A Season For Slaughter Part 61

"Dwan-listen to me. I'm sorry. I was a stupid jerk. I was wrong to say what I did.

I wasn't mad at you, I was mad at myself and I said some cruel and angry things.

You understand me, don't you? You know that people sometimes do things they don't mean because-well, because they're confused. Can you understand that?"

She blinked at me, confused. She shook her head. "You are n-not a very n-nice m-man."

"What was your first clue?" I asked. She looked puzzled. The joke was beyond her.

"Listen to me," I said. "I need your help. Lizard needs your help. General Tirelli."

"I d-don't w-want to help you," she said. "I d-don't like you."

"I'm sorry that you don't like me. In a minute, I think you're going to like me even less-and I don't have any way to make it up to you."

"I d-don't understand you."

"I'm talking to the ma.s.smind now," I said, staring directly into Dwan's face. "I know you're using her. I know that you've been peeking out through her body since the day you implanted her. There's no way you could have given her an augment without also giving her an implant. She doesn't know it, though, does she? But I do-"

"You're c-crazy," said Dwan, but her tone was so different, I knew it wasn't her speaking.

"Dwan called me Jimbo. Only one person in the whole world ever called me Jimbo, and now he's part of the ma.s.smind, and now the ma.s.smind calls me Jimbo.

Ted, I know you're in there. Stop wasting all our time and help me."

Dwan opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. For a moment, she just grinned at me blankly. A string of drool came from her thick lips. This was the real Dwan-Dwan without strings. Maybe there never had been a Dwan, only a meat puppet too stupid to live without help. Oh G.o.d, that was a dreadful thought! I hoped it wasn't true. Although I didn't know which was better, being just smart enough to know you're mentally disabled or being so unconscious that you couldn't tell. For some reason, I wanted Dwan to have consciousness, so I could beg her forgiveness.

That might let me feel a little less terrible. And then I realized I was still being selfish.

Oh, h.e.l.l-even trying to rescue Lizard was a selfish act. So what? Was there anything in the world that wasn't selfish? At least this way I was putting my selfishness at the service of humanity, wasn't I?

Abruptly, Dwan said, "Okay, Jimbo. What do you want?"

"I need a phone. Patch me through to Randy Dannenfelser."

"That's not possible," Dwan said thickly.

"Bulls.h.i.t. You and I both know it's possible. The ma.s.smind is the biggest consumer of network bandwidth in the world. Connect through a synthesizer if you're so d.a.m.n worried about your secrecy. But I'm trying to save Lizard's life."

"Jim, she's dead-"

"Do you have any proof of that?" I was afraid of the question, more afraid of the answer.

"No, but-"

"Then patch me through, G.o.ddammit, and quit wasting Dwan's time. She doesn't have a lot of strength, you know."

Dwan went blank again. It must have been quite an argument. I wondered who was arguing with whom. I wondered who I'd even been talking to.

Suddenly, Dwan's face took on a new expression. The amazing thing was that I recognized it. "This is Dannenfelser-"

Oh my G.o.d! An exhilarating and awful realization swept over me. I stared at Randy Dannenfelser's personality peering out of Dwan Grodin's body. The sensation was eerie.

I gulped and said, "This is McCarthy. I've got a terminal."

"It's too late," Dwan said. "We've lost too many prowlers, a third of our strength.

I can't spare it."

"You promised-" I started to say, then realized how stupid that must sound.

"Listen to me, Randy, I don't have time to argue. Just release one prowler to the network, right now, give me the code number, I'll pick it up. I promise you, I'm going to make you a hero. Channel it through one of your own operators, tell him to keep his hands off the controls, and you can take the credit. Just do it."

Dwan shook her head. "No. Forget it. I'm disconnecting now."

"Randy-wait! If you do this for me, I'll tell you something you desperately need to know."

"There isn't anything that I desperately need to know. Certainly not from you.

You flatter yourself."

"You're implanted," I said quickly. "If you don't believe me, hang up the phone.

Go ahead-you can still hear me talking in your ear, can't you? Even though you've broken the channel? That's because the ma.s.smind is implanting my voice directly into your experience."

It was a gamble. Would the Telepathy Corps let him hear my words? Would the ma.s.smind cooperate? The Teep Corps had an agenda of its own.

Dwan looked terribly uncomfortable. She scratched her nose; then she started feeling her head.

My G.o.d. It worked. What was the Teep Corps doing?

"You can't feel it, Randy. You're touching your nose, you're scratching your head, I can see you-"

"You're peeking into my head!"

"No, I'm communicating to you through Dwan Grodin, the talking potato. Sorry, Dwan. The ma.s.smind is providing the connection. She's echoing your expressions, your movements, everything. We can use Dwan as the terminal for the prowler.

Now, release it to me, please-"

"I don't believe this," said Dwan. She had both her hands over her ears. "This is amazing. This is f.u.c.ked. I'm going to-I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Believe it, Randy. And stay on purpose. I need that prowler now."

"No, it's too late," Dwan/Randy said. "I could have done something before-but you disappeared."

"They had me drugged, Randy. Dr. Shreiber is going to pay for this, I promise you."

Dwan scratched her left t.i.t. She looked momentarily puzzled. "This is a very curious sensation," she said. I wasn't sure if it was Randy or Dwan speaking.

