“No. Malama is operant, of course. But in a funny way. Up in the cave, she seemed to think I’d been there before. Isn’t that the stupidest damn thing?”
“No,” said I abruptly. “The stupidest thing is us sitting here getting battered into the sand when we could be sailing home through the nice dry ionosphere. You want to get us out of here—or should I drive?”
He sighed and lit the rho-field, and for us, the rain stopped.
The very day after Marc and I returned from the islands, the media catastrophe that the family had long feared finally occurred. Jack’s privacy was breached when an unfortunate nurse with financial problems sold the sensational details of his case, complete with videotapes taken while he was still comatose, to the highest bidder among the scandalmongering yellow networks of the Tri-D. There was a predictable furor among bleeding hearts and squeamish souls that even extended to the exotic races. The consensus of popular wisdom was that Teresa had been driven to take her life by the appalling and inhumane medical treatment that had prolonged the life of her doomed baby beyond any reasonable expectation of recovery. Paul, of course, was blamed. His political enemies could not use the scandal to attack him openly; but during the days immediately following the revelations, his authority was so seriously undermined that he actually offered to resign as First Magnate. This was vetoed by the Lylmik, who further astounded the Milieu by flatly prohibiting the university hospital authorities from discontinuing Jack’s treatment or removing him from life support unless he himself requested it.
The sob sisters having been stymied and hospital security restored (the miscreant nurse was swiftly convicted of violating medical ethics and sentenced to a ten-year work tour on Valhall, the least attractive of the four cosmop planets), Paul took steps to refute charges that he had sentenced his helpless little son to cruel and unusual punishment. Colette Roy called in genetic specialists from the Krondaku, Poltroyan, and Simbiari races and had them study Jack’s genome and compare their findings to those of the panel of human scientists who had already been consulted. The findings of both groups can be summarized as follows:
Jack suffered from certain unique genetic mutations. Among other things, these had triggered cancers that had largely destroyed his bones and many other vital body organs. His brain was untouched, however, thus far showing an ability to reject the cancer metastases. This could be attributed only to some redactive (i.e., mentally induced) activity on the part of the patient. In spite of the devouring cancers, the child’s life could be sustained by using heroic medical techniques that might distress lay persons. Physicians and genetic specialists in charge of the case continued in their attempts to repair the faulty DNA triggering the malignancies. If this could be managed before the child’s mental abilities were impaired, then he could look forward to having his body fully restored to health following the critical period when his brain’s pituitary gland signaled the natural production of the important adult-body-growth and sex hormone testosterone—that is, at puberty. At that time Jack could safely endure the rigors of regeneration tank technology. The child himself, who had a personality with quasi-adult attributes, wanted to have the treatment continue in spite of its considerable “discomforts.”
With the release of these findings on 12 February 2054, media interest in Jack’s case simmered down, and the family was left in peace for the time being. It was not revealed to the public that Jack’s physical condition had by then deteriorated to the point where he was reduced to little more than an artificially sustained brain. The new cancers had invaded his skull, the musculature and skin of his head, and the other remnants of his body, causing hideous deformity. The most hopelessly deteriorated organs were removed. He was blind and deaf now and deprived of all other sensations except pain. Nevertheless he communicated regularly with his visitors and operant attendants via telepathy and continued to insist that he was not yet ready to die.
39
HANOVER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, EARTH 13 FEBRUARY 2054
MARC HAD BEEN AFRAID TO VISIT JACK.
He admitted it to himself as he hesitated outside the door of his little brother’s hospital room. He had faithfully farspoken the child every day since Jack had recovered from his coma, but he had carefully refrained from exerting farsight and had used the press of his studies and then the media donnybrook over Jack’s condition as an excuse to stay away from Hitchcock.
But now Jack had asked him to come.
