A Jungle of Stars

by Jack L. Chalker

  Aruman Vard watched the lock give way and swing aside, revealing a clear path to the switch.

  He pulled it.

  Then he took the elevator to the surface and walked down a narrow corridor to the street level, past the sign marked ARUMAN VARD: IMPORT/EXPORT and into the almost deserted street. He moved briskly, not looking back.

  When he was about two blocks away, the building began a slow dissolve, like heated plastic, all of it running together. By the time he was three blocks off, it was a huge puddle of boiling matter.

  ***

  Living on an ancient world long devoid of its natural atmosphere, whose red sun gave off a dull glow but little heat, presented enough problems just surviving there. But on this world of domed cities and underground honeycombs sustained by a highly sophisticated technology, the problem of escape was compounded almost beyond belief. Vard knew that The Hunter's boys did not expect him to make it, but he trusted them to keep faith with him as he had all these years with them.

  Suicide or surrender were simply not in his makeup.

  He headed for a small private garage a few blocks away. There, he knew, his escape vehicle had been maintained by robots awaiting its one use. Once there, he would feel far more secure. He damned himself for letting his emotions carry him to a possibly fatal delay. Now the Rhambdans were within the city; and getting out of the Dome, through the great locks, might be next to impossible.

  A whine in his head told him that it had better not be.

  There! The garage! Now, just place the identdisk on the plate, then raise the doorway by vocal command--

  The door slid silently back. The garage was empty.

  Vard felt panic rising within him. There was no way he could have made a mistake. The agents had acknowledged delivery! It just wasn't possible!

  It was, however, fact. The car either had never been there or it had been stolen in some inexplicable way.

  He wasted no more time.

  The alleyway was still, but--were hidden eyes already viewing him? Were The Bromgrev's agents now preparing to pounce? What if he were a Known, and they were expecting him to lead them to others? What if--?

  The alternative was to fight it out here--and die. Home was gone, his world was gone.

  Aruman Vard walked swiftly down the silent alley.

  ***

  "His car's not there," said a metallic feminine voice in the ship that was hiding off-planet. "Now he's making a hurried decision."

  "Think he'll stand and fight?" Ralph Bumgartner asked in a tone that indicated he really couldn't care less.

  "No, definitely not," replied the disembodied voice. "All Agents-in-Charge are chosen with a high survival index in mind. He'll go down fighting if caught, but he won't give up escape unless caught or dead."

  "Very well. Keep me posted. Let me know immediately if he doesn't make it, and zap him at the first sign of trouble. We have several others to go, you know."

  "Don't get worried," the voice reassured him. "Look on the bright side. If he makes it, he'll be one of the best agents we've got."

  "If he gets out of this one, he's probably The Bromgrev," Bumgartner replied glumly as he slowly stirred his gin fizz.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aruman Vard saw the bubblecar as he turned the second corner. It was empty, of course, and probably locked.

  He went up to the little vehicle and tried the cockpit release. Yes, locked. Even in panic the Fraskans were an orderly people. They were, he reflected, a race almost apart from himself--a nation of domesticated animals, in which a throwback had no place.

  He reached into his wallet pouch and brought out a key jammer, attaching it to the side lock. There was a humming sound, and the vehicle's top raised slightly. Reaching over, he pushed the bubble up the rest of the way and climbed inside. His eyes fell to the identdisk on the dashboard.

  Let's see, he thought. I'm Garon Hnub, a vasilis merchant from Kashar here on a business permit. That should be more than enough, unless I'm closely questioned.

  He wished he knew what "vasilis" was.

  Thanking the dead gods of his world for such a stroke of good fortune, he started the small engine and fed instructions into the auto's guidance system. The car moved smoothly forward.

  Vard idly thumbed through the guidance card files in the center console, noting with pleasure that the bubblecar had not only a section of approved city routes but one, too, for the Great Waste Highway to Kashar. That made it much simpler. Vard marveled at his good fortune in finding a salesman's car--from out of town!--the first time out, although he had been in the commercial district. Things were going so smoothly that Vard halfway suspected a trap.

