A Season For Slaughter Part 19

FOREMAN: The Mode Training has changed a lot since you did it, John. At the request of the President of the United States, we've developed an advanced course, specifically to empower people to deal with the circ.u.mstances and pressures of the Chtorran infestation. It is out of this course that the idea of The Core Group was created.

ROBISON: You admit then that key people in government are joining your so-called Core Group?

FOREMAN: And more are joining every day. It's not a crime to commit yourself to the future. Right now, we've got four separate courses running in various parts of the country. We've got over two thousand people in direct training, and six thousand more telecommuting. But it's not just what you call "key people," John. A surprisingly large number of our trainees are what you, in your ignorance, would call ordinary people. But they're not ordinary. The commitment to excellence is never ordinary. These are people from all walks of life who want to be a part of the process of real-world transformation.

ROBISON: So then you do admit that the purpose of this group is to exert influence over the government?

FOREMAN: No. Any idiot can take over a government. Even you could do it.

I'm committed to something a lot larger than temporary authority. I'm committed to making a difference in the world.

ROBISON: But you and your group need power to do that, don't you?

FOREMAN: The Core Group isn't a group, John. It's an idea. Anyone who's committed himself to enlarging the vision of what's possible in the universe is automatically a part of The Core Group. There has always been a Core Group for humanity; and it has always consisted of the kind of people, whether they know it at the time or not, who are willing to challenge the perception of what is, so that they can build what will be.

ROBISON: Nevertheless, Dr. Foreman, a group exists of people who have completed the Mode Training, and who identify themselves as The Core Group, and this group is currently active in influencing various branches of the federal government, including the executive branch, both houses of Congress, the military, and even members of the media. Isn't that correct?

FOREMAN: (nodding) The Mode Training is for successful people. It's for people who know how to produce results and who want to learn the technology of consciousness so they can create breakthroughs in personal effectiveness.

ROBINSON: Spare us the enrollment jargon, Doc-just answer the question.

FOREMAN: That is the answer. We've had a lot of high-level people in the course. There's nothing sinister about the fact that the technology works. So does brushing your teeth every day. Why should cultural transformation be so threatening to you?

ROBINSON: I think Dr. Chin is right. You're crazy and you're dangerous. What are you going to do with all this transformation?

FOREMAN; Do you know the old saying? When it's time, for railroads, you get railroads. When it's time for airplanes, you get airplanes. When it's time for zillabangs, you get zillabangs. What are zillabangs? I dunno. It isn't time for them yet.

But I do know it's time for transformation-and what we're going to do with it is became a different kind of human species. And I don't think we have a lot of choice in the matter, because if we don't transform ourselves into more powerful, more effective species, the Chtorrans going to transform us into an extinct one...

Simply infecting one or two individuals in a population is not enough to guarantee that a plague will take hold, even a Chtorran plague. A determined vector is required, not a casual or accidental avenue of introduction. Only a carrier that guarantees repeated access can make a plague inevitable.

What is needed, for example, is a Chtorran equivalent for the flea or the mosquito. Before the plagues can occur; before the pernicious diseases can begin, a vector of strong opportunity first has to be established.

At this writing, the most likely candidate for the mechanism of transmission is the ubiquitous stingfly-a voracious biting "insect." The stingfly starts life smaller than a gnat, but can grow as large as a dragonfly if it has sufficient access to food.

-The Red Book, (Release 22.19A)

Chapter 20.

Nightfall "The dog was nature's first attempt to make a neurotic. Practice makes perfect."

-SOLOMON SHORT.

Outside, the pink storm covered the countryside with a thick blanket of silence and dust. In this neighborhood, the stuff would be gooey by morning, and by the end of the day tomorrow, it would be a hard and brittle crust.

In the gullies and arroyos where the muck pooled in thicknesses a meter or more, the congealed ma.s.ses would be almost unbreakable. It could be a year or more before the stuff degraded or eroded or was finally washed away by rains, but in the meantime, the sugary slabs would serve as caches of quick protein for any hungry young worm fresh out of its sh.e.l.l. This was purely a Chtorran treat; an Earth-creature would break a tooth or a jaw trying to bite off a piece of this rock candy.

