by Karen Haber
MUTANT
LEGACY
by
Karen Haber
introduction by
ROBERT SILVERBERG
Copyright Statement
Mutant Legacy by Karen Haber. Introduction copyright © 1992 by Agberg, Ltd. Text copyright © 1992 by Karen Haber. All rights reserved. This book may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual persons, events or localities is purely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.
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This book is presented as is, without any warranties (implied or otherwise) as to the accuracy of the production, text or translation.
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Dedication
For Byron
Acknowledgment
(For aid, assistance, editing, and/or general encouragement, a special thank you to Lou Aronica, Janna Silverstein, David Harris, John Betancourt, Pat LoBrutto, Jim Burns, Carrolly Erickson, Jerrold Mundis, Rosalyn Greenberg, Bonnie Carpenter, Nancy DeRoche, Sandra Stephenson Lembo, and, always, Bob.)
Introduction
we have reached the fourth and last volume of Karen Haber’s saga of the secret mutants in our midst. The mutants, secret no longer, have moved steadily into the mainstream of American life since the time of Volume One—The Mutant Season—which saw the election of the first mutant senator, Eleanor Jacobsen.
But now we are a couple of generations onward from that point. The threat of the emergence of a supermutant with virtually invincible powers—every normal human’s paranoid horror story brought to life—came and went, apparently, with the exposure of Victor Ashman’s superabilities as a pathetic hoax in The Mutant Prime. But then—in the third book, Mutant Star—we discovered that a genuine supermutant existed after all, unbeknownst not only to his own people but even, for a long while, to himself.
Six years have gone by since the violent climax of Mutant Star, when the troubled and tormented supermutant Rick Akimura, in full possession of his immense powers at last, exploded in a frenzy of wild wrath, bringing grief to his family and posing a monstrous problem for the world of normal humans. Intoxicated by the realization of the scope of his abilities, Rick seemed about to run amok; but Julian, Rick’s fraternal twin brother, had at the last moment been able to recall Rick to his senses and send him into an exile of atonement.
Now, though, Rick is beginning to stir in his desert solitude. The final act in the tale of the mutants’ emergence from self-imposed obscurity is about to begin.
Since medieval times, when the genetic anomaly that created the mutant clan first appeared, this tribe of people equipped with virtually miraculous extrasensory powers had taken care to remain out of sight of the world of normals, fearing that their mutant abilities would awaken the envy and fear of the majority population and call down merciless persecution upon them. But as the age of witch burnings and pogroms retreated into history, the mutants—cautiously, even timidly—allowed themselves to edge forward into sight. Their own scripture tells it:
And when we knew ourselves to be different,
To be mutant and therefore other,
We took ourselves away,
Sequestered that portion of us most other,
And so turned a bland face to the blind eyes
Of the world.
Formed our community in silence, in hiding,
Offered love and sharing to one another,
And waited until a better time,
A cycle in which we might share
Beyond our circle.
We are still waiting.
In the introduction to the second of these four novels I compared the emergence in the early twenty-first century of mutants into the mainstream of American life to the emergence, nearly a century earlier, of such political figures as Martin Luther King, Jesse Jackson, and other leaders of the black drive for racial equality. (I did point out that the parallel was a very approximate one, since the goal of the black civil-rights movement was equality of opportunity, whereas the mutants were in fact an advanced form of the human species, not merely equal but essentially superior, and so were faced with the overwhelming task of persuading the far more numerous normal-human population to accept them for what they really were, not simply to allow them the political rights that were due by Constitutional guarantee to any member of society.)
But the two volumes of the series that tell the story of the Akimura brothers provide us with a very different parallel to the course of human history as we know it: for now that the mutants are out in the open, they want to use their powers to heal and comfort the world’s suffering people, whether they be mutant or nonmutant. The kind of healing they will offer, though it has no overt religious content, will inevitably come to take on something of a religious coloration, And so what we begin to see is something analogous to the emergence of early Christianity in the first years of the Roman Empire.
Jesus lived and died during the reign of Tiberius, second of the Roman emperors. Through the decades that followed, Christianity became a powerful underground movement, persecuted and suppressed wherever it ventured into the open. But as the centuries passed, and Christianity was widely embraced throughout Asia Minor, Greece, and even Rome itself, the Empire’s attitude toward this subversive religious movement gradually evolved, and finally, early in the fourth century A.D., the emperor himself—Constantine the Great—was willing to claim membership in the Church. He had seen a miraculous vision in the sky—the Cross—bearing the legend, In Hoc Signo Vinces—“In This Sign You Shall Conquer”—and that seems to have been decisive in his conversion (which probably also had more worldly political motives).