It was early Friday evening, and the Dartmouth Winter Carnival was in full swing. Marc was not planning to attend most of the festivities; but now that he was sixteen and legally an adult, he was finally eligible to enter the Junior Open Division of the ice-cycle races that would be held on the frozen Connecticut River the following night. He had a new bike, a Honda TXZ1700 that was a real chewer, and he intended to get in some practice after visiting Jack. He was already dressed in specially armored racing leathers, stitched up in a striking black-and-white pattern. He carried his CE helmet under his arm as he stood vacillating outside Jack’s door.
Marco! Stop hanging around out there and come in.
Marc flinched. He opened the door and found a nurse on his way out. The man smiled wryly. “Your little brother just gave me the boot. He wants to talk to you in private. I’ll be monitoring his vitals from my station.”
There was more equipment in the room than there had been at the time of Marc’s last visit, and the putrid smell of cancerous degeneration was stronger, in spite of the deodorizers. Standing just inside the door, Marc didn’t see the little patient at all. A craven sense of relief flooded through him as he wondered whether the child might now be completely enclosed in the life-support unit. If so, it wouldn’t be necessary to look at him.
But when Marc approached, he found that Jack’s head was still visible. If it could be called a head.
At the sight of it, Marc began to weep for the first time in his life, overcome with pity and silent rage, his mind cursing God and his dead mother for having allowed such a thing to happen.
Stop being an asshole.
“Jack—”
God and Mama aren’t responsible for the way I look. I am.
Marc dropped his helmet on the floor and fumbled with the velk fasteners of his gloves. He finally succeeded in tearing them off, and pulled paper tissues from a pocket above his knee and swabbed his face. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
Of course I do. My body is doing what it was programmed to do. By the mutations. It would have done it even quicker if Colette hadn’t tried to plug in new genes and if she and the others hadn’t tried to fight the cancers. If I’d been left alone, my body would probably have dissolved a lot more tidily. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand this until just recently.
“You’re talking crazy!” Now Marc could not take his eyes from the monstrous thing that was his baby brother. The head was enclosed in a transparent container of liquid. A medusa tangle of tubes and wires sprouted from raw, formless flesh studded with ugly dark lesions. There were no eyes, no other features, nothing human remaining at all.
Jack said: I’m sane. I’ve spent quite a lot of time making sure of that. It was not always easy to ascertain … Please, Marc. Get a chair and sit beside me. If you like, I’ll try to redact away your revulsion and sense of irrational guilt.
“Lea’ me the hell alone,” Marc muttered. But he obediently drew up a stool and perched on it, despising himself for having broken down and for blaming the poor dying baby for his own imbecility.
Jack said: I am doing my best not to die. There’s a critical period coming up now. I must learn [indecipherable image] if I am to survive much longer, and I’m finding it very difficult. Things distract me. It was a terrible distraction when Mama died. I loved her very much. She should not have blamed herself for my special predicament. I tried to make that clear to her, but she refused to listen. In her own way, Mama was very strong, and this was both a good and a bad thing. I forgive her for what she tried
to do to me, but it did make things much harder.
“You know about … what Malama Johnson did? With the ashes?”
Yes. Malama often comes to me in excorporeal excursion. Her actions and her words at Keaku Cave, you must understand, were symbolic and not to be taken literally. Her culture approaches metapsychology from a different point of view than ours and makes use of its own techniques. But her beliefs derive from an underlying truth. I am in considerable danger from malevolent entities that dwell in moral darkness, and so are you and Uncle Rogi.
“Mama’s ghost?” Marc exclaimed, starting up from the stool with clenched fists. “That’s—that’s the most incredible shit!”
Marc. Be calm. You must help me, and I’ll try to help you as much as I can. But please don’t ignore what I’m about to tell you. Don’t disassociate, or all of us may be lost! And then Fury will win.
“Fury …”
You’ve heard him in your dreams, haven’t you.
“Yes.” Marc dropped his head into his hands. His voice was muffled. “And sometimes, what he says makes a hell of a lot of sense. We don’t belong in the goddam Milieu and—”
Marco, for God’s sake shut up. Hydra’s been doing it again. Killing.