  The car sped toward the Northeast Lock.

  Almost immediately, behind him, came the unmistakable purple flashing of a police cruiser. His hearts sank as he felt the override of the cruiser take hold of his vehicle and glide him gently to a stop by the side of the road. The cruiser pulled up beside him and stopped, and its occupants became clearly visible.

  They were not Fraskans.

  One was a tall, orange creature, looking like a large, thin cone perched point upward on a mass of fleshy tentacles. Spaced evenly around its midsection were seven stalked eyes, three of which were studying him. The other occupant resembled a small, green monkey. While the orange thing seemed to glide up and out of the cruiser, as if on a cushion of air, the little green creature scampered out the other side. Both approached Vard, who remained seated in his car for want of anything better to do.

  These, then, were Conquerors: mercenaries and allies from greedy worlds who had flocked to the Rhambdan call for war; former fifth columnists on occupied worlds; and suchlike. Opportunists, in for a share of the wealth that was what they believed the winners' prize would be. If either was telepathic--

  The tiny whine in Vard's head seemed to grow ominously loud.

  "Good day, citizen!" boomed a deep voice in Universal.

  Vard started slightly; he knew somehow that it came from the orange cone, although no mouth or other orifice was visible.

  "Thought criminal!" shrilled the green monkey in a high-pitched voice.

  Vard's hand was already on his pistol.

  "Pay no heed to my friend here, honest citizen," the orange cone put in hastily. "In a fight on Bluxada he was just finishing the statement 'Some of these creatures are thought criminals,' when one of those unworthies proved it by cracking his head open. Since then, they're the only two words he's been able to say. Not much of a conversationalist now, I admit, but still a good partner."

  "Thought criminal," agreed the little monkey, a tear glistening in one eye.

  Vard relaxed his grip on the pistol. Stupid, overconfident, arrogant ones. He doubted that they had ever been in a battle, or could face an enemy. They could be handled.

  "Now, then, kind sir," continued the cone, "you are a rarity in the city this day."

  "Thought criminal," agreed its partner.

  "You have," said the cone, "been speeding where few have dared to crawl. This makes us wonder about you, understandably."

  "Oh, noble sirs," Vard replied, trying to sound as anguished and scared as he could, "I am but a poor merchant, caught here and seemingly stranded many careps distant from my home in Kashar, away from my mates and many offspring. I want only to get back to my family group, to be with them during this troubled time! I have been unable to call them, and they fear me dead, I am certain."

  The orange cone remained impassive; the little green monkey scratched its nose.

  "Well, Twixl," the cone said suddenly, "what do you think of him?"

  "Thought criminal," answered Twixl idly, much more concerned with fondling his own tail.

  "Well, not really," the cone replied, "but I do think our Fraskan friend warrants some sort of inspection." The cone drew closer to Vard. "I'm afraid, dear citizen, that we must bring in all who violate the curfew. However, since you are doubtless who you say you are, and in the interest of promoting the new spi
rit of brotherhood between our people and yours, we will probably be able to fly you to Kashar as soon as you are cleared."

  Vard nodded, resigned to his course of action. As obviously stupid as these creatures were, that very dullness gave them a literal attitude toward their orders. They could be bought, probably, in a different situation, but never bent.

  "If you will just follow us to the local station, we will process you quickly and see about getting you home," the cone concluded, already gliding back toward the patrol car. Twixl nodded and turned also.

  Stupid.

  Vard fired into the mass of the orange cone first. A piercing scream rang out, followed by a loud pop, and suddenly the air was filled with little pieces of orange sludge raining down like confetti.

  Twixl had not waited to be next. The moment the weapon flashed, the small creature had, in one motion, drawn its own weapon and dropped into a roll to the street, quickly getting under the armored police cruiser. On the third roll he fired at Vard, narrowly missing the Fraskan as Vard jumped from the bubblecar to protection behind it. He was beginning to have second thoughts about Twixl. The little creature was too cool, too professional in its reactions. Before its accident or whatever, Twixl had not been a mere patrolman.

