Find the Changeling

by Gregory Benford

  2

  Fain stopped. No, he thought, this wont do. The calm sureness inside spoke through his building rage, pressed a cool palm to his brow. No need to care. Nothing is final, son. His hands trembled. He stood stock still in the narrow tunnel and let his anger flow over him, in him, through him, out of him. He could wait. He would be calm. He would think. He had done too much, fought too hard, to let this Changeling trip him up now. There was an elaborate game going on here. If he could keep up the dumb act for a while, and sucker the Changeling in further, maybe there was a solution possible. But it was hard to keep things straight. For a brief moment the Changeling had become Skallon. It was damned good, to do that, and so fast. And long before that, it had been Danon. Everything was clearing now. But now he had to think about the present, not the past.

  “Scorpio!” he called, moving forward again. His hands brushed the slick tunnel walls and only then did he recall the flashlight in his gown. He clicked it on and felt relieved by its yellow pool. “Scorpio!” The dog would be waiting somewhere ahead, standing guard. Fain had no way of knowing how far he had come in his initial frantic rush. Not far enough; Scorpio wasn’t answering.

  Could the Changeling, disguised as Skallon, have caught Scorpio unaware?

  Some of Fain’s haste returned. The sure center faded. He trotted forward, watching for the end of the tunnel. He shouted Scorpio’s name, paused briefly to give the dog time to reply. Finally, he thought he heard something—distantly—his own name. Now he ran again. It seemed as if he ought to have reached the end of this tunnel many times over. But time and distance were elastic quantities, easily stretched by darkness and fear. “Scorpio!” He stopped. “Scorpio, can you hear me?”

  “Fain.” He heard it clearly this time—a voice—yes, Scorpio’s voice.

  Fain ran. He ran until the air burned at his lungs, then stopped again. He struggled to shout. “Scorpio, listen.”

  “I. Hear. You. Fain.” The voice was much more distinct this time. He must be close to the end of the tunnel.

  “Scorpio, have you see anyone? Has anyone or anything gone past you?”

  “Just. One. Thing.”

  “Who? What?”

  “It. Was. Skallon.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Shortly.”

  “Can you still see him? Or hear him? Scorpio, can you possibly pick up his scent? Skallon is the Changeling. Do you understand? That was the Changeling who went past.”

  “I. Will, Try. Fain.” The voice showed no surprise. But, of course, it wouldn’t—it couldn’t. That was an advantage Scorpio would always possess over any mere human. The ways of the universe never disturbed him. Never knowing what to expect, he was never surprised.

  Fain trotted again. The tunnel came to an abrupt end and all at once he experienced a tremendous sensation of open space. He staggered and nearly dropped the flash. Then he shined it all around. “Scorpio, where are you?”

  “Here. Fain. Here. I. Smell. Changeling.”

  Fain turned his flash in the direction of the voice and caught the faint motion of a shadow. “Follow it. I’m coming.” He kept his heatgun aimed at the darkness ahead. “If we hurry, we just might have it this time.”

  The path Scorpio took did not seem to lead back in the direction of the hotel. Fain tried not to think about that. It might mean anything—a different hideaway, perhaps a new identity. He ordered Scorpio to move quickly and broke into a quick walk. His feet kept wanting to run but he refused, knowing the need to conserve his strength. Occasionally, in the wider caverns, he caught glimpses of Scorpio darting ahead. They kept in contact by voice alone. Scorpio thought he was drawing closer. Fain halted and listened but heard no footsteps. The scent was strong down here. There were no other odors to confuse the dog.

  Fain came to a blank wall and stopped. He shined his light, seeing two tunnels opening on opposite ends of the wall. He called, “Scorpio!”

  “Here. Fain. Here.”

  The tunnel to the left.

  Fain went that way.

