A Season for Slaughter watc-4

by David Gerrold

  There was silence on the line for a long moment. I could hear her breathing, but I couldn't hear what she was thinking. I knew she understood my reasoning.

  "I promised Dr. Zymph that you'd reopen the channel," she admitted at last.

  "You aren't in a position to make that promise," I replied.

  "I thought-" she began, and then stopped.

  "That's right," I said. "You thought that our relationship meant something. And it does. But it doesn't outrank the normal chain of command in an operation. You taught me that."

  After a much longer hesitation, she said very softly, "You're right. I wasn't thinking. I let Dr. Zymph's anger stampede my actions."

  It was a major admission on her part. I knew what she must have been through. Dr. Zymph had as much charm as a bulldozer. I felt sorry to be the cause of it, but I couldn't back down. Not on this.

  Nevertheless, I softened my tone. I made my voice as dispassionate as possible. What I had to say was important, too important to be overwhelmed by the emotions of the moment. "As near as I can tell, one of Dr. Zymph's officers accepted an order from an outside authority. That compromises the whole chain of command. Not only is the integrity of the support system called into question; the trust that the field units have to have in it has been destroyed. It's not your place to reestablish the channel, Lizard-or mine."

  "Jim, you're making too much of this. It was a spiteful act, a petty one, yes, but it was aimed at you only-"

  "That's my point exactly. Science Section has a basic responsibility to provide unconditional support. If somebody can cut me off like this, just because I'm unpopular or because I'm politically incorrect, then they can do it to anyone for any reason. That's a violation of the basic charter. An essential relationship has been intolerably damaged here. And I don't know if it can be restored."

  I thought for a moment, then I added, "Personally, I think reprimands are in order. Personally, I think Randy Dannenfelser needs his ass kicked so high, he'll have to shit through his ears. Personally, I'm so fucking angry that I'm about this close to turning in my resignation to you."

  "Frankly," said Lizard, "I'm about this close to accepting it."

  That stopped me. That hurt. But I said, "If you want it-if you think it's appropriate-then you've got it. I'll pull the prowler out and we'll call for pickup right now."

  She didn't answer. It was her turn to be stopped.

  This conversation hurt. It was not the conversation I wanted to have with her.

  "No," she said, finally. "Don't do that. Finish the mission." Her tone was odd, but I understood what she wasn't saying aloud: We don't know what's at the bottom of that hole. It might be important. We'll have the rest of this argument when you get home.

  "You can count on that. There's something big under those trees-and I'm going to find out what it is."

  "I suppose there's nothing I can say that will convince you to reestablish the uplink."

  "I don't think so," I said.

  "Not even the fact that I'm worried about you?"

  "You play dirty, lady."

  "I have that kind of mind."

  "I've always liked your dirty mind."

  "Jim, please-"

  "Sorry."

  "You know, you're putting me in a very difficult situation. Politically, I mean."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "No. I don't think you do know. Dr. Zymph is in a very difficult position. A lot of the cooperation she gets from the military is dependent on the good will of General Wainright. And Randy Dannenfelser is the channel through which most of this gets handled-"

  "That still doesn't give him the right to put me in a situation where I and my troops might be killed-"

  "No, it doesn't. And I promise you, I'll raise this issue where it needs to be raised; if necessary, with the Commander-in-Chief. But in the meantime-"

  "In the meantime, bend over and smile, right?"

  "I wish you wouldn't put it that way."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "If Dr. Zymph wants to phone me as a civilian, I'll be glad to chat with her. I'll even send her everything she's classified to receive as a civilian. But none of this information is going to be made available through the military channels, at least not by me, not until I can depend on unconditional backup."

  "Jim, listen to me. If you reopen the channel now, you'll have won, you'll have made your point. And I can make a stink where it counts."

  "Uh-uh. If I reopen the channel now, everyone will know that I backed down because you asked me to. And if you raise a stink, it'll be seen as mommy protecting her little boy again. I can't reopen the channel."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way."

  I shrugged. "I'm sorry too. But I don't see what else I can do."