  A second discharge came at Vard, quickly followed by a third. He realized that Twixl was eating away at crucial parts of the bubblecar, turning the Plasticine vehicle molten, causing splashes of the hot material to fly behind the car itself. Twixl had realized that, due to the extreme cold in which they had evolved such heat could melt Fraskans as well.

  "Thought criminal!" yelled the little patrolman, and for the first time he seemed to mean what he said. His voice was full of panic, yet his aim was coolly deliberate and very close.

  Very close.

  Vard awoke to the fact that the angle of fire was changing. He had been so busy dodging the lethal bits of melted plastic that he'd lost the advantage. Twixl, it was clear, was trying to work his way to the police cruiser door. Once inside, the creature could command the weaponry built into the car to disintegrate the entire city block, if need be. Vard made his move.

  Lunging out into the street, he kept low and ran zigzaggedly for the cruiser, all the while keeping up a steady fire. As he did, Twixl gained the far door of the vehicle. But, just as the Conqueror reached out for the handle, he slipped in the orange goo that was the remains of his partner. Vard lunged at him, ramming him against the side of the door.

  As Twixl was hit, the pistol flew from his grip and clattered to the pavement. Both had been stunned at the encounter, but Vard's gun was still in his hand. Twixl, lying facedown on the street, scrambled toward his weapon. He had almost reached it when he saw out of the corner of his eye that Vard was raising his pistol.

  Twixl froze, and turned slowly toward the Fraskan, arms outstretched, a defeated look on his face.

  "Thought criminal?" he asked peevishly.

  "Quite right," Vard replied, and pulled back on the firing stud.

  Twixl seemed to be lifted up by the beam, charred, and then reduced to a pile of dark ash.

  Vard leaned against the police cruiser, catching his breath, then walked back to his stolen bubblecar and studied it. Twixl had made a mess of the whole thing. It was obvious that the car would never move again.

  He reached in and removed the guidance cards from the console box, which had remained untouched in the fight. For the first time he noticed the buildings and the street. Undoubtedly, hundreds of eyes had witnessed the battle, yet they remained hidden; it would probably be sometime before the shooting was officially reported or discovered.

  Vard walked back to the cruiser and got in. The vehicle would be a problem--he had only driven one manually twice before. But the controls were similar and well labeled. It might take a little getting used to, but he could manage.

  Activating the power, he closed the side ports. The cruiser glided out of the parking area, weaving and bobbing a little, as Vard got the feel of steering the large vehicle. In a few seconds, he accelerated.

  No one challenged the police cruiser as it glided, a bit tipsily, along the deserted city byways. Meanwhile, Vard searched the cluttered control panel for the police radio, and, after a little experimentation, found it.

  "...Police cruiser assumed to be heading out of the city. All lock guard stations are warned to be on the lookout for any breach. Until further notice, we are closing lock stations to all but official traffic..." The voice rambled on.

  So they were definitely aware of him already. They would love to take him alive, assimilate him, perhaps, into the Rhambdan Mind. How far would they go to get an Agent-in-Charge? Mass assimilation? The Rhambdans didn't like assimilations at all, because there was a finite limit to the Mind's effective control when it was so widely dispersed--though no one had ever defined that limit. Could assimilation neutralize that whine in his head?

  Thinking about it, it really didn't make much difference: dead is dead.

  The North Gate, one of the seven major airlocks controlling entrance and exit to the city, swung into view ahead of him. As it did, Vard saw that he not only had to contend with getting through the lock somehow, but also with a massive traffic jam of Fraskan bubblecars massed there.

  The lock was as traffic-ridden as the capital city was devoid of it. Citizens of other cities, trapped by the sudden capitulation, were frantically seeking a way home.

