Stupid.
Vard fired into the mass of the orange cone first. A piercing scream rang out, followed by a loud pop; and suddenly the air was filled with little pieces of orange sludge raining down like confetti.
Twixl had not waited to be next. The moment the weapon flashed, the small creature had, in one motion, drawn its own weapon and dropped into a roll to the street, quickly getting under the armored police cruiser. On the third roll he fired at Vard, narrowly missing the Fraskan as Vard jumped from the bubblecar to protection behind it. He was beginning to have second thoughts about Twixl. The little creature was too cool, too professional in its reactions. Before its accident or whatever, Twixl had not been a mere patrolman.
A second discharge came at Vard, quickly followed by a third. He realized that Twixl was eating away at crucial parts of the bubblecar; turning the Plasticine hide molten, causing splashes of the hot material to flow behind the car itself. Twixl had realized that, due to the extreme cold in which they had evolved such heat could melt Fraskans as well.
“Thought criminal!” yelled the little patrolman, and for the first time he seemed to mean what he said. His voice was full of panic, yet his aim was coolly deliberate and very close. Very close.
Vard awoke to the fact that the angle of fire was changing. He had been so busy dodging the lethal bits of melted plastic that he’d lost the advantage. Twixl, it was clear, was trying to work his way to the police cruiser door. Once inside, the creature could command the weaponry built into the car to disintegrate the entire city block, if need be. Vard made his move.
Lunging out into the street, be kept low and ran zigzaggedly for the cruiser, all the while keeping up a steady fire. As he did, Twixl gained the far door of the vehicle. But, just as the Conqueror reached out for the handle, he slipped in the orange goo that was the remains of his partner. Vard lunged at him, ramming him against the side of the door.
Twixl was hit, the pistol flew from his grip and clattered to the pavement. Both had been stunned at the encodnter, but Vard’s gun was still in his hand. Twixl, lying facedown on the street, scrambled toward his weapon. He had almost reached it, when he saw out of the corner of his eye that Vard was raising his pistol.
Twixl froze, and turned slowly toward the Fraskan, arms outstretched, a defeated look on his face.
“Thought criminal?” he asked peevishly.
“Quite right,” Vard replied, and pulled back on the firing stud.
Twixl seemed to be lifted up by the beam, charred, and then reduced to a pile of dark ash.
Vard leaned against the police cruiser, catching his breath, then walked back to his stolen bubblecar and stared at it. Twixl had made a mess of the whole thing. It was obvious that the car would never move again.
He reached in and removed the guidance cards from the console box, which had remained untouched in the fight. For the first time he noticed the buildings and the street. Undoubtedly, hundreds of eyes had witnessed the battle, yet they remained hidden. It would probably be sometime before the shooting was officially reported or discovered.
Vard walked back to the cruiser and got in. The vehicle would be a problem; he had only driven one manually twice before. But the controls were similar and well labeled. It might take a little getting used to, but he could manage.
Activating the power, he closed the side ports. The cruiser glided out of the parking area, weaving and bobbing a little, as Vard got the feel of steering the large vehicle. In a few seconds, he accelerated.
No one challenged the police cruiser as it glided, a bit tipsily, along the deserted city byways. Meanwhile, Vard searched the cluttered control panel for the police radio, and, after a little experimentation, found it.
“… Police cruiser assumed to be heading out of the city. All lock guard stations are warned to be on the lookout for any breach. Until further notice, we are closing lock stations to all but official traffic…” The voice rambled on.
So they were definitely aware of him already. They would love to take him alive, assimilate him, perhaps, into the Rhambdan Mind. How far would they go to get an Agent-in-Charge? Mass assimilation? The Rhambdans didn’t like assimilations at all, because there was a finite limit to the Mind’s effective control when it was so widely dispersed, though no one bad ever defined that limit. Could assimilation neutralize that whine in his head? Thinkng about it, it really didn’t make much difference: dead is dead. The North Gate, one of the seven major airlocks controlling entrance and exit to the city, swung into view ahead of him. As it did, Vard saw that he not only had to contend with getting through the lock somehow, but also with a massive traffin jam of Fraskan bubblecars massed there.
The lock was as traffic-stricken as the capital city was devoid of it. Citizens of other cities, trapped by the sudden capitulation, were frantically seeking a way home. Vard thanked all the gods that the controls in the police car were plainly marked. He punched the button marked CLEAR and hoped that it was the traffic control he wanted. Spotting three other cruisers parked at the lock station, he headed for them, the bubblecars in the jam moving quickly and obediently out of the way like a parting of the waters — much to the consternation and frustration of their owners, some of whom were not in them at the time and a few of whom were run over by the automatic action and now lay screaming in the street. Well, so much for good relations with the conquered, Vard thought cynically.
As he pulled up to the lock tower, he saw that the Rhambdans were preparing to clear the area on their own. They had brought in One of the Kah’diz.