Marc looked up, his face rigid with shock. “You’re sure?”
Yes. I’ve been watching for it. Expecting it. Yesterday there were five suspicious disappearances of operants—all in different parts of New Hampshire and Vermont, all of them apparently taking place about the same time. Early in the evening. Two of the events were reported by PNN on the 2300 News, and I pulled the other three out of the computer from police reports when I realized what might be happening.
“This is all the evidence you’ve got? Five disappearances?”
It’s sufficient. It can’t be coincidental. The odds are too great. Now listen to me. The fact that the five deaths were more or less simultaneous but separated in space confirms something I suspected about Hydra. Malama agrees with me, for what it’s worth.
“What?”
Hydra has undergone a metamorphosis. That must have been why it was lying low for so many months. Before, it had to act in metaconcert to do its killing, because the five individual units were too weak to manage the draining of human lifeforce on their own. But now, if I’ve analyzed the situation correctly, they’ve matured. Each one of the five heads—the five individuals—can now kill an ordinary operant all by itself. Working in metaconcert, they can probably subdue someone who’s masterclass. Or possibly even a Grand Master. This may be why Hydra has just killed. It might have fed to strengthen itself before attempting … something more difficult.
Marc’s eyes were unfocused. He was shaking his head slowly, as if unable to assimilate what Jack was saying.
Jack said: I’ve combed the entire region with my seekersense, trying to search out anomalous auras, but I’ve found nothing. Papa and the other six members of the Remillard Dynasty were all in Concord last night at the time I made my search. There’s no easy way to prove their guilt or innocence. I think we can safely assume that long-distance draining of operant lifeforce is impossible. The chakra killer must be in close proximity to the victim, probably even in physical contact, as Victor was. I’ve discovered that around the time the disappearances must have taken place, the seven Remillard magnates were all in their eggs or groundcars en route somewhere or other. With the speeds those vehicles are capable of, it’s possible that any one of the siblings could be responsible for any or all of the disappearances. Of course, now Hydra will be careful to hide its victims’ bodies. The truth behind these five new deaths may never come out.
“And you—you think it’ll come after us? Hydra?”
If it knows we’re on to it.
“If Fury’s really been romping through my dreams and I haven’t just been imagining things, then he knows.”
If Fury knows, so must Hydra.
Marc swore briefly. He seemed to have recovered his normal mental equilibrium. “I can take care of myself, but what about you?”
I’ll be all right. I’m well guarded here, and I’ll have the security increased. From now on I’ll forbid Papa and the others to visit me. They’ll be glad to be spared the distressing experience … unless they’re Hydra! But I’m still worried very much about you and Uncle Rogi.
“Shit! I forgot about him. Before I go out to practice with the bike, I’ll go to the bookshop and warn him not to be alone with any of the Dynasty. There isn’t much else to be done. Dammit—if only there was a way we could guard our minds when we’re asleep!”
It’s ironic, Marco. You and Uncle Rogi are most vulnerable when you sleep, while I am weakest when I am awake! I have learned to withdraw into an impervious psychocreative shell when my Lower and Middle Selves disjoin and I am unconscious. Unfortunately, the program is not yet accessible to an operant of your stature. When you are somewhat more mature, I’ll try to transmit it to you.
Marc only shook his head.
Jack said: No doubt someday an invincible mechanical mind-shield will be perfected, but this is no help to us now. You must sleep only in a securely locked room, and so must Uncle Rogi.
“Okay. Any other things you want me to do for you?”
Stop by the office of the nursing supervisor. Tell her there have been crank threats to kill me. To stop my so-called hopeless agony. Have the security of this room enhanced immediately. Tell her that the Remillard family will pay for special equipment and an operant guard and then arrange for it.