  Vard thanked all the gods that the controls in the police car were plainly marked. He punched the button marked CLEAR and hoped that it was the traffic control he wanted. Spotting three other cruisers parked at the lock station, he headed for them, the bubblecars in the jam moving quickly and obediently out of the way like a parting of the waters--much to the consternation and frustration of their owners, some of whom were not in them at the time and a few of whom were run over by the automatic action and now lay screaming in the street. Well, so much for good relations with the conquered, Vard thought cynically.

  As he pulled up to the lock tower, he saw that the Rhambdans were preparing to clear the area on their own. They had brought in one of the Kah'diz.

  The creature and its host stood atop the platform in front of the lock control station, looking at the fantastic mess below. The host body, Vard saw with revulsion, was a Fraskan. On his back perched the Kah'diz, a purplish, somewhat indistinct mass like matted hair, each strand of which was imbedded in the victim's neck.

  The Kah'diz were vampiric; they had no way to manufacture their own blood, and could adapt to almost any creature's metabolism. They saw, heard, felt, spoke through the host body--and that body was simply that: a body, manipulated by the thing like a puppet. Sentience died when the Kah'diz took you.

  The Kah'diz, for reasons unknown to anyone, had developed the strange talent of becoming empathic broadcasters; they could induce almost any sort of emotional reaction in any other creature. They could make you love them, or fear them, or any of ten thousand other, more subtle reactions. They played on emotions like an organist mastering the greatest of concert organs, seemingly for sport but actually to fulfill a need not well understood by potential hosts. And a Kah'diz would wear out a body in a fairly short time.

  Long frustrated in expanding and developing their own civilization because of the lack of suitable host bodies, they reproduced quickly, though; and the development of modern medicine on their world had left them with a mushrooming population. They had, therefore, been among the first to leap on the Rhambdan bandwagon. Rhambda, badly in need of allies and confident of its own power, accepted.

  The value of the Kah'diz to the Rhambdans was illustrated by this situation. Occupation was their work and their own personal goal; and for it they were well suited, as Watch Officer Baathiax, the Kah'diz at the North Lock, knew. Although the Fraskans were decadent, and normally absurdly easy to control, this gathering had all the earmarks of a riot. Emotions, the Kah'diz reflected, are curious, fickle things.

  The creature knew it could never contro
l this mob alone; its whole race couldn't do it. But the empathic amplifiers aboard its ship would magnify its own natural powers a billionfold.

  A dead hand reached down and lifted the communications microphone. "Baathiax here. The situation is critical at North Lock. How many of our ships are now in port?"

  A rustling sound on the other end was audible as the communications officer checked.

  "Nine," came the reply.

  "Very good--for the moment, anyway. What must be done here is clear. I have a control rod with me, but no external power source. Get some of my people to each airlock station, then have the standby crews in each of the ships feed the power from the generators into the rods. Most of these creatures couldn't get out of this mess if they wanted to, so it will have to be handled carefully."

  "All other locks already have at least one of your people on hand," replied the communications officer. "All have rods except at Northwest, and we'll have one out there by the time the standby crews can get the generators working. I'll signal you when we're ready here."

  Baathiax mumbled assent, and switched off. As it did, it heard the muffled whine of a police cruiser and saw a sleek, black vehicle clearing its way through the muddled traffic.

  The Shrine of the Black Roots protect me from petty bureaucracy! it swore to itself. Any more befuddled, stupid policemen, agents, and fellow-travelers in the lock control center and there would be no room to raise an arm without knocking out ten people!

  Baathiax started to fume that such a thing would not happen with Kah'diz in total control, but after all these years the creature was just too cynical not to let the feeling pass. A bureaucrat was a bureaucrat was a bureaucrat in any and all ways, shapes, and forms; and it was an immutable law of the galaxy that in any operation there would, for every competent agent, be ten clotheads to foul things up. Baathiax felt doubly lucky to be a line officer; in the field, such beings died.

  Baathiax shook off the pessimistic introspection. Such problems were part of the job, Baathiax reflected sadly. There was always that dream of every Kah'diz of being alone on a world of hosts, feeding peacefully until finally dying in a mass orgy of emotional pleasure. But such a paradise was more than a little unrealistic for a second officer.