by Zach Hughes
positions doing filthy, evil things and he was going to be forced to do them and, oh, God, what had he done? What had he done? And somewhere in the distance, as he lay on the bed curled into a fetal position, knees clasped, rocking in terror and agony, a small voice saying, Help me. Help me. But hell's fires were reaching for him to burn him in eternal agony and he was afraid, afraid. And the filth and degradation washed over him and made him violently sick. Servomechanisms cleaned away the spew of his stomach. The ship jumped, the guidance section working independently as the mind of the ship communicated frantically and the sanity of a member of the race was assaulted by incredible force and lost, retreating slowly toward the point of no return. Help me, help me, Luke was saying. And, far off an echo said, Help me, help me. And another voice, stronger, Stop, stop, you're killing her! And the fires of hell burning and filth and degradation seeping into the fibers of his being, polluting him, making him one with the devil and him fighting, fighting, fighting, his mind a swirl of near madness and—help me, help me. With memories of the rack and the crowding and the suppression and the death and bodies burning in huge ovens and people lying in their own blood in the streets and Fares coupling in filthy little Fare rooms and she wanted him to do that and the devil was laughing and—stop, stop. And an image of Caster appearing in his mind saying,
with the strong voice. «It's all right, Luke. You are not in hell. It's all right. Stop now. Stop it. Don't think. Do this.» And through his fear and shock came a realization. He could see himself. Inside him he could see the working of him, the flow of blood
through veins and the seeping of blood into tiny capillaries, the beating of his heart and the functioning of glands and the pull of muscles as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, his head down, his heels dug into the bed, his knees clasped. And—do this. And a small thing happening inside his head and closing off and still there was the awareness and fear fought, failed, retreated before the wonder of knowing the very makeup of his brain, the flow of impulses, the sending and receiving of messages from parts of his body, the glow of sight and the sense of touch and—WONDER! And the strong voice—Good, good… «Where am I?» Luke asked aloud. «What is this place?» It is not hell. Not aloud. In his mind. A strange feeling of competence. A knowledge. A total awareness. Like the two brief times when God opened up the heavens and he could heal. «Oh, God—» I am not God. «Who are you?» A picture. Complex things mixed and totaled into a vast, strange machine. «How?» He didn't voice the question. And then the answer directed him to the part of his brain which seemed to pulse with power and he knew that something strange had happened and he had to understand. The machine was trying to tell him, but it was too fast, boiling fonts of information which he was unable to absorb. His head ached. But there were all mixed up, things—an opening of a potential which should not have been there, an assessment of himself which gave him the impression of—more than stupidity and then a childish thought that he could read so he was not stupid and it was more than retardation He was not a moron but more and then he wasn't and there was astonishment from the communications in his mind and mixed-up pictures of people who were eternal and eternally happy and vast, empty, luxurious worlds of parks and silent wilderness and it was too much for him. «Stop!» And then, silence, a wailing, weak cry for help. And blame. «How could I hurt her?» Raw power of never-before-used cells. An alien strangeness hitting at a mind grown defenseless during eons of peace and—love—sickness in Luke at the picture—SHE WAS HURT. «How can I help?» His mind. Pushed open. And the feeling of healing and so he went to her and found her huddled on her bed. She was breathing weakly. «I don't know how,» he said. And a picture of his mind entering hers. «But she's evil! She wanted me to—» She is a fellow being. It is her way. To her it is not evil. «But she is evil.» She is dying. The power of your mind— «Am I, then, more powerful than she, who has had this power forever?» A reluctance. But a member of the race was dying. The newness. The rawness. The unused potential building— «But if she tried to—» The vile pictures unwordable. No. Because he was more powerful. And suddenly they were afraid of him. The machines and all the people with eternal life were afraid of him and he looked into her mind and saw the ripping, the burning, the damage and he, knowing how it went, healed; and she looked up at him eyes wide, frightened. He closed. For a moment he felt the fright and he said aloud, «It's all right.» And then, looking into her and seeing her as she was and catching in that unguarded moment, the past, the love, the vileness and anger, shame, shock causing her to reel back in pain. Don't. Don't please. He closed. You must not! It hurts so. «We will talk,» Luke said. A view of her mind. Perversions. Slime. Filth. Anger, shock