The creature and its host stood, atop the platform in front of the lock control station, looking at the fantastic mess below. The host body, Vard saw with revulsion, was a Fraskan. On his back perched the Kah’diz, a purplish, somewhat indistinct mass like matted hair, each strand of which was imbedded in the victim’s neck.
The Kah’diz were vampiric; they had no way to manufacture their own blood, and could adapt to almost any creature’s metabolism. They saw, heard, felt, spoke through the host body — and that body was simply that: a body, manipulated by the thing like a puppet. Sentience died when the Kah’diz took you.
The Kah’diz, for reasons unknown to anyone, had developed the strange talent of becoming empathic broadcasters; they could induce almost any sort of emotional reaction in any other creature. They could make you love them, or fear them, or any of ten thousand other, more subtle reactions. They played on emotions like an organist mastering the greatest of concert organs, seemingly for sport but actually to fulfill a need not well understood by potential hosts. And a Kah’diz would wear out a body in a fairly short time.
Long frustrated in expanding and developing their own civilization because of the lack of suitable host bodies, they reproduced quickly, though; and the development of modern medicine on their world had left them with a mushrooming population. They had, therefore, been among the first to leap on the Rhambdan bandwagon. Rhambda, badly in need of allies and confident of its own power, accepted.
The value of the Kah’diz to the Rhambdans was illustrated by this situation. Occupation was the directive and their own personal goal; and for it they were well suited, as Watch Officer Baathiax, the Kah’diz at the North Lock, knew. Although the Fraskans were decadent, and normally absurdly easy to control, this gathering had all the earmarks of a riot. Emotions, the Kah’diz reflected, are curious, fickle things. The creature knew it could never control this mob alone; its whole race couldn’t do it. But the empathic amplifiers aboard its ship would magnify its own natural powers a billionfold.
A dead hand reached down and, lifted the communications microphone. “Baathiax here. The, situation is critical at North Lock. How many of our ships are now in port?”
A rustling sound on the other end was audible as the communications officer checked.
“Nine,” came the reply.
“Very good — for the moment, anyway. What must be done here is clear. I have a control rod with me, but no external power source. Get some of my people to each airlock station, then have the standby crews of each of the ships feed the power from the generators into the rods. Most of these creatures couldn’t get out of this mess if they wanted to, so it will have to be handled carefully.”
“All other locks already have at least one of your people on band,” replied the communications officer. “All have rods, except at Northwest, and we’ll have one out there by the time the standby crews can get the generators working. I’ll signal you when we’re ready here.” Baathiax mumbled assent, and switched off. As it did, it heard the muffled whine of a police cruiser and saw a sleek, black vehicle clearing its way through the mudded traffic.
The Shrine of the Black Roots protect me from petty bureaucracy! it swore to itself. Any more befuddled, stupid policemen, agents, and fellow-travelers in the lock control center and there would be no room to raise an arm without knocking out ten people!
Baathiax started to fume that such a thing would not happen with Kah’diz in total control, but after all these years the creature was just too cynical not to let the feeling pass. A bureaucrat was a bureaucrat was a bureaucrat in any and all ways, shapes, and forms; and it was an immutable law of the galaxy that in any operation there would, for every competent agent, be ten clotheads to foul things up. Baathiax felt doubly lucky to be a line officer; in the field, such beings died.
Baathiax shook off the pessimistic introspection. Such problems were part of the job, Baathiax reflected sadly. There was always that dream of every Kah’diz of being alone on a world of hosts, feeding peacefully until finally dying in a mass orgy of emotional pleasure. But such a paradise was more than a little unrealistic for a second officer.
The Kah’diz returned its gaze to the police cruiser. Why, the driver was a Fraskan! Curious. What was a Fraskan doing in a cruiser at this stage of the game?
The new occupant of the crowded lock tower stepped from the elevator and walked straight toward the Kah’diz. Baathiax sent a playful urge that the newcomer be overcome with humor. The Fraskan stopped, looked momentarily puzzled, and then started laughing maniacally. Peals of laughter issued from the platform, and the Fraskan tried to brace himself to keep from doubling up. Baathiax watched him with cold indifference.
After a few minutes, the Kah’diz released the subject. The others on the platform had viewed this strange behavior with alarm; and a couple, fearing a madman was loose among them, had drawn their weapons. Baathiax waved a host hand to stop them. Genuine laughter, it thought, would be a real treat, but marionettes were childish.
Amman Vard stopped laughing abruptly. His body convulsed, he retched and gagged repeatedly, until he regained control of himself. Although nervous and scared by the unexpected attack, his wits held together. He could afford to be this monster’s toy for a little while: all Kah’diz were too arrogant to believe that they could be conned, and none allowed a telepath within easy range. If he could survive this sadist, he might just pull it off.