  Lizard thought for a moment. "Would you accept an apology from Dr. Shreiber? Or even from Dr. Zymph." She was still trying to find a way out of this dilemma.

  "Dr. Shreiber obeyed an order that was totally out of line. She should have told Dannenfelser to go fuck himself, but she didn't. And even if she apologizes now, the damage is still done. Besides, she can't apologize without admitting she made a grievous error; They'd pull her certification. Be real. She can't do that. She's safer going with the program."

  "Dr. Shreiber is one of Dr. Zymph's most trusted assistants. She knows what's at stake. If Dr. Zymph asked her-"

  "No. Even if she did, it still wouldn't work." I shook my head angrily. "It won't work, Lizard. Because it wasn't Dr. Shreiber's decision to cut me off, or Dr. Zymph's. That came from higher up. Uh-uh. The integrity of the whole support policy has to be reaffirmed now; not just for me, but for every poor dumb schmuck out here on the end of a phone line. I'm really sorry, sweetheart, but I have to take this stand."

  Lizard didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched out so long that I began to wonder if she'd broken the connection. "Lizard?"

  "I'm still here."

  "Nothing to say?"

  She sighed in slow exasperation. "This is going to make things a lot worse for you, Jim."

  "I can handle it if you can."

  "That's the problem. I'm not so sure I can."

  "Say again?"

  "This is about you now, not us. I won't go down with you."

  "I see," I said.

  "There're things happening," she said. "I can't talk about them-not even on a scrambled channel. I wish you'd trust me on this."

  "Are you asking me as my commanding officer or my lover?"

  "Yes," she said.

  After a long hesitation, I said, "I really wish I could do this for you, Lizard. But… I won't do it for you as my commanding officer, and I can't do it for you as my lover. Because-as much as I love you, I don't really know where I stand, do I?"

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "When General Wainright ordered my replacement as the science officer on the Brazilian mission, did you stand up for me then?"

  "Jim-I can't talk on this channel. I can't tell you what you need to know. I can only ask you to trust me."

  "That's the one thing I can't do. Our relationship has been damaged too."

  "I see."

  "I can't do this, Lizard. I want to, but I can't. I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry too," she said. The edge in her voice was heartbreaking.

  "Good-bye-" I broke the connection.

  This time, I ordered Willig to cut the time and position channel too.

  When we first began cataloguing the various pieces of the Chtorran infestation, most of the plants we observed had very dark leaves, allowing them to absorb most of the light that hit them. The predominant colors were dark purple, blue, black, and of course, red. This suggested to us that they had evolved under a very dim sun, or on a planet that was at a considerable distance from its sun, or some combination of the two factors.

  Since then, as our gathering and cataloguing techniques have improved, we have discovered many new species of Chtorran plant life with much lighter-colored foliage than we previously be
lieved possible. We are now seeing foliage in shades of light magenta, lavender, pink, and even pale blue. We are also seeing a much greater tendency toward color variegation in individual species; intricate patterns of white, orange, yellow, pink, and the softer shades of red are not uncommon.

  Several possibilities for this are currently under consideration:

  First, we suspect that the seeds of various Chtorran species may have been disbursed haphazardly across the surface of the Earth, without regard for climate or season. The overall distribution of the forms we have catalogued so far shows no recognizable pattern or plan; we may be seeing many of these species out of their appropriate zone. Certainly, we are seeing them in abnormal relationships to seasonal changes.

  A working hypothesis suggests that the darker flora may represent the kind of plant life available in the polar to mid-temperate regions of Chtorr-those areas that receive the least direct light from the planet's primary. Plants with lighter-colored leaves, especially those tending toward the red end of the scale, may represent tropical or equatorial species, where the need to reflect away excess light and heat is more immediate.

  A second possibility, not inconsistent with the first, is that we are only now beginning to see second- and third-growth forms; specifically, that many of these lighter-colored species could not establish themselves until their partner-species had first established an ecological beachhead.

