes are designed so that the biomonitors will register unacceptable levels of stress and block out that part of the transmission or shut the entire system down. For example, if someone who is tuned into Mr. Breck performing some feat of daring becomes too frightened and experiences increased respiration and accelerated heartbeat and so forth, the biomonitors will register that and the fail-safe systems will react accordingly. So we can protect our audiences from their own physical reactions. But can we protect them from their emotional reactions? Can we prevent ambimorph terrorists from instilling ideas within their subconscious minds that will fester and break out only after the psy-fi set had been disconnected?"

  "And you know that can be done because you people have been doing it yourselves, haven't you?" I said, "All along, you've been feeding the home audience some subconscious programming along with their entertainment. And I've been part of the program, God help me. Well, now it looks as if Game Control is about to lose control. I don't know if I should laugh or cry."

  "I cannot give enough emphasis to the importance of your assignment, O'Toole," Mondago said intensely. "We must have a live ambimorph to study. It is absolutely imperative. We have every available undercover team out in the field, attempting to capture one. So far, you and Breck have had the most contacts. And you also have the most experience."

  "I gather the other teams aren't doing too well," I said.

  Mondago was silent for a moment. "We have lost touch with nine of them."

  I swallowed hard. "Completely?"

  "Completely. Termination signals have been received. Shortly after that, their biochips began transmitting once again, indicating that they had been assimilated by the ambimorphs. And then, as happened with Chameleon, we lost them."

  "God."

  "You must bring back an ambimorph, O'Toole. Alive. At any cost. Any cost, is that understood?"

  "Oh, it's understood, all right. But you mind telling me how?"

  He became insubstantial and faded away.

  I opened my eyes with a start and sat up abruptly. I was sweating. I looked around. Higgins and Tyla were still asleep, curled up together in the back of the small cave. Breck sat leaning against the wall at the mouth of the cave. He heard me sit up and glanced toward me.

  "What is it? Are you all right?" he said.

  "How long have I slept?"

  "About four hours."

  I
sighed and got out of my bedroll. "I guess that's enough. I might as well take over the watch. Go get some sleep. You're about to have a really rotten dream."

  SEVEN

  There's a certain type of person to whom the idea of "roots" is meaningless. I'd met a lot of them because the currents of my life were such that I always wound up floating with the drifters. Breck was like that, though he was really sort of an exception, because he never had a home and family to start with-unless you can call a hybreed creche a home and I certainly can't. It's not the same. That's why hybreeds tend to feel a sort of extended family closeness toward one another, even if they've never met before. There's something in there, deep in the human part of their genetic matrix, that drives them to seek the families they never knew. No, Breck was different. I was thinking of another type of person altogether, one who grew up in the normal circumstances of family and home, community and friendship, and who for one reason or another wound up rejecting them.

  The corporate mercenaries I had fought with during my first Psychodrome adventure were such people. Some had families at home that they would probably never see again, some had been driven to the corporate wars by desperate circumstances, but by far the vast majority of them-the hardened pros who were the real survivors-were truly isolated men. And, sometimes, women. They lived in their own little self-contained worlds. They had no need of home or family. They had no lovers, only sex partners. No friends, only comrades. They had no roots. No past. At least, no past that mattered. And no real future, either. They claimed to like it that way, but I noticed that they didn't really much like anything.

  In the Middle Ages, mercenaries were known as "free companions." From the Latin com, meaning together, and panis, meaning bread. In other words, a companion was someone to break bread with and if you were a mercenary, you were free to choose which soldiers you'd break bread with. You were also free of love, free of familial ties, and free of care. You broke bread together and you fought together and there ended your responsibilities. But since there was no such thing as a free lunch, that kind of freedom had a price. Paid in the coin of loneliness.

  I stared down at the rocky slope, letting my gaze travel out across the sun-baked desert that stretched out unbroken for as far as the eye could see. It was a lonely place. Somewhere beyond the cobalt-blue horizon, there were huge surreal-looking islands built of steel and glass, with noxious black clouds, like storms hot through with flames, hovering above them. Purgatory, indeed. I felt like a lost soul.

  I had never consciously rejected the idea of having roots, of having a home and family. A place to settle down. The very phrase bespoke a sense of calm and peacefulness. Settle down. Relax. Apparently, that was not for me. Not yet. Perhaps, not ever. That little biochip was in my brain to stay. It seemed ironic. Here I was, huddled in a tiny cave over a trillion miles away from anything I knew, and I was feeling lonely-all the while, millions, perhaps billions, of people were sharing my experience.

  "Wake up, O'Toole," Breck said. "You were a million miles away."

  "More like a trillion," I replied. "What's the matter? Can't you sleep?"

  He looked at me strangely. "I rarely have difficulty sleeping," he said. "I've slept three hours. It's enough."

  I stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

  "It's a good thing you weren't under my command when you were in the service," Breck said dryly. "I would have skinned you alive for falling asleep on guard duty."

  "But I never fell asleep!" I protested. "I've been awake all the time, just sitting here and thinking ..."

  "And you were not aware that over three hours had passed?" said Breck.

  I shook my head. "What is this, a joke? I relieved you no more than ten or fifteen minutes ago! I've been awake all the time!"

  "And you haven't noticed anything unusual? You're telling me that absolutely nothing's changed since you relieved me?" Breck said.