The other Conquerors on the platform, realizing what had happened, were shooting nervous glances at Baathiax, and most seemed to find urgent reasons to be needed elsewhere. The platform quickly cleared. An objective of both Baathiax and Vard had been attained.
“Noble sir,” gasped Vard, “if you will but permit me to speak.”
The Kah’diz remained impassive.
“I am Colonel Hadusan, of the Fraskan Liberation Army,” he lied. “I have been ordered to offer my services as needed, then proceed with a mission.”
So that was it, Baathiax thought disgustedly. A fifth columnist. A traitor come up from his dirty hold to exhibit the dirt proudly in victory. Such men were dangerous; their loyalty lay only to themselves. But what was this idiot doing here?
“I do not require you,” the Kah’diz told him coldly. “What do you wish of me?”
“My mission, sir,” Vard explained carefully. “A very dangerous traitor, one Aruman Vard, escaped the lock just before it closed. He has been hiding out in a bubblecar and we have just discovered his approximate location on the Great Waste Highway. However, many Fraskans are trapped out there, and only another Fraskan could tell which was which. I have been ordered to go to the mountain exiles and pick him up before he slips the net.”
The Fraskan sounded logical enough. They all looked alike to Baathiax. And, considering the undercurrent of fear the native had been radiating, what he said must be the truth. The Fraskans were just too slavish and decadent to keep their composure through the kind of treatment this one was being given.
The Kah’diz’s reasoning was as logical as Vard’s story — and equally false. It simply did not occur to the creature that a good agent of the opposition would be a carefully trained and fully programmed psychotic.
The transceiver buzzed.
“The generators are on, and up to full power,” the voice of the communications officer reported. “All stations are manned and ready.”
“All right,” replied Baathiax. “I’ll clear up this mess right now.”
With that, the creature removed from a small, skinlined case attached to ita belt a thin, gleaming silver rod, about a meter long. With its host’s hands, it reached up and attached a wire from the rod to one of its own tentacles, which it had disengaged from the host’s neck. A thin drop of golden-colored Fraskan blood dropped onto the host’s shoulder.
The wire was actually a tiny tube, Vard saw, and the hair-thin tentacle slipped into it. The “wire” uncoiled from inside the rod, giving enough slack so that the rod could be held in front of the Kah’diz. Vard heard a faint hum of power, and a sickly purple glow seemed to overtake the rod, clinging like an eerie mist.
Baathiax turned to Vard and the few others still on the platform. “You will feel certain things,” it warned them, “but it won’t be the power that the ones forward and below will receive. The field is quite directional. You should have the willpower to reject anything you might get as feedback. If not, get as quickly as possible to the other side of the platform, opposite the beam. The effect will be minimal there.”
Baathiax suppressed a quick urge to shoot his fellow Conquerors a jolt of suicidal tendencies with a flight motif, considering it was forty meters to the ground and none of them had wings. But, there was diplomacy. Baathiax returned quickly to the business at hand.
Vard, the closest, was the first to feel it: a vague lethargy, a feeling of wearied quietude, a will to forget whatever one had in mind and return to the comfort and safety of the previous day’s lodgings. Nothing much was very important, it seemed. He felt as if he was in a dream-like fog, unaware of his location, or purpose. With great difficizity he shook it off, but he stepped back and away from the emotion-master. If this was a case of mild feedback, what must it be like out there in the jam?
Vard now felt the mood slowly changing. And he saw that few in the crowd below had moved.
Slowly but surely, Vard found himself getting horny; the craving for sex grew slowly stronger within him. This time, however, he realized what was happening and was able to keep something of a detached mind. But he was aware that the peaceful, lethargic feeling was still with him, as well. The Kah’diz strategy was now apparent: the combination of the relaxing, quasinarcotic “high” and the powerful sexual stimulation created a single-minded behavioral attitude on the part of the people below.
Vard could see that the crowd below was beginning to react. People were seeking out members of the opposite sexes — and, in a few cases, the same sex — and congregating in sexual groups of four.
Now Vard felt a third urge superimposed on the first two: the urge for privacy, to get away, to walk to a place of concealment, of safety, of solitude. The great mass below was slowly breaking up, moving off, away, in almost all directions.
Vard stopped and shook himself as he realized that he, and most of the others on the platform, had been walking around the platform area in circles. Many of the others, looking dreamily into a fog of their mental creation, continued to do so.
The quadrisexual groupings of the walkers below was unmistakable. There would be some orgies, and perhaps some new family groupings, before this day was out!
Still some remained, of course — those with strong family ties on which the induced reactions and desires only reinforced their will to go home. But these numbered in the hundreds now, hundreds among the thousands of deserted cars; they could be handled directly by the authorities.