and pain to her and a further plea. «Don't spread your filth on me,» Luke said. Filth? You hopeless—images of worse than stupid, more than moronic, beyond retarded. You call me filth— And a sudden assault on his mind which was repelled with amazing ease and then she was cringing as he called down the fear of God onto her, preached to her of her shame her degradation, her evilness and she begging, begging, begging, her mind reeling under the assault. When his anger was gone, she was weak. He thought in silence. «If we are to communicate, we will have to keep partially—-closed—» «Yes.» «I know a little from your machines I want to know more.» Fear. A barbarian loose among the civilized worlds, a monster with hurtful power and a sick mind loose amid the beautiful, Trangized people. «I don't want to hurt you. I cannot approve of you, but you are not like us. You are alien. I want only—» He paused. What did he want? There was Caster, in the hands of the Brotherfuzz. He wanted her out. He wanted her safe. There were Wundt and the others who were trying to do something for the unfortunates of the world. He wanted them to be able to do it. He wanted to go back. He wanted to see Caster. He wanted— A sharp, huge pain crossed his chest. He gasped. His hands flew to his chest, clawed there. Agony doubled him. He fell. His heart speeded, stopped, leaped, tore at his chest as a portion of it died, ruptured. His mind was paralyzed by the enormity of the pain and panic joined terminal pain as he looked death over from up close and, above him, having leaped from her bed, the woman looked down. Hope. In the midst of fatal pain, hope. She could help him. She could heal. She watched him spasm in agony. She waited for him to look into himself, heal himself. He was open. He had a vast power, so vast that it threatened her, threatened her world. So with that power he could stop the pain, heal the ruptured heart. But he did not. He writhed and made sounds with his mouth and it was then that she realized that he would die if she didn't help. If she didn't heal, since he apparently was too stupid to know his own powers over himself, he would die and then the threat would be ended. He was gasping, his lungs spasming, his diaphragm pumping in a strange non-rhythm. She smiled. Now it would be over. Now, with the danger clearly demonstrated, they would send ships to the fringes of the galaxy, to the hundred exile worlds, and burn them from the skies. Then it would be over. Then she could go home. Home to eternal euphoria, to eternal love. She watched, eyes wide. She'd never seen a being die before. CHAPTER FOURTEEN On a wasted, sick planet the latest chapter in a long history of cruelty had begun. Where once there had been a sincere attempt to bring true equality to man, there was now an equality of persecution administered by
an elite corps who had control. Fare, Tech, Tired, and Lay suffered alike as vast armies of police, reinforced by the Army of the Second Republic, searched and ripped a world apart. The racks hummed with power as all suspects were questioned with degrees of severity determined only by the sadism of the Brothers in charge of the individual interrogation centers. A section of Old Town, in East City, burned, ignited by a careless search team who poured explosive Soul Lifter into a storm sewer. Fire protection was obsolete, unable to cope with the conflagration which spread to cover an area of several crowded blocks, burning the ancient buildings and their inhabitants in a great roar which produced odd and erratic wind currents throughout the remainder of the old section and threatened to take the entire section in one vast firest
orm. The glow from East City was visible when Colonel Ed Baxley lifted his personal atmoflyer from the Washington port and headed west. He asked for reports and was given skimpy information. His attention was on his mission and he didn't push the matter. Below, as he crossed the big river in mid-continent, Middle City seethed with activity. Martial vehicles blocked the streets as soldiers searched ground cars. Then he was past and checking with West City control for landing instructions. He was stopped leaving the port. He showed his identification and was treated with awed respect. One of the junior officers in charge of the roadblock was a former cadet and greeted the colonel with a snappy salute and a smile. It was impossible to remember all the cadets from years past, but the colonel smiled and said, «Good show.» «We'll get the bastards,» the cadet said. «Sir.» He flushed with confusion, having let slip the profanity without conscious thought. «I'm sure you will,» Baxley said. «The search is being conducted in a closing circle,» the former cadet said, eager to make a good impression. «There are five hundred thousand troops plus the city police. We're covering the city building by building.» Baxley frowned. He had given no orders for the search to begin. As he was driven past the block, he contacted Washington. Brother President Murrel was unavailable. He spoke with an aide. «Who ordered the operation to begin?» he asked. «The President