Inside the rollagon, we monitored the doings under the earth. We had more than enough to keep ourselves busy.

We sent the prowler crawling up and down the walls of the womb-nest, tasting, smelling, touching, measuring, recording, canning, exploring, and sampling everything it came across. We took specimens wherever we could. Our needles poked and pierced; we cut slices off the walls, slivers from all the organs. We prodded and thumped and did everything short of provoking the nest into uproar.

The inhabitants-embryonic members of the Chtorran ecology-barely reacted.

Apparently, the activities within the womb-nest were sufficiently insulated that the tenants above could not be triggered into swarming by the prowler's actions below.

Willig sat quietly at her station and watched the threedimensional map of the chamber grow toward completion. Siegel and I took turns monitoring Sher Khan's steady progress; we fed Willig the raw data for her map. Reilly and Lopez shuttered the overhead bubbles and retired into the back to try to get some rest. They woke up Locke and Valada and fell into the still-warm bunks. Valada cursed softly; Locke just scratched himself and went looking for caffeine.

Pink twilight turned into ruddy dusk. Ruddy dusk became a velvet-black well.

Inside the womb-nest, things turned restlessly in their amniotic sleep. If the pink blanket above was having any effect down below, it wasn't immediately obvious.

"Captain-?" Valada called me over to her work station. Exhausted, I got up from my chair and went forward to peer over her shoulder. "What've you got?"

She pointed to the display on one of her monitors. Several of the gray slugs were trying to ooze their way up a tunnel. "I think you're right about these little guys being taxis to the surface. They've been trying to get up that slope for an hour now."

"Okay, but where are the pa.s.sengers?"

"I've been working on that too." Valada brought up a new set of images. "Look, this is from another part of the nest." The gray slugs were chewing remorselessly at the edge of one of the red blubbery organs. They wasted as much as they ate. Parts of it spilled wetly around them. "Some of it sticks to their sides," Valada said.

"But-notice how they just gulp down their food without even chewing? I'll bet you that a lot of the eggs survive the trip through their intestines untouched. The slugs get up to the surface, they take a c.r.a.p, the eggs hatch in slug-s.h.i.t, and the next generation of critters is free to run amuck."

"That's usually the case with next generations," I muttered thinking of something else. "I'll give you half a point-"

"Only half a point?" she protested.

"You missed the obvious one. After we have a chance to scan one of those little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, I'll bet you anything that we'll find that some of the eggs have already hatched in the slug's belly-and whatever things have hatched out of those eggs will be happily munching away on slug innards."

"Ugh," said Valada, wrinkling her nose.

"I agree. But nature doesn't waste. Especially Chtorran nature. If the slugs are just taxis, then once they get to the surface, their job is over, right? What do they do then? Wait to die? That's wasteful. Use them as food for something else and nothing is wasted, not even the squeal. I'll be real interested to see what's inside one of those things."

She nodded her agreement. "We should bring back the prowler. It's got three in the freezer."

"You're right." I gave her an approving pat on the shoulder and headed forward to the driver's compartment. The c.o.c.kpit. The so-called bridge. With Siegel in the back, it would be the quietest place in the van. I needed to think.

Everything up front was locked down and secure; but even on standby it was still an active command center. All seven of the screens across the front panel were still brightly lit, still showing the status of the vehicle and its occupants. I stood for a moment studying the mission boards. We were in pretty good shape, considering.

Either Willig or Siegel would be watching duplicate displays in the back of the vehicle; if anything occurred that needed human intervention, they'd catch it immediately.

I placed both hands on the back of the pilot's chair and leaned my weight against it. Without really concentrating on it, I began doing various stretching exercises to work the kinks out of my back. I hurt all over-my head, my back, my legs, my feet-I was getting old before my time. I didn't feel lucky anymore. I didn't feel like I was going to survive the war. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel as if anyone was going to survive the war.