  The Changeling, clearly, knew where it was going. Fain wished he shared that knowledge. Already, he was hopelessly lost. The trail he covered in Scorpio’s wake zigged and zagged crazily. It could have been random—the Changeling desperately struggling to escape—but Fain didn’t think so. The Changeling had been given too much time. Disguised as Danon, it had had no reason to fear Fain. Every moment it knew exactly what he was up to. Fain blamed himself. He should have known. Danon had feared the dog too much. Danon had been present at every Changeling incident. Danon had had easy access to the city streets and the Great Hall. Fain should have known—and he had not. Was it too late now to recover what his failure had cost? Clearly, the Changeling thought it was. It had revealed itself, when it could have stayed hidden. It had laughed at Fain and taunted him openly. The riots in the city above. The explosion of hatred directed toward Earth. The apparent failure of the Central Assembly. The Changeling thought it had won, but Fain himself was less convinced. He thought there might be a chance. If he could catch the Changeling now, kill it, then Skallon—or someone—might possibly rebuild what had been destroyed. As a chance, it was slim, but at least he would have the pleasure of seeing his enemy dead. The last laugh. It was something.

  “Fain. Here. This. Way.” He followed the dog’s voice, slipping underneath a low arch and then crossing a bridge above a narrow stream.

  “Scorpio,” he called, “how close are we?”

  “Very close, Fain. Very close indeed.”

  He stopped. The voice this time wasn’t Scorpio’s. It belonged to someone else—someone he didn’t know. “Scorpio, what’s wrong?”

  Silence.

  “Scorpio, are you there?”

  Then he shined his light. The last few seconds, just before he’d first called out to the dog, he’d been aware of a certain feeling of familiarity: he’d been this way before.

  Now, in the circle of light cast off from the flash, he saw the round mouth of the tunnel down which he had hidden Skallon.

  He also saw the high nook where he’d ordered Scorpio to wait.

  And he saw, hanging down from that nook, a paw. A dog’s paw. Scorpio’s paw.

  Fain went over, shined his light, looked up. The red, charred hole in the dog’s side was big enough to fit a post. The eyes were open but saw nothing. Dead, Fain felt the cold fur. And dead some time.

  Which meant, all this time, zigging and zagging through tunnels and caverns, stumbling like a fool, he had been following the Changeling—and only the Changeling.

  Inside Fain something welled up, flowed over. He forgot about Skallon bound and gagged in the cell, forgot about the flashlight swinging in his hand. Scorpio. Scorpio. Fain tripped. He fell. Crashed full face into a solid wall. Splashed waist-deep through a reeking pool. He had to get out, away from this darkness. He had to find the Changeling.

  3

  Skallon struggled against the bonds holding him. A shadowed figure loomed over him. Liquid eyes flicked here, there, studying. Skallon squinted, looking into the light. The man oozed, creaking. The head shifted subtly, the posture straightened, ears rounded off, nose tilted downward. The room whirled; Skallon fought to cling to consciousness. The dark figure above him was changing now, grunting with effort, joints popping skin oozing into new folds and hollows. The drug clutched at Skallon and he saw suddenly into the world of this strange twisting shape. To the Changeling the world must seem fixed, stolid, barren. The shifting face smiled down at Skallon, plucking strings of memory. It was enjoying this process, reveling in it, radiating a burning joy. A certainty, an inner grace, crossed the flexing face. Its chin tucked in with a smooth flow. To be like that, Skallon thought. To be able to make yourself over whole. My God, what a blessing! To live like that—! No wonder the Changelings were said not to fear death. To merge with the universe so well that you could flow into it, become a part of whatever the moment needed…Skallon felt strange emotions fork like lightning through him. To l
ive in the moment, to not fear death. Immortality. More than the pale promise of Gommer-set-though now, instantly, Skallon saw in the rippling, groaning form of the Changeling the proof that Gommerset was right, had to be right. The panting Changeling writhed in the stark light. It is crucifying itself, Skallon thought. Agony and torment and ecstasy. Crucifying itself to be what it must. Rapture. Revelation. Bliss of motion. Consuming and devouring dance of life. What men spoke of and groped for and called immortality, this being experienced directly. The moment as forever. The infinite sliding grace of the world. Alien it was, yes, something beyond man. Perhaps in the end it was right that men hunted these things, these creatures man’s technology had created. To allow them to live would be too great a contrast for men to bear. They would eclipse all our marble monuments and passing glory. They would swallow up our strainings, our vain building. They would end us as men, forever.