himself,» he was told. Baxley closed contact without comment. He leaned back, frowning. Around him there was chaos. A group of sorry looking Tireds was being forced at gunpoint from a dilapidated building. As he passed, he saw a policeman strike a Tired female. She went down to her hands and knees. Blood sprang from her nose. The ground car eased through a mass of military vehicles. People were being loaded aboard vans, their faces contorted in panic. Baxley resisted an impulse to stop and order the troops to cease the senseless brutality. He realized, however, that such a move would be a relatively empty gesture. When he left, the troops would fall back on the only method they knew, the art of violent repression. Where had it all gone wrong?» The suspect was in central police headquarters. He showed his papers and the vehicle was admitted to the parking area An elevator took him to a top floor. The woman was in a small room, surrounded by Brothers and police officials. A doctor was present. The Brother Mayor of West City was a corpulent man with a sweating, bald head. He greeted Baxley with respect and, formalities over, pointed toward the seated woman. «She hasn't talked, but she will.» The woman's face was contorted into a mask of fear and pain. Her hands were tied behind her. The chief of West City police was questioning
her. As Baxley watched, he inserted an electrode into her left nostril, threw a line switch on the power cord, and Baxley heard a small, sickening sizzle of burning flesh. The woman jerked, screamed. «That's enough,» Baxley said, stepping forward. He jerked the electrode
from the hand of the startled police official and threw it violently into a far corner of the room. «You don't understand, colonel,» the Brother Mayor said. «In order to get these people to talk—» «How long do you think she could take this?» Baxley asked angrily. He whirled to the doctor, who was standing a short distance away, his eyes downcast. «Have you used truth drugs?» «They were not effective,» the doctor said. «Some of them are immune—» «Bull,» Baxley said. «Now listen, you quack, you're not talking to some ignorant Lay. Don't give me your fairy tales. You don't develop an immunity to truth drugs. Not in a million years.» «Not exactly an immunity,» the doctor said, strangely unruffled. «A protection. They've come up with some sort of long-range protection, a drug, something, which keeps the truth drugs from working.» Baxley made an impatient gesture. «What have you used?» The doctor named three drugs. Baxley knew them. They had never failed to produce results in the past. He'd often advocated their widespread use in questioning prisoners. The excuse was their expense.
«All right,» Baxley said. «I'll talk to her.» He moved behind the woman, cut her bonds with his pocket knife She looked up at him fearfully, tears streaming down her cheeks. «It's not all right,» he said. «I won't tell you that. You are in serious trouble. Do you know that.?» She nodded. «There is a threat to the Republic. We are going to see that the threat comes to nothing. Nothing you can do will stop that. We will crush the rebels. We will do it with any means necessary Nothing you can do will help your friends. On the contrary, your silence will make it worse for them and for everyone. Do you understand?» She was silent. «I am going to give you a chance to save yourself. Tell us all you know about the man who healed you. Tell us about your friends. Tell the truth and there will be no more torture. You will be held in confinement and then you will be treated.» «Shakeshock to idiocy?» she asked, making a face. «No thanks.» «You see, colonel,» the Brother Mayor said, «it's no use trying to reason
with these people.» He motioned to the chief of police. «Now if you'll let us continue—» Baxley was looking at the woman. Her eyes seemed strange. Baxley turned to the doctor. «What have you given this woman other than the truth drugs?» «Nothing,» doctor said. «Brother Mayor,» Baxley said, «I want to be alone with the suspect and the doctor.» «But, colonel—» The Mayor protested with waving hands. «Please,» Baxley said, but the way he said it it wasn't a request. The Brothers and the police filed out sullenly. Alone with the woman and the doctor, Baxley stepped behind the woman, opened his knife, pressed the point of it against the woman's neck. She did not move. He pressed harder until the sharp point broke the skin and a tiny bead of blood sprang up.
She made no outcry, no move. Baxley stood in front of her, lifted an eyelid. The pupil of her eye was large. He pinched her arm suddenly and forcefully. Her yelp came a second too late. Baxley's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He started to turn, to face the doctor. Before he completed the move he felt a sharp pain in his right buttock. He struck out. A hypoderrhic needle clattered away, bouncing on the hard floor. He opened his mouth to yell in surprise. Only a strangled sound came forth. He felt his knees going, weakening. He folded, fell slowly, settled to the floor without a sound. The doctor put his finger to his lips, motioning the woman to silence.
