Healer, page 19
part #3 of LaNague Federation Series
(“Please hurry!”) Pard urged faintly and Dalt realized that he must be taking a terrible beating—in twelve hundred years Pard had never said “please.”
(“Two more left turns and you’re there … don’t hesitate … start firing as soon as you make the last turn. …”)
Dalt nodded in the murk and double-checked the automatic setting, fully intending to do just that. But when the moment came, when he made the final turn, he hesitated for a heartbeat, just long enough to see what he would be shooting at.
She lay there, propped up on cushions and smiling at him. El. Somehow it didn’t seem at all incongruous that she should be there. Her death nearly a millennium ago had all been a bad dream. But he had awakened now and this was Tolive, not some insane planet on the far side of the galaxy.
He stepped toward her and was about to let the Ibizan slip from his fingers when every neuron in his body was jolted with a single message:
“Fire!”
His finger tightened on the trigger reflexively and El exploded in a shower of red. He was suddenly back in reality and he held the roaring, swerving, bucking weapon on target until the feed canister was empty.
The echoes faded, and finally, silence.
There was not too much left of Kali. Dalt only glanced at the remains, turned, and retched. As he gasped for air and wiped clammy beads of sweat from his upper lip, he asked Pard, No chance of regeneration, is there? No answer.
“Pard?” he called aloud, and underwent an alarming instant of deja vu. But this time he knew Pard was still there—an indefinable sense signaled his presence. Pard was injured, weakened, scarred, and had retreated to a far corner of Dalt’s brain. But he was still there.
Without daring a backward glance, he tucked the Ibizan into the crook of his right arm, its barrel aligned with the arrow protruding from his liver, and reentered the maze. He was concerned at first with finding his way out, until he noticed drops of a familiar muddy fluid on the floor in the dim light. He had left a trail of blood and bile as it oozed from his liver, along the arrow shaft and onto the floor.
With only a few wrong turns, he managed to extricate himself from the maze and limp back to the flitter. There he was confronted with another problem.
A large group of Kali’s guards stood clustered around the craft. Dalt’s immediate reaction was to shift the Ibizan and reach for the trigger. A gesture as futile as it was unnecessary: the weapon was empty, and at sight of him, the guards threw down their arms and prostrated themselves face down on the ground before him.
They know she’s dead, he thought. Somehow, they know. He hesitated only a moment, then stepped gingerly between the worshipers and their dead brethren who had attacked him earlier.
He had a difficult moment entering the flitter when the arrows protruding from the front and back of his chest caught on the window opening. The problem was resolved when he snapped off the shaft of the arrow under the clavicle a handsbreadth away from his skin.
Situating himself again at the console, he first replaced the empty feeder canister with a fresh one—just in case—and activated the instruments before him. The vid screen to his right immediately lit up with the sergeant’s face. Dalt made a quick adjustment of the transmitting lens to limit focus to his face.
“Healer!” the sergeant exclaimed with obvious relief. “You’re all right?”
“Fine,” Dalt replied. “How are things over there?”
The sergeant grinned. “It was rough going for a while—couple of the flitters took a beating and one’s down. But just when things were starting to look really bad, the opposition folded … just threw down their weapons and went into fits on the beach … ignored us completely. Some of them dove into the ocean and started swimming toward the island. The rest are just moping aimlessly along the water’s edge.”
“Everything’s secure, then?” Dalt asked. The flitter’s engine was humming now. He pulled the guide stick into reverse and upped the power. The craft vibrated as it tried to disengage from the doorway. With a grating screech, the flitter came free and caromed off the port wall before Dalt could throttle down and stabilize. The corridor was too narrow here to make a full turn, so he resigned himself to gliding part of the way out in reverse.
The sergeant said something but Dalt missed it and asked him to repeat. “I said, there’s a couple of my men burned but they should do all right if we get back.”
With his head turned over his left shoulder and two fingers on the guide stick, Dalt was concentrating fully on piloting the flitter in reverse. It was not until he reached the point where the corridor widened to its fullest expanse that the “if broke through.
“What do you mean, ‘if’?” he asked, throwing the gears into neutral and hitting the button that would automatically guide the flitter in a 180-degree turn on its own axis.
“The gate or passage or warp or whatever you want to call it—it’s closed,” he replied. “How’re we going to get home?”
Dalt felt a tightness in his throat but put on a brave face. “Just sit tight till I get there. Out.”
“Right,” the sergeant said, instantly reassured. He was convinced The Healer could do anything. “Out.” The vid plate went black.
Dalt put the problem of crossing the sixty thousand light-years that separated his little group from the rest of humanity out of his mind and concentrated on the patch of light ahead of him. The return had been too easy so far. He could not help but expect some sort of reprisal, and his head pivoted continuously as he gained momentum toward the end of the corridor and daylight.