Baathiax gave them a powerful urge to obey authority, a will to follow any command given them. Since the only real authority figure around was represented by its own figure on the platform, Baathiax picked up a public address microphone and began speaking, stepping up urgings to obedience as it talked. Vard had gone all the way to the far end of the platform and stopped up his ears. He wanted to be around after the finish.
“Fraskans,” crooned the dead voice of the Kah’diz host, “return to the city. Your families and loved ones are being cared for. They have been informed of your safety, and the government guarantees that safety. You are to be good citizens of the new government, and return to the place of your last night’s lodgings, remaining there until further notice. The government, of course, will reimburse you for any expenses. In this way can you best help us — and you want to help us, don’t you?”
The crowd felt it really did want to help the government. It would do anything for the government. It would die for the government
“Go, now,” Baathiax exhorted them, and, obedient as trained animals, they went. Within five minutes the entry/exit port below was the largest used car lot on Fraska, but without a single customer. Even a number of Conquerors, Vard noted with some amusement, were in the process of obediently walking away.
Baathiax turned to the few remaining Conquerors on and near the platform.
“Do you think,” it asked acidly, “that clearing the rubble below would be beneath your powers, means, or dignity?”
Having no taste for an additional treatment of the creature’s power rod, which still glowed softly in its hand, the few remaining Conquerors practically fell over each other in their rush to get to work.
Baathiax relaxed and disconnected the rod, then idly flipped on the transceiver.
“Baathiax here. North Lock cleared and operational in twenty or thirty minutes, maybe sooner if we can get a few wreckers in here.”
“Ah, no wreckers available right now, sir, but do your best. It’s really bad at West,” came the reply.
“All right,” the Kah’diz replied, “we’ve done our part.”
It switched off the radio. Suddenly it heard a noise behind it, and whirled. Why, that Fraskan was still here! With more respect, Baathiax motioned Vard closer.
“I congratulate you on your self-control,” it told him. “Such a strong will will be a true asset to the new empire. Now, what was it that you wanted?”
Vard bowed slightly. “My only wish, noble sir, is to serve the new empire. I must leave the city to identify the suspect Vard in the mountains.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Baathiax muttered with annoyance. “I shall open the lock.”
Vard emerged from the elevator and chose the cruiser nearest the lock. He was feeling pretty pleased with himself. Starting the car, he moved slowly and confidently into the lock area. None of the wrecking crew took any notice.
Baathiax closed the “A” lock compartment behind the cruiser and began pumping the atmosphere back into the Dome. As soon as the atmospheric pressure dropped below proper levels, the cruiser’s internal air and pressurization kicked in, much to Vard’s relief. Until then, he had not thought to check and see if it even had such devices.
There was a pop in his ears and then the cruiser’s atmospheric controls blasted in. Soon it was a comfortable 250 Kelvin.
The “B” lock opened noiselessly in front of him; and Vard moved the cruiser forward as soon as be had enough clearance.
He was out of the city.
Vard glanced down at the outside temperature gauge. It was hot enough here to melt oxygen!
The cruiser sped onward through the twilight-lit desert stretching out before it, seemingly to infinity.
The little whine in his head changed, became more of a direction finder. He turned the car in the direction of the strongest signal, confident that the ship had not deserted him and that he was away free.
Hours later, he was in the middle of the desert, heading for a small lifeboat sent down on auto to pick him up. He pulled up next to the small airlock.
It was fortunate that his race could withstand a vacuum and warmer-than-normal temperatures for short periods, for he had no spacesuit or other protection. Shielding his eyes from the red sun’s dull rays, and taking a breath, he depressurized the cruiser and opened the door, bolting as fast as he could into the lifeboat airlock.
The boat’s lock closed behind him and he could feel air and temperature being introduced and brought up to Fraskan normal. After what seemed to be about two minutes longer than he could hold his breath, a buzzer sounded. He exhaled, then took in great amounts of air.
Opening the second lock, he went over to the pilot’s control couch, strapping himself in but not touching the control helmet. This would be an automatic operation. Quickly, without any sensation felt inside the little craft, it was speeding out into space.
“You will have to live in the lifeboat until we reach Valiakea,” an alien, metallic voice told him. “The conditions inside our ship would kill you instantly. We have several more pickups; then we will all go to Valiakea for Adaption Procedures necessary for Haven. The proper food for you and some reading matter are supplied. Should you want or need anything we can supply, simply speak up. I shall be monitoring you.”
“Thank you, nothing now but some sleep, I think,” he answered, and relaxed fully for the first time since the long day had begun. Adaption. He hadn’t considered that angle. Funny, he thought, no matter how cosmopolitan, old, and experienced you are, you still tend to think of everything in terms of your own normal existence. And yet the universe was a collection of the diverse. Physically, anyway.
He did not like the idea of Adaption. It seemed to cut him off completely from his own people and homeland, as miserable as those now were.
He was thinking these thoughts as he drifted off into a dream-filled but lengthy sleep.