  I shook my head, feeling utterly confused. "No, of course not. Why? What are you-"

  "You did not see Tyla leave?" he said softly.

  "What?"

  I scrambled to my feet so fast I almost smashed my head on the low ceiling at the entrance to the cave. I glanced back into the cave, and after a few seconds, my eyes became accustomed to the change in light and I saw Higgins curled up on the ground, asleep. Alone. There was no sign of Tyla.

  I stared at Breck, utterly bewildered. "I know I didn't fall asleep," I said. "I couldn't have! There has to be another exit from the cave."

  "There isn't," Breck said curtly.

  "But she couldn't have gotten past me without my seeing her!"

  "No, not if you were awake," said Breck.

  "What's going on?" said Higgins, getting up and stretching.

  "Your wife seems to have wandered off again," said Breck. "She has a disconcerting habit of coming and going as she pleases."

  "Maybe that's because she's free to come and go as she pleases," Higgins said, a slight edge to his voice. "Or were you under the impression that she had to ask your permission?"

  "Now look here, Higgins-" Breck began, but Higgins didn't let him finish.

  "No, you look here, Breck. I’ve had about enough of your paranoid insinuations! If it wasn't for Tyla, you wouldn't even be here now. You would've died out there on the desert. And if Tyla was a shapechanger, she's had more than ample opportunity to kill us all. If anyone's got reason to be distrustful, believe me, friend, it isn't you. I've lived with Tyla and her tribe. I don't know you from Adam. And what's more . . ." He stopped himself, his gaze focusing behind us, and we turned quickly to see Tyla standing there and watching us.

  She had come up on us without a sound and she stood at the entrance to the cave, an animal carcass slung over her shoulders. There was blood on her mouth. She dumped her kill onto the ground at the cave entrance, then turned and walked away.

  Higgins brushed past us, handing Breck his knife. "You carve," he said. "I'll get some wood."

  I had no idea what it was we ate and I was so hungry, I didn't even care. Higgins cooked the beast over a fire made from the scrub brush that grew in scraggly clumps among the rocks. The wood gave the meat a pungent, extremely smoky flavor. I felt like some Neanderthal as I sat near the entrance to the cave and tore into a roast haunch, the juices dribbling over my lips onto my chin, the grease making my fingers sticky. I never was much of a meat eater and, given a choice, I'd take seafood or veggies anytime. For all I knew, the roast mystery meat would either kill us or give me incapacitating stomach cramps, but at that moment, if Higgins had told me it was some sort of giant slug, I would have eaten the damn thing just the same. I wondered if the majority of my home audience was experiencing disgust at my gustatory sensations or a vicarious thrill at the way I tore into my meat as if I were some primal savage.

  In any case, I managed to survive the dinner. Or breakfast, or whatever meal it was. My time sense was thoroughly screwed up. Especially since I had somehow lost about three hours. I didn't understand that. And I sure as hell didn't like it. Breck did not pursue the issue. Perhaps, since no harm seemed to have come of it, he had decided to forget about it. I was, after all, only an ordinary human. Higgins, who was more accustomed to the terrain than I was, had slept like a dead man our trek. Maybe Breck thought he was being too hard on me. But I could not forget about it. It preyed on my mind as we resumed our journey in the afternoon.

  According to Breck, I had slept about four hours. During that time, I had been dream-briefed by Mondago. Then I awoke, relieved Breck, sat down with my back against the rocks at the cave entrance, and ten or fifteen minutes later, Breck was telling me that I had fallen asleep on watch and about three hours had gone by.

  I didn't believe it.

  Not that I thought Breck was lying to me. I knew he wouldn't do that and besides, when I looked at the position of the sun, it was clear that much more than ten or fifteen minutes had gone by. No, what I did not believe was that I fell asleep. True, I was exhausted, but I'd gotten
by on far less sleep before without nodding off like that. It was possible that I might have dozed off without realizing it, but when Breck spoke to me, there had been no sensation of waking up, that startled feeling when someone wakes you suddenly after you've nodded off. I had, in fact, never nodded off. I was convinced of it. From the moment I relieved Breck till the moment he spoke to me some three hours later, I had experienced complete continuity of thought and consciousness-and somehow it had been "compressed" so that it seemed like only ten or fifteen minutes.

  No, I had not fallen asleep. Something had been done to me. The question was, by whom?

  If it was Mondago, who was presumably at the controls, then it was some sort of new wrinkle that he .had never tried before and I could see no purpose to it. Breck had told me that, with time, I would become much more aware of interface and he was right. I didn't think that anyone at Game Control, not even Coles, could pull a stunt like that without my at least being aware of something being done, even if it was only after the fact-as had happened when Cass Daniels activated my natural defensive mechanisms and amplified them into an attack of paranoia which had saved my life. Later on, when I had a chance to think about it, I could pinpoint the exact moment when it happened and I could recall the feeling. But this time, there was nothing.

  It gnawed at me as we climbed higher up into the hills. If someone back at Game Control was playing with my perceptions, what purpose would it serve? Why interfere with an operative out on a mission? Unless, of course, this wasn't really happening at all and it was simply one more hallucinact, with Coles pressing some new buttons so he could see what happened. I had to admit that was a possibility, but I could not afford to consider it a probability. I had to act on the information of my senses-whether it was happening objectively, in real life, or subjectively, in my mind, it had to be real for me or else I might not survive it. At least not with my sanity intact.