An edict of Constantine’s issued in the year 313 proclaimed full toleration of all religions and restitution of wrongs done to the Christians by his imperial predecessors. Laws aimed at Christianity were repealed; Sunday was made a public holiday; and, less than fifty years after Constantine’s death in 337, Christianity had become the official religion of the Empire. The astonishing metamorphosis from secret sect to dominant spiritual and political force was complete.
In the four novels of the mutant saga we see something similar beginning to happen. The hidden, wary mutants of medieval times give way in the more tolerant twenty-first century to ones who will openly admit their powers, and we see the first election of undisguised mutants to public office. And now with the advent of Rick Akimura we observe a far more startling development—the beginning of a mighty quasi-religious movement, built around what is essentially a mutant messiah, that will sweep not only the mutant society but move into the world of normals as well.
But this parallel with ancient Christianity,
like the other one, is only approximate. Jesus worked some miracles, the gospels tell us, but here we have a whole race of miracle-workers. The extrasensory powers of even the most timid and self-effacing mutant are far beyond the mental capacity of any normal. And though it is possible for a normal to be sympathetic to the mutants, even to fall in love with one and marry one, conversion to mutancy is altogether impossible. A Roman emperor could and did become a Christian, but no amount of willingness will turn a nonmutant into a telekinete or a telepath.
Still, some sort of rapprochement between the two branches of humanity is possible, leading to an end to the fears and misunderstandings that have divided them—when the proper leader is at hand. Or perhaps the job will take two leaders—one with the charisma of a messiah, and the other—well—
This is his story.
—robert silverberg
Oakland, California
January, 1992
Quote
… Man is not enough,
Can never stand as God, is ever wrong
In the end, however naked, tall, there is still
The impossible possible philosopher’s man,
The man who has had the time to think enough,
The central man, the human globe, responsive
As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass,
Who in a million diamonds sums us up.
—Wallace Stevens
1
i can still smell the city burning. I know that it was reduced to ash and the cinders blown away on the wind forty years ago. But that peculiar smell, part melting plastic, part burning flesh, arises from the ghosts of the ruins to assault me at odd moments.
My name is Julian Akimura and I am the head of what some people call the Church of the Better World. It is not a job I particularly wanted but I have grown accustomed to it in much the same way that one’s foot, by forming calluses, adjusts, with time, to a tight shoe.
The church squeezes me, squeezes my life, and in response, in virtual self-defense, I’ve grown a tough, protective hide: cool, calm Dr. Julian whom nothing rumples. Underneath, I seethe, I boil. If not for my duties and their numbing pleasure … but I won’t think about that, not now. No one sees. No one knows. And the only one capable of piercing my defenses is gone.
“Dr. Akimura?”
The voice, a sharp contralto, slides between me and my visions, neatly severing me from the past. I blink and peer out the window where the city sits, immaculate, untouched, white spires reaching for the china-blue sky.
My familiars range around me in this well-appointed meeting room: elite members of the administrative upper tier of Better World, the house that Rick built. We are having a meeting: the priests and priestesses of management like meetings. They enjoy sitting around the polished sandstone table, sipping green Mars Elixir from faceted crystal cups, and making policy while I pretend to listen.
“Dr. Akimura?” It was Barsi, director of Therapeutic Services, speaking. Lovely Barsi, former Hindu, my dark-eyed, devoted Brahmin acolyte, calling my attention back to the business at hand. “As you know, we’re still undecided about the deployment of certain Better World funds.”
“Refresh my memory,” I said.
She gave a quick, sidelong glance to Ginny Quinlan, chief financial officer, a sharp-featured blonde who wore her hair short and slicked back. Had Ginny put her up to making the proposal, knowing my obvious fondness for Barsi?
“Well,” Barsi said, “we already have sufficient funding for the outreach programs and service missions. Many of us feel that we could use some of the money elsewhere. We might find it useful to, say, buy a controlling interest in TexMedia. We know that it’s in a vulnerable position and we could get it at a good price.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Useful? To whom? And what good would a third-rate vid company do B.W.? Are we planning some new programs that require more production facilities? And if we are, why haven’t I heard about them?”