  At present, the evidence remains inconclusive

  —The Red Book,

  (Release 22.19A)

  Chapter 15

  Discovery

  "I have to dream big. I only have time to get half of it done."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  Willig didn't say anything. She just shook her head to herself and kept on working.

  "I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself," I said. "I didn't say a thing."

  "You were thinking too loud."

  "Sorry. I forgot. I'm not being paid to think." She swiveled back to her station and busied herself with some routine task.

  I glowered at her back, but it wasn't Willig I was angry at. I was angry at myself. Of course… it would still be very easy to just reach out and flip the red switch over. I even let my fingers slide halfway toward it before I stopped myself. No. I couldn't.

  I reached up sadly and pulled the VR helmet back down over my head; a moment later, I was back inside the alternate reality of cyber-space, peering out through the acute eyes of the prowler.

  The machine had been waiting just inside the final valve-door. Even after my eyes focused, my mind still couldn't resolve what I was seeing. "What the hell's wrong with this thing-?"

  "Nothing," whispered Siegel. "Wait. It takes a minute."

  I superimposed a scale-grid over the display. That helped, but only a little. It wasn't that the chamber below was so big, as much as the fact that it was so full.

  As the tunnel sloped down, it opened up completely. The walls of it fell away, widening outward to became a great bowl-shaped arena. The cables and tubes that lined the tunnels came bursting out in great spaghetti-like torrents, falling into the bowl and spreading out around it in a spiraling nest of arterial feed lines. Many of them were slowly but visibly pumping.

  Spread throughout the cavern, on the walls, the ceiling, the Iloor, and even on the various structures that mushroomed up from below, we saw a dizzying spread of Chtorran life: all the different organs we had seen on the tunnel walls during our descent, plus inany more completely new to us. Most of them were enveloped in basket-like tangles of creeper-vines, or held in the grasp of Ktructures that looked like nets of blood vessels.

  We moved forward into the chamber.

  The prowler swung its head back and forth, scanning and rniffing and recording. We watched it all through cybernetic eyes. We were awestruck at the vision. There was too much to see. It was beyond our ability to visualize or identify or catalog. Everything was moving at once-pulsing, oozing, throbbing. It was madness, horror, fecundity, and virulence. All the various organs-long, fat, wet, floppy, sprawling, tangled, dripping-they clamored and scrambled. It was an organic nightmare. The great shallow space of the room was filled with living objects, a frenzy of shapes, sizes, and colors. For a moment, I thought I'd tumbled into a hallucinogenic nightmare. The intricacy and variety of life within this chamber had a staggering sudden impact.

  The colors shining in the prowler's lights were dazzling-most predominant were the many shades of wet-looking scarlet; we panned our vision across the chamber and saw great clusters of swollen, blood-colored organs; they glistened with moisture. We moved closer and saw our insect-eyes distorted back at us, reflected in the surface of gelatinous egg-shaped berries; enormous, cancerous-looking things, redolent of fever-dreams and delusions.

  Inside these sacs, there were tiny shapeless blots, held in suspension-things that hung in nebulae of thread-like veins. Spidery blue vessels pulsed throughout the shuddering wombberries. White fibrous nets of fragile-looking gauzy stuff were stretched around each cluster, holding them together; and thinner webs of silky strands reached out across every intervening space. All was held in slings and hammocks of spider-silk traceries.

  Sher Khan lifted its head, swung it around, and surveyed the cavern again.

  Umber fronds hung from the ceiling in many places, as well as from the walls. And there were more of the purple things that dripped, and stiff yellow fingers that looked a lot like coral.

  Orange spongy structures squished underfoot, and brackish blue pools of congealed grease lurked in all the crevices and crannies, wherever something bumped or pressed against something else. Other things protruded, poked, or popped surprisingly from the tangles. The delicate pink ears and tongues that we had seen along the walls of the descending tunnel—or were they merely penises?-grew in profusion everywhere. But what purpose they served was just another Chtorran mystery.

  And everywhere, all around, the pale veins and vessels twined and intertwined, curling in and out and underneath, embracing in a mad and twisted dance of alien life.

