Man of Two Worlds

by Frank Herbert

  Lutt found it unpleasant looking through eyes controlled by another, but he could not shut out any part of the scene. As Humperman’s exposed flesh burned away, bright yellow and orange flames tore through what remained of her armor, filling it with light. Her face and head were the last to go, visible through her faceplate to the hideous end. At last, even the charred fragments melted into the planet.

  It doesn’t look like the medics are coming, Lutt observed. So that’s the way we’ll die.

  She said they were on the way!

  They’ve soldiers to care for. We’re just expendable civilians.

  They wouldn’t just leave us here!

  The Legion does what it must. That’s one of their mottoes.

  Ryll felt the medical foam and inceram repair system tight against skin. It remained cool in the armor but he wondered how long that would last.

  I’m not dying while someone else controls my body, Lutt thought. He began inserting his own commands into their shared nervous system. The body twitched and twisted.

  And I will not die in any but Dreen shape! Ryll insisted.

  Overriding Lutt’s efforts, he swiveled his eyes inward and began idmaging the familiar Dreen body he had known since emerging from the seedhouse.

  Only a primitive white blob appeared on the Earther chest but it was too much for the armor. The front of the armor split and the searing touch of Venus consumed the blob. Inceram foam immediately flowed across the breach but Ryll, overcome by the blast furnace heat, emitted a primal Dreen scream and sensed Lutt joining him in a dark pit. The pit became unconsciousness as both fainted.

  ***

  You better damn well believe I’m a war correspondent! I’ve been right in the middle of blood and dying and it wasn’t fun!

  —From an interview with Lorna Subiyama

  “It was your son, Ryll,” Habiba said. “A primal Dreen scream that came to me across the Spirals.”

  She faced Jongleur in the original Dreenor home preserved beneath her cone. The mud-brown walls usually felt reassuring when she dealt with unpleasant matters, but not this evening.

  “Is he. ..is he.. .”

  Jongleur could not complete the question.

  “I cannot say for sure, Jongleur. There was great pain and confusion . . . as though an Earther also were sending me his message of agony.

  “That awful merging!”

  “I fear that is the case.”

  “But you located him on Venus?”

  “There is no doubt of it. The circumstantial evidence, the reports from our operatives on Earth, the great pain I sensed. It was fire, Jongleur. I fear he was being consumed by fire.”

  “Oh . . . my poor misguided son,” Jongleur moaned.

  “The sad example of his life must be used to educate the young,” Habiba said. “In that way, Ryll’s mistakes will not be a total waste.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course.”

  Jongleur found this small compensation for the emotional pain caused by Habiba’s information but it helped that she would make the effort to soothe him. Blessed Habiba!

  “Tomorrow, we must gather the forces of our best idmagers and complete the shield,” Habiba said. “It must sound cruel, dear Jongleur, but nothing is more important. As for other matters, they must be set aside. The shield must be made.”

  “And the replacement erasure ship?”

  “Mugly tells me the improvements are taking more time than originally estimated. But whatever happens, Ryll’s fate cannot be the fate of all Dreendom.”

  “Then you really think he is . . . he is . . .”

  “It appears most likely, Jongleur. And that might be best for him. You know the fate of those who have merged.”

  “Madness and . . .”

  “Unpredictable behavior!”

  It suddenly struck Jongleur as strange that Habiba should equate madness with unpredictability. Could she, indeed, predict the behavior of all sane Dreens? He found this repulsive. Was nothing private? Was nothing totally and uniquely his own? But, of course, in the Thoughtcon, Habiba shared any data she cared to read. Thus. . . thus, he must be part of Habiba’s thoughts. And she . . . could she control Dreen actions in Thoughtcon?

  Jongleur’s recent concentration on Earther matters made him see this in a different light. Was it wrong to suppress all individuality? Or was that another mad thought?

  “What are you thinking, Jongleur?” Habiba demanded.

  For the first time in his life, Jongleur contemplated the concealment of his thoughts from Blessed Habiba.

  “I am thinking how to strengthen tomorrow’s shield idmaging,” he lied.

