by John Dalmas
Morgan's face turned stony hard, and he replied in what sounded like the same language. Then he ordered all the captives manacled, and told Colwyn to flip a coin for each of the twenty others the Guinevere had carried. Heads they lived, tails they died. Either that or choose ten to live. Colwyn wilted-he couldn't do either-so Morgan decided for him. One by one, ten of the yacht's eleven-male crew-stoic or struggling, pleading or praying or silent-were jettisoned out the trash lock. To float as corpsicles in the empty vastness between Not Worth Much and New Pecos. The yacht's second officer he spared.
Morgan's boarding party was stunned. A few were near mutiny.
The eight passengers remained. A broken Colwyn pleaded for their lives; one was his wife and another his daughter. After listening, Morgan had all eight loaded into the forty-foot lifeboat with the second officer, and let them go. When they were gone, he told Colwyn he'd had the lifeboat's strange-space generator disabled. It would take them decades to reach a habitable world. Except of course they couldn't; not alive. In a few months they'd run out of food.
At that, Colwyn went psychotic. Morgan had him strapped screaming into a workboat, personally disabled its drive, then set it adrift.
When it was gone, Morgan sagged. With the boarding party, he returned to his modest flagship, leaving only the six-man prize crew. Then he generated hyperspace, set course for Tagus, and retired to his suite.
What, if anything, he told Connie Phamonyong, none of his men knew. But after comparing notes, there was one thing they did know: their commodore had not had the lifeboat's strange-space generator disabled. Only the workboat had been sabotaged. The yacht owner's family and guests, and the second officer, were safely on their way to whatever world they'd chosen. In that, Morgan had been merciful. Not that it made up for murdering eleven people, only one of whom had done anything to earn it.
In his suite, Morgan told Connie nothing, simply opened a bottle of brandy, and drank from it. He had known Colwyn, but hadn't recognized him till Colwyn cursed him in Welsh. Then Morgan had identified himself. Morgan had been eleven the last time they'd seen each other, and Colwyn had been in his twenties-his father's first cousin, his own second cousin. Colwyn had always treated him badly, pouring sarcasm over him, sometimes slapping him around. Though never abusing him sexually. That right his father reserved for himself. As a young man, Morgan had suspected his father had sodomized Colwyn when he was a child, and that Colwyn took it out on him.
If he hadn't told Colwyn who he was, this wouldn't have happened. Not that he regretted deep-sixing him. What troubled him was having killed the ten crew members. Telling himself he'd been insane at the time hadn't helped.
An hour later, Morgan had moved into a vacant crew cabin. When he finally emerged again, three days later, he smelled of brandy. But although he may have been drunk much of the time, he lacked severe tremor, and showed no sign of hallucinating. So, two days drunk and one getting well, the crew concluded.
Meanwhile, even those who'd been most disturbed by their captain's actions aboard the Guinevere had recovered from their shock. Largely because of their commodore's reaction to his own deeds. It was agreed he must have known the yacht's skipper earlier in life.
After emerging from his isolation, Morgan began showing up for meals, saying something now and then, and sweating regularly in the workout room. His second continued to run the ship. He also moved back in with Connie and Robert. Long before they reached Tagus, Henry Morgan seemed normal once more, and the crew was at ease with him again.
All of that, though, had been seven years earlier, and seldom did anyone, including Morgan, think of it anymore.
The first night after the Wyzhnyny arrived, Henry Morgan wakened from an ugly dream, its events remaining sharply in his mind. In the dream he'd been a little boy. His father had been flogging Morgan's mother with a large penis, like a horse's, while she'd cried bitterly. Then he'd turned to Morgan, raised the penis, and began to beat him too.
It was then Morgan had wakened, and discovered his face and pillow wet with tears. It had been a very long time since he'd revisited those days. The stories he told Robert were fictions. He wasn't entirely sure what Robert might have experienced or remembered. He himself had run away-escaped-at age fourteen.