  The Changeling stretched, grimaced, settled. It gazed down. Skallon felt his eyes widen in surprise. The face was his own. And Changelings killed whoever they replaced.

  Skallon tried to twist away, but the Changeling moved with supple grace. The shadowy bulk came between him and the light. Skallon knew what was coming.

  4

  Fain blundered through the narrow tunnels, seeing nothing. Images of his father floated before him, seeming to grow out of the tunnel walls. Father…the calm center he had once had…Everything was slipping away from Fain now. His plans of coaxing the Changeling nearer and nearer, of playing a subtle game … all gone. His inner sureness had evaporated, too, leaving only the face of his father and the echo of his steps as he stumbled onward and, inside, a dull burning.

  When he reached the trap door beneath the hotel, he kicked Kish’s boxed supplies aside and clawed the door open.

  Joane was alone in the kitchen. Fain’s appearance must have startled her. She put her hand to her mouth and drew back. “Fain, what happened to you?” Her eyes went wide with fright.

  He gripped her arm tightly. “Skallon. Did…?” He swallowed, trying to force the words past his dry lips. “Skallon or Danon? Have you seen either of them? Did they or anyone come up out of that hole before me?”

  She said, “Yes,” nodding her head much too quickly. “I wanted to tell you. A man came. A man I did not know.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “As a Doubluth. As are you.”

  “Skallon’s robes?”

  “I do not know. They could have been—but I…I…”

  He let her go, knowing her fear would not help him. His thoughts seemed to come with amazing clarity now, but his rage had in no way lessened. He thought of dead Scorpio. Poor, kind, dumb, gentle beast. Of no harm to anyone or anything. “Did he leave the hotel? Can I still catch him? Where did he go after he left here?”

  She pointed past him—outside. “He ran away very fast. I tried to stop him, as you told me, but it was as if he did not see me. His face was twisted, distorted. And he was laughing. All the time laughing. It was very frightening, Fain.”

  “But you saw where he went?”

  “Not I, no. I—”

  He slammed his fist against the wall. So it was useless—pointless—a failure. The Changeling had got cleanly away and, without Scorpio to assist in the chase, would not be caught again. The thin wood of the wall cracked and bent beneath the force of Fain’s blow. His knuckles went numb. He sucked blood. His hand might well be broken. The same as Scorpio’s life. By his own stupidity. His blindness in the face of what should have been obvious.

  Joane held his sleeve. “Fain, he did not get away. Why didn’t you let me tell you? I sent Kish after him. Kish saw him leave the door and followed him.”

  Fain dropped his hand, ignoring the pain which had now started to build. “Where—where did he go?”

  She shook her head. “I would not know that. He’ll send a messenger when he can. You can wait, can’t you?”

  Fain knew that he couldn’t. He started to explain to Joane but, just then, a young boy entered the kitchen. He looked at Joane, then at Fain, and, his eyes growing big, started to back away. Fain reached out, grabbed, and held the boy.

  “Kish sent you here. From where? Where is Kish now?”

  Squirming in Fain s good hand, the boy stammered, unable to utter a word. Fain shook him hard, but the boy still refused to speak. Joane touched Fain’s arm. “Let me speak to him,” she said.

  Fain nodded and released the boy.

  Joane crouched down. From a pocket in her gown she drew forth three golden coins, which she placed in the boys hand. “I am Joane,” she said. “Did Kish ask you to speak with me?”

  The boy nodded, glancing fearfully at Fain. “Kish is waiting at the Hall of the Tagras. He said to tell you the one you seek has gone there. A meeting of the Doubluths is being convened. Kish waits outside.”

  Fain shook his head. The Changeling was wasting no time—but why should it? Changelings did not mourn the ones they murdered. “Where is this Hall of the Tagras?” he asked the boy.

  “It is all right to tell him,” said Joane, when the boy hesitated.

  The boy spoke, but Fain did not understand. Even after all these days the streets of Kalic were like a maze to him. He missed Skallon—and Scorpio.

