Complete Short Fiction, page 484
Anthea felt a tightening in her gut as she continued reading. She already knew how history would turn out, and now she could see the events escalating toward a full-scale war between slans and normal humans.
Pushed into a corner, slan activists began to fight back more aggressively. They formed support groups and protective societies. They met openly where they thought their large numbers would guarantee them safety. But in a particularly appalling incident, the Human Purity League surrounded one such hall where they claimed the evil slans were plotting the overthrow of Earth. They barricaded the doors, barred the windows, then set the whole building on fire, burning to death over three hundred slans.
That had been the tipping point that turned slans entirely against their human persecutors. From there, it had only grown worse and worse.
Trembling with all she had learned, Anthea realized that very few people alive knew this truth. Humans still exhibited an undiminished hatred toward the mutant race. No wonder the true slans (if any of them still remained) lived in desperate hiding.
Weary of the sickening reports, Anthea stretched her legs and moved along the shelves, pulling down boxes and poking among the other paraphernalia. She found dusty devices, strange laboratory equipment that looked antique while at the same time futuristic. The sealed items were labeled merely “unknown slan weapon” or “dangerous slan mind-control device.”
In one cabinet she found an old-fashioned video viewer and canisters of tapes. “S. Lann recordings: Original statements. Highest Security Access.” Doctor Samuel Lann, the first investigator—some said the creator—of the slans! She knew she had to watch the tapes.
She lifted the viewer and brought it back to the table where the baby still lay, wide awake. She spent several minutes deciphering the player and loading the old and brittle tapes. She feared the tape might snap as it rattled through the viewing mechanism, but she had to learn what Samuel Lann had said in his own words.
Once she activated the power switch and heard the wheels clattering, jumpy images began to flicker on the screen. She saw a handsome man with dark-brown hair, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw that denoted confidence and trustworthiness. He seemed defiant yet patient as he faced his questioners. She realized that this was Lann and that these were interrogation tapes. Even back before the Slan Wars, there must have been an organization equivalent to the secret police and the slan hunters.
“Why do you fear my children?” Lann said. “I love them. Two fine daughters and a son—triplets—who happen to have been born with an unusual birth defect. They’re no threat to you.”
The interrogator said in a gruff voice, “Anyone with powers such as theirs is a threat to us. Anyone who has the ability to control minds must themselves be controlled before they harm our government or our population.”
“But they’re just children, barely fifteen,” Lann said mildly. Even Anthea could tell he was hiding something.
“They are weapons, living weapons that could be turned against us if we do not control them.”
Another voice, a woman’s, spoke up from outside the field of view, “And how many others like this are there, Dr. Lann? How many children have tendrils? We’ve heard reports from other countries—countries that you visited. Wouldn’t you like us to bring together these other mutants, just so we can give them proper medical care?”
Lann wasn’t falling for it. “Ask the other parents. How can I judge how many have been born?”
“Born? Or created, Dr. Lann?” said the male voice.
“What are you suggesting?”
“In your laboratory we found and confiscated many devices, strange machines that had the ability to alter human brains.”
The woman continued in a soothing voice, “Your research is well-known, Doctor. You are quite prominent in the field of mental enhancement.”
“Yes, I have made a career of studying the nature of the human mind, of memories and knowledge. My dream is to record and share those components that make up a person’s history and personality.”
The male interrogator seized on the comment. “And did those diabolical machines also expand the brains of your children, mutate them into these powerful creatures who can manipulate thoughts? You could be manufacturing enhanced humans, putting your own fingerprints on the evolution of the race.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Lann laughed at first, then saw that the others were serious.
“We know you have the capability,” the woman added.
“No one has that capability. I may be a genius in my field, but not even my children—who are far smarter and more imaginative than I am—could concoct such a bizarre conspiracy of using mind machines to produce a whole new race of human beings. Surely you can see that’s ridiculous?”
“What we see, Dr. Lann, is that your three children have powers we do not understand. We’ve already received reports from our counterpart agencies that an alarming number of others just like them have begun popping up in the most unlikely places. Children born with tendrils—”
The woman interjected, harsher now, “Or perhaps innocent babies were exposed to unusual rays produced by your machines, which caused the tendrils to grow. Are you seeding them around the world, Dr. Lann, trying to create a quiet revolution?”
“Of course not.”
There was a long silence, and finally the interrogators decided to let him go. “You watch yourself, Dr. Lann—because we’ll certainly be watching you.”
With a shudder, Anthea removed the tape and put in the next one. Beside her, the baby was fully alert. When she looked at her little boy, she experienced a poignant understanding of how Dr. Lann must have felt upon seeing his own three children born with strange tendrils. Was he surprised, or intrigued?
There was no record of the woman who had been mother to those first three slan children. Had the mother been normal, or a secret slan all along? Maybe the race had existed far longer than anyone suspected. Had that long-forgotten woman—or Dr. Lann himself—been exposed to some strange chemical or mutagen? She doubted she would ever know.
In the next interrogation tape, Dr. Lann looked haggard. Purple bruises surrounded one eye, and a bandage covered his forehead. His clothes were rumpled, even torn, but his face held a murderously defiant spark that hadn’t been there before.