Apparently he'd been crying aloud, or perhaps thrashing around, because Connie was awake, her eyes wide, and white by the nightlight. Without saying anything, he'd patted her shoulder reassuringly, then got up and went into the small kitchen, to drink himself into a stupor. Something he hadn't done since just after the Guinivere.
When next he awoke, it was in bed. Obviously he'd gotten there himself; Connie was too small to have managed it. His stomach was queasy, and there was a hard, heavy pain behind his forehead. Groaning, he found the bottle lying unstoppered on its side. It still held a shot or so, trapped by the bottle's shoulder, and he swallowed what was left. Then he asked Connie to make coffee. While he waited, he marched in place, raising his knees high and swinging his arms. When the coffee was ready, he had bread and jam with it, then read to Robert from the savant's favorite storycube.
Afterward he planned, as far as it made sense to. He would, he decided, remain holed up for four weeks. "The invaders will either leave or stay," he told Connie. "If they're going to leave, they should be gone by then. And if they stay, they'll have had time to decide there aren't any of us left."
Electric torch in one hand and a C-sized power slug in a pocket, he'd ventured up the tunnel and stairs that led to his bolt hole. He wasn't surprised that the first two hundred yards were intact. It was the last dozen he'd worried about, where the protective rock overhead thinned as he approached the tunnel's opening. The part that worried him most was the steel door. It had been installed to slide open and shut, and the bombardment might have deformed the rock, holding the door immovable. He installed the power slug in the door mechanism, and holding his breath, pressed the switch.
The door slid back smoothly, and the weight of the world lifted from Morgan's shoulders. Beyond the door were three more yards of tunnel, cut to resemble a natural break in the rock. It opened inconspicuously near the bottom of a draw, 0.7 mile from the gorge the invaders had pounded so severely. Cautiously he crept far enough to peer out. The bombardment had reached here, too; the forest was a shambles of broken trees.
Silently, thoughtfully, he withdrew back down the tunnel, and closed the steel door behind him. It seemed to him things were better than he deserved.
Henry Morgan tended to be a patient man, and he stuck to his decision to stay holed up for four weeks. Meanwhile he spent more time than usual with Robert, telling him stories that grew more outlandish with time, making the savant whoop with laughter. Some of them even made Connie laugh. She had a pleasant sense of humor, but wasn't much given to laughing out loud. They were remarkably happy for three people hiding in a tunnel thirty yards underground. Morgan wasn't sure if they were the happiest four weeks of his life, or whether he simply had more time to appreciate them. It occurred to him the two might go together.
He also inventoried their supplies. For some of them, the need had been foreseen. Others had been stashed "just in case." He worked up two ration schedules-one for twenty months and one for thirty-and a chart on which Connie could keep a record of use. It wasn't something he considered vital; if they were somehow rescued, it would likely be sooner than twenty months. And if they weren't, then sooner or later they'd have to surface anyway, and forage for their keep. So he'd chosen the twenty-month version; they could back off on it later if it seemed best.
There was also a box of aerial stereopairs he'd had taken of that entire end of the continent. From them, the base computer, now undoubtedly destroyed, had produced a set of large-scale topographic maps with the forest shaded green. There was little which wasn't forest: the "resort," and an occasional marsh or rocky prominence. The photography and maps had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now he was truly glad to have them.
Meanwhile he unde
rtook to overhaul his body, for he was overweight and out of shape. He began to eat less, while following a modest kung fu regimen. He'd learned it as a youth and small-time criminal, at Kip Poi's Hall in Vancouver. Not that he imagined kung fu would prove effective against invader soldiers, but it improved his endurance and flexibility. He also did strength exercises that some spacers used in relatively confined quarters. Emphasizing his legs, because when he resurfaced, they'd be his only means of travel.
When finally he emerged beneath the sky, he carried a pack, binoculars, and a short-barrelled blaster with a fully-charged power slug and spares. Now, he told himself, we'll see how effective that exercising was. He marked the tunnel opening with a sort of mini-cairn, thirty yards away in the bottom of the draw: a thirty-pound chunk of stone atop a larger. It was something a snooping invader was unlikely to recognize as meaningful. Then he reshouldered his pack and headed on a compass course for the ex "resort."