  “I can take you there,” said Joane.

  “No. Let the boy do it. I think you ought to go below. Skallon is still down there, tied up. He-he can tell you what’s happened.” Fain hesitated because he had remembered something. He wasn’t the only one to mourn. The Changeling had also killed Danon. Joane would have to know.

  She nodded and spoke softly to the boy, promising him additional coins if he led Fain to Kish. Then, standing, she came over to Fain. “But first let me straighten your robes and clean them. Your hand must be bandaged. You frightened this boy, Fain. You cannot go out looking this way.”

  He nodded, knowing she was right. He intended to kill the Changeling, but would that help her? Danon was dead. Fain knew he bore as much of the guilt for that as the Changeling itself. Could he ever explain to her?

  “Now you are fine,” she said, pushing him back. “You go to Kish, and I will go to Skallon.”

  The streets were even more crowded than usual. Fain and the boy pushed and shoved, struggling to hurry. There was no open violence, no loud speeches. But he could feel the hate. It hung in the air like the hard orange sun above. Kalic was a keg of powder. The Changeling, clearly, intended to provide the final fuse.

  Kish waited outside a flat-roofed, single-storied wooden building. When he saw Fain, he stepped forward. “Who is this crazy man who was hiding under my home, Fain?”

  “He’s in there?” said Fain.

  “I saw him enter with my own eyes and there is only one way out. Is he your enemy, Fain? The one you call the Changeling?”

  Fain saw no reason to lie. “He is.” Stepping close to the building, he peered through a clouded window. Within, he saw approximately two dozen Doubluths seated in chairs. One old man—the new senior—stood, addressing the others. “Which one is he?”

  Kish, leaning past Fains shoulder, laughed. “You expect me to tell you that? They all have purple robes, Fain. I followed the robes.”

  “You didn’t see his face?”

  “Not clearly, no. He was laughing all the time when he ran past me—a crazy man—but that may have stopped. Joane saw him better. Shall I bring her?”

  Fain shook his head slowly. There would be no time for that, especially if Joane had gone below to Skallon. He knew, if he intended to act, he would have to move immediately. If the meeting ended and the Doubluths dispersed, he couldn’t follow thirty men at once. If one man came out and went away, he couldn’t afford to follow him, either; the Changeling might still be behind.

  “I’m going in there,” Fain said.

  Kish shrugged and pointed to the door. “They will not stop you. You are a Doubluth. Of the high caste. I am a mere innkeeper.”

  Fain wasn’t interested in Kish’s envy—or his sa
rcasm. He thought of Scorpio with a hole burned in his side. He said, “Wait here. I’ll be out shortly.”

  Then he went into the Hall of the Tagras. No one looked up or paid him any particular mind. The senior went on with his talk. He denounced the Earth as an insidious force. He accused the Consortium of deliberately starting the plagues. Fain found a spot at the rear of the hall where he could see everyone gathered inside. The senior might well be right. Fain knew the Earth Consortium well. It was not opposed to chaos as such, only to Changeling chaos.

  Of course, the speaker might well be the Changeling.

  Him—or any of the others. The monstrously gross-even for an Alvean—man in the front row. Or the smooth-faced young Doubluth near the middle of the hall. Or the bald-headed man beside him. Or the aged, wrinkled man. The one who was fast asleep.

  The Changeling might be any one of the thirty men gathered in this hall.

  And Fain knew he had no way of finding out for sure which one it was.

  That was the joke. He had the Changeling trapped, penned, caught. And he was utterly helpless to act.

  Fain turned to leave. What else could he do? As he moved toward the door, a flash of motion caught his eye. Glancing at the floor, he saw a slim fuzzy bug-some local version of a centipede—scurrying past his feet. Automatically, Fain raised his boot. He brought the heel swiftly down and squashed the bug. It was nothing important. It was an instinctive, almost subconscious act. But when he did it—the instant the bug died—everything became for Fain amazingly, startlingly, abundantly clear. The cold, bare, clear place at the core of his being suddenly opened and showed him what it was.