“Gotcha.” Marc bent down to pick up his discarded gloves and helmet. His gray eyes beneath their dark winged brows now regarded the grotesque thing that was Jon Remillard with calm equanimity. All traces of his tears had vanished. “You watch me win the Junior Division in the ice-cycle races tomorrow. Hear me?”
I will, Marco. Good luck.
* * *
Marc stopped at Wally Van Zandt’s station to top off the Honda with j-fuel, then drove across the street and parked in front of The Eloquent Page bookshop. Uncle Rogi was just getting ready to close. He had cut back on evening hours since his relationship with Perdita Manion had come to an end and she’d quit, and he looked up with a glum expression as the bell on the front door tinkled and Marc came in. “I thought the races were tomorrow,” he remarked, assessing the boy’s striking black-and-white apparel.
“They are. I just need to practice with the new bike. You remember, I gave the old one to Gordo McAllister. I’ve got to make sure the CE hat and this new Honda’s on-board computer are communicating.”
“I hate that damned helmet thing of yours. It’s unnatural, plugging yourself into a machine. Becoming part of a machine!” The old man got up from his chair behind the register desk, stretched his lanky frame, and continued grumpily. “When I was young, driving a car or a motorcycle was supposed to give a guy a thrill of accomplishment. You were in control of the thing and all its horsepower, but it took a whole lot of skill and experience to be a really good driver.”
“It’s still true with the machine under cerebroenergetic control,” Marc insisted.
Rogi only h’mphed. “Thinking like a bike? All that takes is a mechanical mind-set. How the hell can you get your adrenaline up when you just operate?”
“Trust me. It’s possible.”
“And how is it fair for you to race against drivers using manual control?”
“Well, for starters, I can’t use my metafaculties or I’ll be disqualified. So would other operant racers. We’re being monitored. For seconds, a driver using CE isn’t necessarily more competent than one controlling a machine in the usual way. That’s why I can enter my bike in the Junior Open. Against a really experienced MX racer, I’m a babe in arms, and there’ll be twenty-year-olds up against me who could eat me and the Honda for breakfast on a motocross track. But ice racing isn’t dirt racing, so I figure I’ve got a good chance. You going to come out tomorrow and watch?”
“Damn tootin’. But God help you if you break your neck r
ight before my eyes. I’ve had enough grief this week already, what with getting outbid on a Robinson-mint March 1952 Planet Stories, with Poul Anderson’s “Captive of the Centaurianess” on the cover, and finding out that Perdita’s going to marry some young twit in the college’s Sociology Department.”
“But you and Perdita were finished,” Marc pointed out reasonably.
“Wouldn’t expect you to understand,” growled Rogi. He headed for the private door opening into the building’s main interior stairway, which led to his third-floor apartment. The Maine Coon cat Marcel LaPlume, anticipating supper, emerged from some lurking spot among the bookshelves and trotted ahead of his master, nearly tripping Rogi up as the door opened. “See you tomorrow,” the bookseller said to Marc. “Set the lock on your way out.”
“Uncle Rogi, wait.”
The old man turned around tiredly. “Well?”
“I was just visiting Jack. And he said—he thinks that Hydra’s on the loose again.”
Rogi uttered a Franco expletive, and when Marc explained the circumstances behind Jack’s suspicions, Rogi’s response was even more ingeniously obscene. “Go tell the Magistratum! Tell that superior prick Davy MacGregor! But don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Marc’s voice was quiet. “Jack wants us to be careful. Not to be alone with Papa or any of the other members of the Dynasty, just in case. And to be especially careful when we’re asleep. You should change the lock on your apartment door.”
“What good would that do? Your Papa and your uncles and aunts are all PK wizards. They can pick any lock ever made. And if they’re really part of Hydra—which I don’t believe for a minute—they can zap me no matter what precautions I take. So I’m not going to do anything. I’m so sick of the whole business that I don’t give a good goddam if Hydra and Fury both fly down the chimney and zorch me to Kundalini charcoal. I think poor Ti-Jean’s imagining things, and if you had a whit of sense, you’d think so, too.”