For a hundred yards he picked his way through forest debris from the invader attack, the damage thinning as he went. Then he was out of it, in peaceful forest, where he settled for an easy pace and a short day. Exercising underground didn't prepare the feet for hiking in boots not well broken in, and blistered feet didn't fit his plans.
One of his maps showed a rocky knob less than three miles from the site of the old resort. On its top, the trees were sufficiently sparse and small that the computer had mapped it as bald. He climbed it late on the second day, and standing beneath a stubby, umbrellalike tree, trained his binoculars on the distant clearing where the resort had been.
A month earlier, he might not have seen the clearing from where he stood; certainly not much of it. It had been only twenty acres, and all but a very small part would have been screened by bordering forest. Now he guessed its area at perhaps a square mile. From its borders rose the haze of burnt-down fires, no doubt of woody debris from land clearing. Through the haze he made out buildings and activity. Tiny figures moved about on machinery and afoot, figures minute with distance, but clearly not human.
Morgan took a deep breath of relief. This part of the continent had always struck him as fertile enough, and the ancient volcanic surface was mostly not rugged. But the planet had what seemed to him more promising land for colonizing, much of it on other continents. He'd feared that when they'd destroyed what they could find of human settlement-this one tiny area-they might leave, and settle halfway across the planet. And that wouldn't have served his purpose.
His lightweight binoculars weren't powerful enough to show him much detail. As he watched what he could see, he plotted his next move. He would, he decided, approach the fringe of the opening that day, and lay up overnight. At dawn he'd move closer, and see what he could learn, then return to base and see if he could get inside through one of the hangar openings. Hopefully he could work his way to his yacht. There was something he very much wanted to get from it.
Chapter 8
A Scarce Resource
The voice on the phone was the prime minister's. "Mr. President," he said, "I have granted Dr. Farrukhi an audience, and you may want to be present. It is about the savant situation, of course."
"When?"
"At 11:30-in forty minutes. The hour will help him be brief. He called only moments ago." Peixoto chuckled. "He wanted to bring Ho and Sriharan. I told him to come by himself."
Chang glanced at the screen. On it was page 17 of a hypertext document on Masadan military training, and its applicability to the Commonwealth's new army. He was skeptical; the Masadan culture was far more homogeneous than the Terran. Unlike any other human world, Masada had maintained and cherished a tradition of compulsory military training. Through centuries without enemies. From a 30th century viewpoint, it was one of the more unlikely marvels of human social behavior.
"Eleven-thirty? I will be there," said the president, and disconnected. Unlike himself, the prime minister preferred electronic conferencing. "People need not leave their desks," he'd explained. "And we are more concise. There is less protocol and small talk." Occasionally he asked someone to his office, especially if they were officed on the same wing and floor. But for those like Farrukhi, officed elsewhere, such requests were rare.
The president tapped an alarm instruction on his timer, giving himself thirty-five minutes, then returned his attention to the Masadan document, and continued reading as if he'd never been interrupted.
He arrived on the dot, to find Farrukhi there ahead of him, not yet seated. The psychologist was a thin man with an apologetic expression, and a fringe of black hair framing an expanse of bald brown head. If allowed to, his blue jaw would grow far more hair than his cranium. In other company he would have seemed tall, but in the same room with Foster Peixoto…
Farrukhi worked in the Office of Technical Recruitment. The previous afternoon, he'd sent Peixoto a brief description of a problem. Without suggesting possible action; a lack the prime minister despised. But the description seemed to say it all: War House had issued a confidential document outlining the intended conduct of the war. A description that, if carried out, required more than twelve hundred savant communicators. However, Farrukhi pointed out, only four hundred and forty seven suitable savants were known to exist. Nearly three hundred of them were at Commonwealth embassies on colony worlds, their only effective means of communication with Kunming.