And yet... the irony of the situation was that even as the remainder of the human race stood in horror before the doom that crept across the skin of our planet, we still were able to detach ourselves emotionally from our fear so we could appreciate the beauty and the wonder of the amazing Chtorran ecology. I hadn't yet met a scientist or a technician who didn't marvel at the workings of the machineries of infestation.

I couldn't explain it. I wasn't sure I even understood it. But I felt the same admiration myself. The more I saw of Chtotran life, the more astonished I was by its intricacy. All the different pieces of it fit together in ways that beggared description.

The relationships here went beyond mere symbiosis as we knew it on Earth. When two Chtorran species joined, they became a totally new kind of plant or animal. In fact, none of these creatures were truly independent beings. Yet, rather than being hampered or limited by their partnerships, they were enhanced and expanded.

Could the neural cilia exist independently of the hairless slugs? Could the slugs survive without the awareness granted by the neural functions of the symbionts?

Maybe, maybe not-who knew? But put the two species together, and you get worms, large and hungry and ferocious, and equipped with the sensory equipment to track their prey across kilometers of rugged terrain.

I was certain that there were even more astonishing partnerships yet to be discovered. If we could monitor the complete life cycle of everything that went on within this womb-nest, what surprises would we find? What mysteries of Chtorran growth would finally be unraveled?

I leaned forward and switched one of the displays to monitor the status of Sher Khan. We were going to have to bring the prowler back. Its sample bays were getting full, and its fuel cells were going to need recharging soon. We could reload it with wide-band remotes and send it back down into the nest. Once released, the probes could install themselves, and we'd get a much more detailed view of the nest.

I glanced at my watch. It was still early. If we worked through the night, we could probably do the turnaround before dawn. If anything interesting was going to happen in that nest as a result of the pink storm, we should get the bigger probes in place as quickly as possible. And I didn't want to run the risk of putting Sher Khan on emergency power to get it out of the nest; the margin was too small. Okay-I made up my mind. We'd pull it out now.

I leaned against the chair one more time, trying to get the vertebrae in my back to crack, but either I was all cracked out, or too tightly knotted. The best I could do was give myself an uncomfortable cramp.

I limped back into the main cabin of the van. "Siegel, plant the rest of the probes and bring the prowler home. Once you get it started up the tunnel, let Reilly or Locke monitor the climb out. Put the samples in the freezer, reload the beast with an EMPgrenade and as many wideband remotes as it can carry, then send it back down. Let Valada handle the on-board operation; she or Reilly can take it down the tunnel. You or I will take over when it gets into the inner chamber. I want the first of those probes in place before dawn. Got it? Good. Let's move."

Willig glanced over to me. "Got time for an argument first?"

"Only a short one," I said. I grabbed the overhead support and hung from it, half looming over her. "You have three minutes. Go."

"Don't need it," she answered. "I think it's a mistake to pull the prowler out now.

What if something important happens down there?"

"I thought of that. If something important happens, we'll catch it on the probes.

But if we don't get the prowler out now and recharge it, and something happens, we risk losing not only the prowler, but all its samples too. I think it's safer to do it now.

I don't think anything's going to happen tonight; not while the storm is at its thickest; tomorrow, I'm not so sure. Once the dust settles, that's when the eating starts. I'd like Sher Khan to have a full charge before then."

"Okay," she said. "Argument's over." She turned back to her station. "I've charted a path back. Mostly solid ground; the dust shouldn't be too deep; but there are one or two places where it might get a little tricky, and there's that erosion gully that might make for a misstep or two. Whoever brings it back will be working blind.

We'll be better off letting the LI engine handle it. Let the operator sit back and enjoy the ride."

"My thought exactly," I said. I gave her my best grin. "The secret of being a brilliant commander is to let your troops have brilliant ideas. Set it up."

She was already doing so. She didn't even glance up from her keyboard and screen. "What time should I wake you?"

"You putting me to bed?" I asked.

"You were already on your way. When I put you to bed, you'll know it."

I stumbled to the back of the van and fell into the bottom bunk. And suddenly, I was alone again-and feeling everything that I had been resisting for hours.