  The prowler swung its gaze around. We moved deeper toward the center of the chamber now.

  The maelstrom spiraled inward. The pallid purple roots of the guardian grove surrounded everything in a complex weave: the nesting chamber was held in an inescapable embrace. Shapd and structure and strength; the roots held up the ceiling; they defined the floors and outlined the walls like organic buttresses-but here, they also unraveled. The pillars of the trees came curling suddenly apart, fragmenting and transforming into twisted gargoyles, echoing the writhing shapes of their counterparts sprawled above the ground.

  I wondered at the nature of those roots, what structures were within, functioning as nerves and veins and muscles. I puzzled over the intricacies of life, how all these different shapes and colors were all part of the same vast puzzle. I thought of twin fractal landscapes, designed by M. C. Escher and executed in Van Gogh's hasty brilliance. I thought of drugs ingested. I thought o chemical imbalances, insanity and madness and psychotic realm of blistering wonder. Worlds within worlds, whirling into world pools-I reached the limits of my ability to think and felt the processes of my brain come sliding to a dazed and humble startlement. Confusion reigned. For a while, I think, I even forgot how to speak.

  There were sounds here too, gibberings and bubblings; the sickening hiss of air rasping over membranes; things sliding against other things. A wet blubbery scraping gave way to leathery rasp; a whistling exhalation; the flopping vibration of something thudding like a heartbeat; something else was sleeping. The room sank beneath a burbling cacophony of gasps and sighs and giggles; we could have been inside the lungs of some gigantic factory. It thumped wetly as it went about its ponderous and fleshy business.

  The noise of it was as confusing as the sight. It was all around me. Everywhere I turned. I lost my footing, slipped and skidded downward between the greasy organs and bodies and lugubrious thumping pipes, down into the bubbling goo that puddled at the
bottom of the chamber. I came up, gasping-

  -pushed the helmet up and grabbed for air. "Are you all right, Captain?"

  "No-" I reached for something; substance, reassurance, grabbed at Willig's hand. "Overload," I managed to gasp, still distorted, or perhaps numbed. Trembling in my chair, I shook violently like someone in the worst throes of withdrawal. I babbled meaningless syllables, trying to communicate some of what I'd seen. The beauty and the horror all together, wrapped around like lovers wrestling in a duel to the death, mating to oblivion, Psychotic overload. Willig shoved the nipple of the water bottle into my mouth. I sucked at it hungrily, a reflex action. The cool wetness startled me, and focused-focusing, I concentrated. Water, wetness, sip, and swallow. Drink. And blink. And follow. Open up and look at Willig, "Oh, my God-" And then, "See about Siegel!"

  "I'm okay, Captain."

  "You sure?" I gasped.

  "I got out early," he admitted.

  Willig wiped my face with a damp cloth. She wouldn't let me talk. "It's all right." she said. "Relax. You just went into overwhelm. It happens sometimes-"

  "I know. But not to me!"

  "Yes, even to you. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

  My hands were still shaking. I could barely hold the water bottle. "But I don't know why. I didn't see anything scary in there-"

  "You were trying to assimilate too much too fast. Your brain was full. It overheated." Laughing, she fanned me with her cap. "You'll be fine. Just wait a minute and regroup."

  I flexed my hands, my fingers, nervously. "I don't know what happened-I just went mad for a minute." I took a breath, caught it, held it, and then released it explosively as something else occurred to me. "My God. Can you imagine what might have happened if we had been in real-time uplink? We'd have burned out brains all over the network." I didn't know if I was joking or serious.

  Psychotic overwhelm. Too much, too fast. The information floods in and keeps on flooding. Sound and touch and sight; the operator tries to keep up with it; abruptly it overwhelms him-his ability to process overloads; he loses contact with reality, both the real and imagined; he goes into convulsions, seizures, epileptic frenzies. Sometimes Virtual Reality was also Virtual Insanity. Even death was not unknown. Intensity was fatal. I'd never seriously considered the possibility that it could happen to me. I'd always assumed that it only happened to people who were emotionally or mentally unstable…