The prime minister waved his two guests to chairs. "So," he said to Farrukhi, "what do you suggest?"
The man squirmed. Literally. "I hesitated to enter this into the system, but there are many verified savants in institutions, in very delicate health. Some have critically defective hearts or immune systems, some physiological processes that fluctuate beyond sustainable limits. Most die in childhood. If they could be transferred… their central nervous systems that is… " His dark face grew even darker with blood. "Transferred into mobile, life-support modules… "
Say it, man, Chang thought. The word is "bottled"! But the idea was excellent. It was a solution.
"Unfortunately… " Shrugging, Farrukhi spread his hands.
"I know," Peixoto finished. "Bottling is illegal. But with our new war powers, that will be changed by supper." To be followed by outrage, he added silently.
The psychologist nodded. "I am also aware of another at least potential source. Worldwide there are many… `defective' children not identified as savants. And most in fact are not, but surely some are. If we could screen them… But… "
"But unfortunately," Peixoto finished for him, "it will further outrage our watchdogs."
Again Farrukhi's head bobbed. "And equally important is the matter of finding suitable sensitives to serve as attendants, to manage their communication function."
"Surely there are more psychically sensitive persons than there are savants."
"I'm sure there are. But again, the problem is to identify them. Many will seem quite ordinary, and prefer to keep their sensitivity private."
The president spoke now. "How have they been identified in the past?"
"In the past, sensitives were hired who were already known to institutions researching the field."
"Ah!" said Chang. "But surely some of the anonymous sensitives associate with others. Identify such groups and their meeting places. Post notices on the Ether: `good money and secure, satisfying jobs for qualified sensitives.' Make the wages suitably attractive, perhaps equivalent to a PS-12. Consult with the attendants of savants already in government service. Ask their advice."
Farrukhi's face brightened. He shifted to the edge of his seat, as if to dash out and get started.
"Doctor," the prime minister said, "the president and I thank you for your astute help. I want you to sketch out quickly-before you break for supper-a rough plan to carry all this out. Now, don't let me keep you from getting started."
Abdol Farrukhi's long legs raised him from his chair. "Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister," he said, then looked at Chang Lung-Chi. "Thank you, Mr. President."
When he had gon
e, Peixoto turned to Chang. "It distresses me," he said glumly, "to outrage the honest if mistaken scruples of so many people. It could lead to demonstrations."
Chang grunted; his own distress threshold was higher than the prime minister's. To him there were reasonable people, and there were problem people, the latter including the chronically indignant. "We do what we must," he said, "and when we've won the war, or lost it, any demonstrations will be forgotten."
"Nonetheless… " said his friend, and shrugged. "Why don't we have lunch together? On your balcony over the rotunda. We can talk about other things than problems."
The president agreed, and they did their best to talk about grandchildren, the food, and the weather. It wasn't much of a conversation, but they'd get plenty of practice before the war was over.
Chapter 9
Drago Dravec
The flood of early human migration to outsystem worlds was almost entirely atavistic-agrarian, ethnic, sectarian, or some combination of them. By the 26th century, however, humankind in the Sol System had evolved enough, socially, politically and spiritually, that sectarianism had greatly shrunken. Ethnic and racial mixing was widespread and accepted, chauvinism had lost its edge, and tolerance had far outgrown intolerance. As a result, colonization almost stopped; only nine new projects left Terra in the 26th century.
Colonization picked up strongly, though, in the 27th, with new projects directed largely at the Ultima Fornax Sector, to facilitate eventual intercolonial commerce-a factor ignored during the centuries when colonists sought isolation. Most of the new colonists wanted to expand financially, and felt inhibited by Terran legal and cultural restrictions, or by established competitors, or both. Or simply wanted to start over on a virgin planet, this time to "do it right." In any case they had the goal of creating interacting, high-tech societies, using Terran technology and experience. As a result, by the 29th century, interplanetary commerce had become significant in the remote Ultima Fornax Sector.