But no countermove was in the offing. As Dalt shot from the darkness into the open air, he saw the steps leading to the temple entrance blanketed with prostrate Kalians. Most eyes stayed earthward, but here and there a head was raised as he soared over the crowd and headed for the mainland. He could not read individual expressions but there was a terrible sense of loss in their postures and movements. The ones who looked after him seemed to be saying, “You’ve killed our godhead and now disdain to take her place, leaving us with nothing.”
Dalt felt sudden pity for the Kalians. Their entire culture had been twisted, corrupted, and debased by a single being. And now that being was no more. Utter chaos would follow. But from the rubble would rise a new, broader-based society, hopefully with a more benign god, or perhaps no god. Anything would be an improvement.
(“Perhaps,”) said a familiar voice, (“their new god will be Kalianoid with a white patch of hair and a golden hand. And minstrels will sing of how he crossed the void, shrugged off their arrows and spears, and went on to overpower the all-powerful, to slay She-Who-Could-Not-Die.”)
Gained your strength back, 1 see.
(“Not quite. I may never fully recover from that ordeal. All debts are paid, I hope, because I will never risk my existence like that again.”)
I sincerely hope such a situation will never arise again. And yes, all debts are paid in full.
(“Good. And if you awaken in the middle of the night now and again with the sound of horrified screaming in your brain, don’t worry. It’ll be me remembering what I’ve just been through.”)
That bad, eh?
(“I’m amazed we survived—and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”)
Details of the coast were coming into view now, and below, Dalt spotted an occasional Kalian swimming desperately for the island.
You know about the warp generator? Dalt asked.
(“Yes. As I told you before, Kali activated it psionically. She’s dead now so it’s quite logical that it should cease to function. I think I can activate it briefly. So call the sergeant and have him get his men into the air—we’ll have to make this quick.”)
Dalt did so, and found four of the five flitters, each overloaded with men from the disabled craft, hovering over the shore.
(“Here goes,”) Pard said. (“I can only hope that there was some sort of lock on the settings, because I haven’t the faintest idea how to direct the passage. We could end up in the middle of a sun or somewhere off the galactic rim.”)
Dalt said only, “Do it!” and pressurized the cabin.
Nothing happened for a while, then a gray disk appeared. It expanded gradually, evenly, and as soon as its diameter appeared sufficient to accommodate a flitter, Dalt threw the stick forward and plunged into the unknown.
XXII
They seemed to drift in the two-dimensional grayness interminably. Then, as if passing through a curtain, they were in real space, in daylight, on Fed Central. And what appeared to be the entire Federation Defense Force clogged the alley before them and the air above them in full battle readiness. There was more lethal weaponry crammed into that little alley than was contained on many an entire planet. And it was all trained on Dalt.
Ever so gently, he guided his flitter to ground between incinerated Kalian bodies and sat quietly, waiting for the following craft to do the same. When the last came through, the vortex collapsed upon itself and disappeared.
(“That’s the end of that!”) Pard said with relief. (“Unless the Kalian race develops another psi freak who can learn to operate it, the warp passage will never open again.”)
Good. By the time we run into them again—a few millennia hence, no doubt—they should be quite a bit more tractable.
With the closing of the passage, the marksmen in the other craft opened all the hatches and tumbled out to the pavement. At the sight of their comrades, the battle-ready troops around them lowered their weapons and pandemonium broke out. The flitters were suddenly surrounded by cheering, waving soldiers.
Ros Petrical seemed to appear out of nowhere, riding a small, open grav platform. The milling troops made way for him as he landed beside Dalt’s flitter.
Dalt opened the hatch and came out to meet him. His effect on the crowd was immediate. As his head appeared and the snowy patch of hair was recognized, a loud cheer arose; but when his body came into view, the cheer choked and died. There followed dead silence broken only by occasional murmurs of alarm.
“Pardon my appearance,” Dalt said, glancing at the bloody shafts protruding from his body and tucking the Ibizan under his arm, “but I ran into a little resistance.”
Petrical swallowed hard. “You really are The Healer!” he muttered.
“You mean to say you had your doubts?” Dalt asked with a wry-smile as he stepped onto the platform.
Petrical shot the platform above the silent crowd. “Frankly, yes. I’ve always thought there was a chain of Healers … but I guess you’re the real thing.”
“Guess so. Where’re we going?”
“Well, I had planned to take you to the Council session; they’re waiting to hear from you in person.” He glanced at the arrows. “But that can wait. I’m taking you to the infirmary.”
Dalt laid a hand on his arm. “To the Council. I’m quite all right. After all,” he said, quoting a line that was centuries old, “‘what kind of a healer would The Healer be if he couldn’t heal himself?’”
Petrical shook his head in bafflement and banked toward the General Council hall.