Another quick glance exchanged between the two. What was going on here?
“You needn’t worry,” Ginny said quickly. “We were merely thinking of expanding our broadcasting range. We want to attract as many members as possible.”
“Why?” I said. “Because of their need for help or your desire to swell our already overflowing coffers?” I could see the dollar signs in her eyes. It was the same old argument we had been having for almost twenty years: expansion of the corporation versus meeting the needs of the members. “Expansion? We already own one vid company. Excerpts from Rick’s Way are read, dramatized, and discussed every night around the globe. What more do we need?”
Barsi, beside me, took a deep breath and plunged. “Julian,” she said, and her tone was more direct than I had ever before heard it. “You might as well know that we feel Better World needs to move more, well, aggressively. Money has been piling up—Rick’s Way sells out every printing, and we think it’s time to move forward. Invest it in some of the off-world mines and so forth. Increase our returns. Prepare for future contingencies.”
“Make more money? Don’t we have enough? We shouldn’t be thinking about investments, we should be thinking about helping the poor and needy.”
“You know we are. But we can do more. So much more. We’re getting into a rut. If we don’t move forward, we’ll decay.”
“Surely you don’t have to be told that there are all kinds of programs in place,” Ginny said. Her husky alto rasp was harsher than usual, the vibrato almost shredding her words. “We provide hot meals, medical care, remedial education, family counseling. In every major city where we have a center we offer all these services. Don’t accuse us of depriving anyone.”
Quickly I took up my sword in the familiar battle and said, “If we’re doing so much and so well, why are there still so many people in need?”
The B.W. cenobites exchanged uneasy glances—obviously, the old man was proving less pliable than usual. Dammit, they would never have tried something like this when Betty Smithson was alive to ride herd on them. But she had died six months ago, and since then, the children had been getting into mischief.
Don Torrance, city manager, spoke up. “Dr. Akimura, no one is saying there isn’t always room for improvement. Perhaps what we mean to say is that there are different ways of addressing needs, of providing services, of helping people.”
“I’m listening.”
He smiled, aiming for charm but overshooting. “We’ve been considering a plan to expand a portion of Better City’s recreational facilities in order to provide activities for visitors. Perhaps even construct a museum/information center and accommodations for overnight travelers. We see it as a way to more aggressively reach out to the community.”
“Reach out aggressively?” I said. “What the hell does that mean? Do you want to seize a city? Kidnap a czar?” I was furious now, face heated until I was dripping sweat, hands shaking. “Have you all forgotten what we do here? We are a healing organization. We help others. Not ourselves. We don’t build amusement parks. We don’t put up tourist hotels.”
That should have settled them. Occasionally I’ve had to play rough in the past. But what was this? Each face, every one of them, was set, scowling, stern, unrelenting. They were not giving way, neither bowing nor scraping.
Ginny and Barsi were conferring in guarded whispers. I saw private discussions taking place around the table as though I were not even present, as though I were dead already, safely immured in the legend of Better World and nicely silent. But not yet, by God. Not just yet.
“We feel,” Ginny said, “that we should employ these funds now, while the market is accessible. It will only enable us to do more later. You shouldn’t trouble yourself about these things, Dr. Akimura. Trust us. We can handle them.”
It was a palace revolt.
“You can’t do this,” I thundered, pounding the table. “I won’t allow it. My brother did not create Better World and I have not devoted my life to preserving it so that a bunch of restless adm
inistrators could play games with the stock portfolio.”
“We didn’t mean to upset you,” Barsi said, oozing conciliation. But I could read her mind, and what I saw I didn’t like. They would placate me now and later, behind my back, proceed as they wished. A bloodless coup. The head wouldn’t even realize that it had been separated from the body.
“That’s right,” Ginny chimed in. “If you really feel strongly about this and don’t think we should invest the Better World funds, then of course we won’t do it.”
All around the table heads nodded, faces smiled. Liars. Hypocrites. Did they all really think I was so old and unaware of their motives?
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s leave everything in place then, shall we? Oh, and Ginny, from now on I’d like to see quarterly reports of the Better World portfolio.”
She stared at me, caught off-guard. “Of course. But you might find them tiresome. There’s a great deal of paperwork and I don’t know if you can handle—”
“Quarterly reports,” I snapped. “Right away.” So my suspicions were correct: Ginny had already begun to deploy the money. I could hear her dismayed thoughts loud and clear.
He’s going to be difficult.