“By being so outspoken, you call attention to yourself, Doctor,” said the interrogator, a different one than before. “If you don’t want to be singled out for our special attentions, then you shouldn’t speak on the behalf of these dangerous mutants.”
“Someone has to,” Lann snapped back. “Someone needs to be the voice of reason. Obviously, it won’t come from your new secret police organization.” A stiff gloved hand struck him across the face. Lann spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at his interrogator. “You have no right to hold me here. I have committed no crime.”
“You have attempted to destroy the human race. That’s a significant crime in our book. Mutants are cropping up everywhere—it’s a veritable plague! I doubt we could possibly stop the spread now, even if we exterminated all of them before they have a chance to breed. They keep appearing even from seemingly normal parents.”
“I have nothing to do with that,” Lann said. “It’s the next step in evolution. Why fight it? Embrace it, for the betterment of the human race.”
“There’s nothing natural about it. Everyone knows of your machine for transforming babies into telepathic monsters. You use your rays on pregnant mothers and newborn infants, causing them to develop tendrils.”
“That is absurd propaganda. Everyone ‘knows’ about it only because of the lies you and your organization have spread.” Another slap across his face. Dr. Lann didn’t even seem rattled.
“We know your son and daughters have barricaded themselves inside your fortress lab. One can only guess what they’re doing in there. Is it true both daughters are pregnant? Who is the father?”
“None of your business. We have done nothing wrong.”
“Then why won’t they let us come in and inspect?”
Lann sneered at the interrogators. “Because you’ve already proved yourselves to be prejudiced oafs. You wouldn’t understand what you find. You could easily plant evidence.”
“If you cooperate, Dr. Lann, perhaps we’ll be merciful.”
“I think this interview is over.” Lann struggled to stand up, but the gloved hands shoved him back down into the chair.
“It’s over when we finish asking you questions.”
But Lann clenched his jaws, crossed his arms over his chest, and refused to say another word. The tape ran for several long minutes. The interrogator prodded and provoked him, but he would not answer. Finally the recording ended.
Anthea could only stare. This information had been kept from the public! How could the government have sealed away such details from everyone? It was as if someone—someone in control—wanted the slans to remain hated.
CHAPTER 21
While the chicken was roasting in the oven, sending savory smells throughout the house, Granny showed the fugitives their separate rooms and allowed them to clean up and rest. But she had other business with Jommy.
As he followed the old woman, he suspected that she had a scheme up her sleeve. Even though he had worked to adjust her corrupt attitudes over the years, she could easily have reverted to her villainous old self. At the moment, however, he had few other choices.
Spry with eagerness, Granny walked around to the back of the house, where she pulled up the wooden door to the root cellar. Instead of the traditional smells of dirt, cobwebs, and old vegetables, Jommy saw bright lights, tiled walls, and metal stairs leading to one of his underground chambers. “I thought you might like to see this—I salvaged a few scraps. Important scraps.” Her eyes glittered. “I’m sure it’s worth something to you.”
Jommy looked around in amazement and confusion. “But I triggered the self-destruct myself, just before I led the tendrilless away from here on a wild-goose chase! I gave you a hypnotic instruction.”
“Yes, you did, but Granny’s mind found a way around it.” She propped her hands on her bony hips. “And I had a devil of a time saving some of your papers and blueprints and designs. I had burns and blisters on my face and hands for weeks!”
“But why would you do that? It was dangerous, and foolish.” He stepped ahead, amazed to see so many intact boxes and shelves. He had expected it all to be destroyed, and he couldn’t keep the appreciation and admiration out of his voice. “You saved so much of my work.”
She snorted. “It could have been valuable. I always intended to sell it, but I wasn’t sure how much it was worth. I didn’t want to be cheated. Everybody wants to cheat Granny.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what’s it worth to you now, Jommy? Take a look around.”
She led him into a chamber where she had stacked a pile of singed lab notebooks along with some of his personal inventions, instruments he used for testing circuits and improvising power sources. With a flourish, she opened a metal cabinet full of small components, valuable micro-generators, and a host of other devices the world had never seen before.
Jommy was grinning. “It’s a starting point for me to rebuild everything, Granny. But it’s still missing a great many of my records and notes. Most of those were burned, I’m sure.”
“Oh, they burned all right. But Granny has more. Not everything was lost.” Her expression was very devious. “During our four peaceful years here, when everybody liked each other in the whole valley, I used to sneak into your laboratories at night. I copied many of your notebooks—and you didn’t suspect a thing!” She cackled. “It was just a precaution. Common sense, actually. You would have done it yourself. Maybe old Granny’s figured out how to block your slan mind probing, eh?”
“Very risky, Granny. If the tendrilless got their hands on this information—”
She pointed a scolding finger at him. “Don’t you get all high and mighty, Jommy Cross. It was a bit of insurance, and if you were to leave me—which you did—then I had something I could sell. I was sure there’d be many buyers for these notes and blueprints.”
“So why didn’t you sell them?”