It all rushed in on me at once. Everything was buzzing. My head, my heart, my hands. My whole body was vibrating. I touched the vein in my neck. My heart rate was uncomfortably accelerated. How long had I been running myself at this intensity? A day? A week? A lifetime? I didn't remember the last time I had allowed myself to relax. I couldn't even do it now. I lay in the bunk and trembled. I knew this feeling well, anxiety rushing toward panic; desperation, frustration, and the razory feeling of terror. My mind was racing. I was afraid to let myself relax, afraid that if I did let go, I would also be letting go of life; that the exhaustion would so overpower my control over my own body that there would be nothing left to hold me together. I would just evaporate. I would simply topple into unconsciousness and disappear forever. The bottom would open up underneath me and I'd drop down into oblivion.

Not death-but the step beneath it.

I sat up abruptly. Too fast-it made me dizzy. I put my head between my hands and started counting slowly. Waiting for the dizziness to pa.s.s. Waiting for my body to calm down. Only it wouldn't. Couldn't. My gut was knotted like the ma.s.s of writhing Chtorran creatures beneath the shambler grove. What was gnawing at me so intensely that I wanted to break out of this cabin, pop the door, and go running naked out into the dust?

Did I even have to ask?

Everything we were doing-it was only valuable if we could get safely back. Would we be able to do that? How thick was the dust outside? How fast would it congeal into goo? Would we be buried in it? Or just find ourselves so stuck that we couldn't get out? The vehicle might be glued to the landscape by tomorrow. Would they pick us up if we tried to call for a chopper?

More important, would anyone look at the data that we'd gathered?

Or was my name so poisoned now that they'd flush away our samples without looking at them, simply because my name was attached?

What was General Wainright doing? What did Dannenfelser have planned for me next? And what would Dr. Zymph have to say? Nothing printable, I'm sure.

Most important of all, what would Lizard do? What could I say to her? What could I do to make it better?

I'd gone too far three times in a row now. I had this dreadful feeling I lay back down on the bunk again. I was buzzing more ferociously than ever.

What had I done the last time I had felt this crazy? I didn't know. I couldn't remember ever having been this crazy-no, that wasn't right. I had been crazier than this. Much crazier. But this time, I wasn't enjoying it.

"I don't know," I said. "I just don't know."

And then I heard Foreman's voice in my head. "I got it. You don't know. But if you did know... what would you know?"

"No," I said. "I really don't know."

"I hear you," he replied, laughing. "But if you really did know... what would you know?"

Despite myself, I laughed. Last time, I'd felt so terribly trapped and desperate, I'd written over a hundred limericks, some of them so awful that even I was embarra.s.sed to read them.

Writing limericks hadn't cured my craziness; it had only channeled it into a more socially acceptable behavior. That was the joke. Dr. Davidson once told me that there is no real sanity. All that anyone ever learns to do is fake it so well that other people don't find out the truth.

Limericks. Dumb idea. Still-it was something to do. Something to distract me.

What could I rhyme with Marano? Nothing. I'd have to try the first name.

s.e.x as performed at Miss Lydia's is usually quaint and fastidious, and even the price is said to be nice, except, of course, when it's hideous.

Sooner or later, I was going to have to find a second rhyme for Willig.

I fell asleep before I could think of one.

The stingfly is a perfect example of parallel evolution. The creature is the Chtorran equivalent of the anopheles mosquito. It is smaller, faster, and much more voracious, but it is the functional equivalent of its Terran counterpart.

The stingfly bites its victim, it injects an anticoagulant, it sucks blood (or whatever body fluid serves the purpose of blood in Chtorran organisms), it picks up bacteria and viruses, and it delivers them directly to its next target.

The stingfly has an extremely rapid metabolism. Because of its small size and rapid growth, it must feed again and again throughout the day. In a twenty-four-hour period, the stingfly is capable of biting and infecting as many as a hundred different individual animals, both Chtorran and Terran. The stingfly appears to be the primary mechanism for the spread of Chtorran microorganisms.

As a result, it is an extremely efficient vector of disease. At this writing, most scientists believe that the stingfly was the original agent by which the Chtorran plagues were introduced into the human population.

-The Red Book, (Release 22.19A)