A sequence of events similar to that which had occurred in the alley was repeated in the Council hall. The delegates and representatives had received word that The Healer’s mission had been successful and that he was on his way to address them personally. Many of the men and women in the chamber were members of The Healer cult and started cheering and chanting before he appeared. As in the alley, a great shout went up at first sight of him on the high dais, but this was instantly snuffed out when it became obvious that he was mortally wounded. But Dalt waved and smiled to reassure them and then the uproar resumed with renewed intensity.
Between horrified glances at Dalt’s punctured body, the elderly president pro tem of the Council was trying to bring order to the meeting and was being completely ignored. The delegates and reps were in the aisles, shouting, waving, and hugging one another. Dalt spotted Lenda standing quietly amid the Clutch delegation. Their eyes met and Dalt nodded his congratulations. The nod was returned with a smile.
After a few minutes of the tumult, Dalt began to grow impatient. Switching the Ibizan to the single-shot mode, he handed it to the president pro tem. “Use this as a gavel.”
The old man took it with a knowing grin and aimed the weapon at the high ceiling. He let off four rounds in rapid succession. The acoustic material above absorbed the end-over-end shot with ease but was less successful in handling the accompanying roar. The crowd quieted abruptly.
“Now that I have your attention,” he said with forced sternness, “please take your places.”
The Council members laughed good-naturedly and complied.
“I’ve never seen or heard of a more vigorous, more vital, more rowdy bunch of representatives in my life!” Petrical whispered, his face flushed with excitement.
Dalt nodded and inwardly told Pard, I feel pretty vigorous myself.
(“About time,”) came the sardonic reply. (“It’s been a couple of centuries since you’ve shown much life.”)
The president pro tem was speaking. “We have before us a motion to install The Healer as chief executive of the Federation by acclaim. Now what I propose to do is …” Even with amplification at maximum, his voice was lost in the joyous chaos that was unleashed by the announcement.
Shrugging, the old man stepped back from the podium and decided to let the demonstration run its course. The pandemonium gradually took the form of a chant.
“… HEALER! HEALER! HEALER! …”
Pard became a demon voice in Dalt’s mind. (“They’re in the palm of your hand. Take command and you can direct the course of human history from now on.”)
And be another Kali?
(“Your influence wouldn’t have to be malevolent. Look at them! Tarks, Lentemians, Humans! Think of all the great things you could lead them to!”)
Dalt considered this as he watched the crowd and drank in its intoxicating chant:
“… HEALER! HEALER! HEALER! …”
Thoughts of Tolive suddenly flashed before him. You know my answer!
(“You’re not even tempted?”)
Not in the least. I can’t remember when I last felt so alive, and I find there are many things I still want to do, many goals I still want to achieve. Power isn’t one of them.
Pard’s silence indicated approval. (“What will you tell them?”) he asked finally.
Don’t know, exactly. Something about holding to the LaNague charter, about letting the Federation be the focus of their goals but never allowing those goals to originate here. Peace, freedom, love, friendship, happiness, prosperity, and other sundry political catchwords. But the big message will be a firm “No thanks!”
(“You’re sure now?”) Pard taunted. (“You don’t want to be acclaimed leader of the entire human race and a few others as well?”)
I’ve got better things to do.
EPILOGUE
Kolko lounged by the fire and eyed the wagon that sat in darkness on the far side of the flames. His troupe of Thespelian gypsies had turned in early tonight in preparation for their arrival in Lanthus tomorrow. Kolko was hurt and angry—but only a little. Thalana had taken up with the new mentalist and wanted no part of him.
He was tempted to enter the darkened wagon and confront the two of them but had decided against it for a number of reasons. First off, he had no real emotional attachment to Thalana, nor she to him. His pride was in pain, not his heart. Secondly, a row over a love triangle would only cause needless dissension in the peaceful little company. And finally, it would mean facing up to the new mentalist, a thought he did not relish.
An imposing figure, this newest member of the troupe, with all of his skin dyed gold and his hair dyed silver … a melding of precious metals. And quite a talent. Kolko had seen mentalists come and go but could not figure out how this one pulled off his stunts.
A likable fellow, but distant. Hiding from his past, no doubt, but that hardly made him unique among the gypsies of Thespel. He would laugh with the group around the fire and could drink an incredible amount of wine without ever opening up. Always one step removed. And he had an odd habit of muttering to himself now and again, but nobody ever mentioned it to him … there was an air about the man that brooked no meddling with his personal affairs or habits.
So let him have Thalana. There would be other dancers joining the troups along the way, probably better-looking than Thalana and better in the bedroll … although that would take some doing.
Let ‘em be. Life was too good these days. Good wine, good company, good weather, good crowds of free-spending people in the towns.
He picked up an arthritic tree limb and stirred the coals, watching the sparks swirl gently upward to mingle with the pinpoint stars overhead.
Let ‘em be.
F. Paul Wilson, Healer