Now the old woman looked away. “I was afraid to. What would I say? ‘A slan criminal left me these designs because I sheltered him for so long?’ I would have been arrested by people like that John Petty you brought into this house.”
Jommy knew the old woman was right.
“So now you owe it to Granny. I’m an old woman with modest needs. I don’t have to be filthy rich, but I wouldn’t mind a little wealth here and there.”
He knew Granny would never be satisfied. Only her constant, greedy dreams of having more kept her going.
She took him through several of his old laboratory rooms, which were cluttered and dark. The walls bore serious burn and smoke marks, and half of the lights didn’t work. She’d used his precision testing room to store canned vegetables and sacks of sugar, flour, and beans. It would take him quite a while to clean and set up his lab again, but it was quite a head start.
Granny led him with her stiff-legged gait down the tunnel that went under the ranch house to one of the outbuildings. “This way. One last thing. Extremely impressive. And valuable—very valuable.” Her chuckle turned into a dry cough.
They climbed a set of metal stairs. Granny flicked a switch to activate the lights, then raised a hatch to the small hangar shed Jommy had built. He climbed out onto the sealed concrete floor and just stared. “It’s still intact!” His fast rocket-plane, which he had built for his special explorations.
“Not just intact, young man—it’s fully fueled and ready to launch, just the way you left it.”
He startled the old woman by throwing his arms around her in a hug. She felt like a sack of sharp elbows and ribs and shoulder blades. “Granny, you may well have helped save the world. That must be worth a very large reward. I am very impressed.”
* * *
The next day, with Kathleen sitting beside him in the well-lit laboratory chamber, Jommy carefully cracked open the first of his father’s notebooks in the stack on the table. He didn’t want Petty close to him while he looked at the papers, and President Gray had left the two of them alone, preoccupied with possible plans to draw up a defense of what remained of civilization on Earth.
Jommy had slept for only a few hours the night before, too excited to lie around in bed. Kathleen also got up at dawn, looking refreshed and beautiful. Granny brought them a pot of strong coffee, and the bitter roasted scent drifted into the air. She had also cooked a big breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes, which Gray and Petty gladly devoured, but Jommy was too anxious to get to work in the laboratories.
“This is very interesting stuff,” Kathleen said, scanning the records as she sat beside him. Granny had copied many of the documents onto fresh paper, but they devoted their initial efforts to the original records. “Your father’s conclusions are . . . remarkable.”
“He was killed when I was only six, but he placed these volumes in storage for me, to help me reach my potential. But they weren’t just gifts—they were clues, his way of showing me what I could become. I wish I’d known him better.” He heaved a sigh.
Kathleen picked up the bottom journal on the stack, the one most severely singed around the edges. Granny must have pulled it directly from the flames. She turned the brittle, brown pages, looking at Peter Cross’s tight, neat handwriting. As she flipped from one page to the other, she frowned, then held one page up to the light. “Jommy, look! There’s something more here. I thought it was just a stain, but . . .”
Leaning close, he saw faint lines and scrawls, diagrams and symbols that might have been shadows of letters etched into the paper. “Thermal-response ink. The heat from the fire must have activated it.”
“It’s all just gibberish. Can you decipher it?”
“If my father created the code, then I can translate it. It just might take a little while.”
“And help,” Kathleen added, “which I’m glad to provide.”
Jommy picked up the other notebooks, carefully warmed some of the pages over a small flame, and saw that many of the pages did bear secondary messages. Messages for him. Peter Cross’s notebooks were already so full of unexpected details and incredible revelations that he would never have thought to look for additional information.
But the information he found between the lines were even more amazing.
Jommy and Kathleen worked intensely for hours, transcribing the symbols onto clean sheets of paper. Jommy set up graphs to decode the messages, while Kathleen scrutinized them, remembering all the intensive schooling Kier Gray had given her at the grand palace. Back then, many detractors had complained about the waste of time and energy in educating a slan girl who was due to be executed on her eleventh birthday. But the President had insisted. She knew a great deal about encryption and secret messages, more than the palace workers ever suspected.
Jommy finally discovered a connection, figuring out that one of the symbols indicated a letter in his mother’s name and another in Jommy’s own name. From that point, they possessed a key to part of the alphabet, and by translating bit by bit, unfolding incomplete words and filling in blanks, they picked up speed. Jommy and Kathleen vigorously cracked the code, both of them grinning, their slan tendrils waving as they shared telepathic excitement. They laid out the real message Peter Cross had hidden in his journals.
Jommy read the lines of text, barely daring to breathe. “It’s directions to my father’s main laboratory. A major slan base containing technology far beyond anything I’ve ever invented. It was there that he did his greatest work.”
“The diagrams are a map, and these numbers are geographical coordinates.” Kathleen eagerly leaned over his shoulder, reading. Jommy felt her nearness, smelled the faint perfume of soap on her skin, and a great warmth filled him. She picked up on his thoughts and let her fingers trail down his shoulder as she kept reading. “It sounds like the greatest repository of slan knowledge in the world. Look here.” She pointed. “He says it includes machinery and stored energy sources dating all the way back to the time of Samuel Lann himself.”