"Urnk," she said. Then, "It looks like one of our prowlers is having a problem -number fourteen-I'm pulling it off the circuit for a diagnostic check. If there's another attack, however, I'm putting it back on-line immediately."

"Thank you, Randy. I'm going to give you a big hug and a kiss when I get back-"

"You do and I'll court-martial you. I promise you. I don't want you ever touching me again." Coming out of Dwan's mouth, the words sounded eerie.

"I promise," I said. "Anything you want."

Dwan nodded curtly, and then Randy Dannenfelser was gone.

Opportunities for live observations of the workings of a mandala nest have been extremely limited. Most of our data has had to be gathered only after a nest has been scourged; the possibility of misinterpretation due to insufficient or incomplete information is considerable. Nevertheless, at the time of this writing, there is some evidence to suggest that the elder gastropedes continue to thrive and grow for some time after retirement.

This suggests that the reservoir chambers are not just dying rooms, but, in fact, may serve an additional purpose that aids the species and/or the survival of the mandala nest. What that purpose is, remains unknown to us.

Although there is no hard evidence to support the theory, it has been hypothesized that the retired gastropedes are not dying, but may in fact be metamorphosing into breeding queens, whose sole purpose is to produce eggs for the nest.

Corollary to this theory is the possibility that a young gastropede functions primarily as a male, mating enthusiastically with any willing female; but when it achieves a certain threshold size, it becomes itself a female, commanding a family and later a tribe of subservient males.

Perhaps, after a lifetime of success-surviving, feeding, growing, building, interacting, and of course, mating with other successful individuals-the queen gastropede is, carrying and storing enough sperms to fertilize hundreds of thousands of eggs.

This breeding strategy would guarantee that no individual gastropede can reproduce until it has earned the right. By firmly establishing a prosperous mandala, an individual not only demonstrates its personal success, it also demonstrates its leadership over all other individuals within its family and tribe. Its reward is not simply a decadent retirement, but the right to reproduce itself hundreds of thousands of times over, guaranteeing the prevalence of its genetic line.

If this is true-that Chtorran gastropedes reproduce by evolving into ma.s.sive egg-laying queens-then the question must be asked: How did the gastropedes reproduce before the appearance of queens in the mandala nests?

And if the gastropedes can reproduce without developing into queens, then why metamorphose into queens at all?

Proponents of the theory argue that the gastropedes have not been reproducing before the appearance of the queen form, that the infestation must have begun with a large enough reservoir of eggs to provide enough generations of individuals to guarantee the eventual development of queen gastropedes.

Opponents of the theory remain skeptical and point to a directly observed live hatching of an infant gastropede in a renegade camp as proof that eggs are being produced from a source other than a queen gastropede. Proponents regard that incident as inconclusive. The matter remains unresolved.

-The Red Book, (Release 22.19A)

Chapter 79.

Cyrano on the Ground "Life isn't one d.a.m.n thing after another. It's the same d.a.m.n thing over and over again."

-SOLOMON SHORT.

The electric potato was herself again, blinking and scratching and looking very confused.

"Dwan, listen to me-" I levered myself into a painful sitting position. "Come over here." I took both her hands in mine. "I need you to pretend something with me.

Okay?"

"You're hurting m-me," she said.

"It's a game," I said. "A very exciting game. I want you to pretend that you're-a prowler. Prowler number fourteen. I want you to pretend that you're riding inside it, seeing what it sees, hearing what it hears, feeling what it feels. I want you to pretend that you can take it anywhere you want to go. Can you do that? Close your eyes, sweetheart-that's it-and just let yourself be inside prowler number fourteen. That's my girl."

Dwan's face puckered up uncomfortably. Her eyes popped open again, blinked, and widened in surprise. She looked around, her head swiveling back and forth in a movement that was both graceful and mechanical.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm m-moving through the trees. Under a tent. It's the skin of the d-dirigible. I can -see"-she looked up-"the f-framework is all b-broken and crunched. Pieces of it are hanging in the f-forest."

"Where are you?" I repeated.

"I'm-under the's-stern. It's ripped very badly."

"Can you climb up into it?"

"I d-don't think so-"

"Remember, Dwan, you're a prowler now." i squeezed her hands in mine.

"Remember, you have pincers on your feet. You can go up a tree, you can hang on to things that people can't. Now, look-is there a way for you to climb up?"

Dwan's head swiveled around and around. She looked up above us with a calculating eye. She frowned and squinted and worked her face through a series of strange contortions. At last, she pointed. "I c-can g-go up that way."

"Do it," I commanded.

"I'm's-scared," she said.

"Don't worry, nothing can hurt you. It's just a pretend game. And I'm right here with you the whole time."

"I d-don't want to d-do this anymore. It hurts."

"It's very important, Dwan. Do you like Lizard?"

"G-general T-tirelli is v-very n-nice. I l-like her."

"You have to do this for her."

"It h-hurts."

"Lizard's in trouble. You're the only one who can save her."

"Is she's-sick?"

"She might be. I know this is uncomfortable for you, but you have to do it for her."

Dwan shifted her position; she seemed to writhe inside her body. I couldn't figure out what she was doing, then she announced, "I'm cl-climbing the't-tree now. I'm almost n-near the't-top. It's v-very high up here."

"Don't look down."