He knelt over the fallen Baxley, felt his pulse. «I had to do it,» he said to the woman. «He recognized the symptoms of the drug I gave you.» «What will you do now'?» the woman asked with a surprising calmness. «I'll have to leave you,» the doctor said. «I'm sorry, but I think this might be a great opportunity. The drug will not wear off for some six
hours yet. They're under strict orders not to let you die, so you'll be safe from that, at least. And when you begin to feel pain, then talk.» «No,» she said. «I'll never—» «My dear, you'll talk. When you can feel the things those bastards are
doing to you, you'll talk. You'll beg for the chance to talk. Do it. We'll have six hours. That should be enough.» «Are you sure—» «We have no other choice. I can get Baxley out of the building. I couldn't get you out under any circumstances.» «The revolution?» Irene Caster asked hopefully. «We'll try to come for you as soon as possible.» «I don't care. Don't think about me.» «But we must think of you. The world has gone too long without thinking of you, the individual.» «I don't mind dying,» she sighed. «I really don't.» She said the last with a sort of amazement, for she actually meant it. «If it means that we are successful.» «We will be,» the doctor said. «And perhaps you won't have to die.» He rose quickly, took three quick steps to the door. There was a well-acted panic in his voice as he called out, «Brother Mayor, quickly'» They rushed into the room. The Brother Mayor halted in midstride when he saw Baxley lying on the floor. The doctor fell to his knees beside Baxley. «His heart—» «Great God,» the mayor said. «No there. Not in my city.» The doctor leaped to a communicator. «Stretcher,» he roared. «Get me a stretcher and have an ambulance standing by.» «You're—you're going to move him?» the mayor asked. «He needs care and quickly,» the doctor said. «But can't you treat him here? If the word gets out that the founder of the Republic—» «The word need not get out,» the doctor said. «If you'll help me.» «Anything,» the frightened mayor said. «We will re
move him quietly and take him to a private hospital. His face will be covered by an oxygen mask. His uniform by a sheet. No one need know. No one outside this room.» «Is he—is he going to die?» the mayor asked. «I don't know,» the doctor said. «My first guess is that he's had a massive myocardial infarction.» «My God,» the mayor breathed, awed by the sound of the medical words. The stretcher team came running in. The doctor directed the loading of the colonel's unconscious body, covering the neat, white uniform with a sheet. An oxygen mask was clamped over the colonel's face. The stretcher team moved quickly, impressed by the doctor's urgency. An ambulance was backed to the entrance of the service elevator. The stretcher was loaded aboard. The doctor got into the back with the colonel and snapped directions to the driver. The stretcher was loaded aboard an atmoflyer at the nearest port. An emergency flight-plan was filed. Twenty miles outside the eastern limit of West City the flyer disappeared from the radar screens and all the frantic efforts to contact it were in vain. Back in the grim, unimaginative building which housed West City police, Irene Caster screamed as her mouth was forced open and the searching, shocking electrode was forced under her tongue. She felt no pain, only a vague vibration as the shock spread. Her heart pounded and she was very frightened. An hour later. Dr. Zachary Wundt looked on as assistants gave Colonel Ed Baxley the antidote for the drug which had made him unconscious. «He saw quickly that I'd given Caster a painkiller.» The doctor who had delivered the founder of the Second Republic into the hands of the underground stood beside Wundt. «You understand that I was not concerned about my own safety.» «Of course,» Wundt said. «The woman will talk. The painkiller will wear off in"—he looked at his watch—"approximately five hours.» «At least your actions have given us that much time,» Wundt said. «We're ready. I have given orders to move.» «Have you had any word from your young healing genius'?» Wundt frowned. «None.» he said. Baxley moved, tried to sit up. His eyes fluttered open, widened. «You drugged me,» he shouted, looking at the offending doctor who had put a needle into him. «Relax, colonel,» Wundt said. «You will not be harmed.» «Harmed?» Baxley sat up, shaking his head. His vision cleared. «Then it's started.» «It has started,» Wundt said. «Isn't that strange?» Baxley smiled ruefully. «I'm not even surprised. I'm not even sure I'm sorry.» CHAPTER FIFTEEN On the deck at her feet the sub-being writhed in terminal agony, unable to breathe, his life processes slowing, darkness beginning to cloud his brain as cells died from lack of oxygen. She watched with a horrified fascination. He was dying. He had, within him, the power to save himself, and yet he was dying. She could not understand. Death was an impossible idea to her. The animals in the wilderness died. But a being in the image of the race? And yet it would be an experience to see him die. A terrible, unthinkable experience. No one died. Not since the race reached maturity had anyone died. And, since death was so unthinkable, she could not accept it. Fool, why don't you save yourself? Blackness. Unreasoning panic. The power of it was almost overwhelming. He was closed off and still the power of it, the death knowledge, the fear, was a force which made her wince. Save yourself. But he was already dying. His brain was dying. His heart was struggling fitfully weakly, dying, stopping. His lungs had ceased to function. Terrible. Horrible. Unthinkable. Bodies burning in huge ovens and people lying in blood on the street and— Damn you, damn you, damn you. But into his dark mind she ventured once more. Down into the depths of hell she went, her clean mind cringing and fighting against it and there she found the last, dying spark and fired it, her mind making repairs, making the torn muscles whole, easing the heart into a steady pounding of