  Immediately, Jongleur felt icy cold. What were the consequences of misleading Habiba? But this was such a small lie. And he did want to strengthen the effort on the shield.

  “Dear Jongleur,” Habiba said. “You are always so supportive of my every desire. With you helping, I know we cannot fail.”

  ***

  From the outside, the ship looks kinda fancy but that hummer is big! Big as a Legion warship and just as well protected. I mean, the Legion wants its whores but it doesn’t want them hurt.

  —Eyewitness description, Legion bordello, Venus

  Lutt felt himself floating in and out of consciousness, remembering a dream. A big soft creature with four legs peered at him in the dream and berated him for being secretive.

  He felt no pain but there was this curious feeling of being separated from his body and then uniting with it, a sensation repeated several times.

  Is this what it’s like to die?

  There was movement. He sensed it vaguely but could not see it. Was it more of the weird dream?

  A woman’s voice cut across these thoughts.

  “Quick! He’s bleeding badly!”

  Where am I?

  Abruptly, he remembered. Surface of Venus, hurt by a Chink rocket. Ryll! Am I rid of that Dreen bastard?

  No response from Ryll.

  He felt himself being lifted and pain returned. He sensed armor pressed tight against his skin.

  Blurred vision, pink with ruddy orange light behind it, revealed three . . . maybe four creatures in podlike armor lifting him. The medics?

  Their suits were gray inceram with no insignia.

  The damn Chinks?

  A helmet came close to his faceplate and he saw a woman’s face behind the armor glass—definitely female, a mixture of Oriental and Caucasian features. She appeared concerned. She and the others were putting him on a gray gurney suspended from some sort of flying ship directly above them. He strained to identify the ship through uncooperative eyes.

  Massive. It filled the orange sky. Streaks of color along its length. Chartreuse. He saw white and blue neo-Victorian decorations around portholes, hatches and vents.

  What the hell is that thing? Chink? Legion hospital?

  Lutt found his voice. “Wha’ kinda ship? Looks like a flying bordello.”

  A female voice from somewhere behind turn said: “Smart boy. Let’s see if we can restore him enough to get a little life out of him.”

  A high-pitched feminine laugh greeted this.

  Lutt tried to turn and see who laughed but an inceram pod clamped shut over his gurney and he was left in gloomy green isolation with the sensation of swinging on the end of a cable.

  Something in the enclosing pod emitted a burring sound and he felt the soothing departure of both pain and consciousness. They were using sonosthetic! Maybe it was a hospital.

  Lutt awoke strapped in a bed. Green ceiling and some red surface below that. Medical connections to his body. He felt softly cocooned. A hospital room. He saw his clearlens glasses on a side table, still unbroken.

  I should dump those things, he thought. Haven’t needed them since I got Ryll’s eyesight.

  There were sounds—human activity, voices nearby, rumbling of engines and an echoing series of thumps. Explosions?

  Someone moved into his range of vision. He glimpsed svelte black clothing that clu
ng to a slender, sensuous body.

  The lovely face he had seen behind an armor glass helmet bent over him. One of his rescuers. Did the Legion use female medics?

  She had brown eyes, a definite epicanthic fold to them. Skin dark and smooth. Tiny black beauty mark on the right side of her full-lipped mouth. Nose turned up slightly. A Caucasian nose.

  “You feel better?” A softly lilting voice. Her lips opened to reveal small teeth, evenly spaced.

  She reached out a long-fingered hand and touched his arm. Electric sensation of warmth.

  “Where?” he managed.

  “You are in our infirmary. Do you hurt?”

  “Sore as hell.” He turned slightly and grimaced. “My back hurts.”

  “Don’t try to sit up. Our doctors used red-laser acupuncture two days ago to facilitate cellular regeneration in your back wound.”

  “Two days?”

  He glanced around, seeing the room more clearly. Red walls, fuzzy surface and tiny yellow flowers printed in it. Brass lamps. Furnishings dark and ornate. Everything bolted down. An oval port on his left showed him a distant Venusian landscape with a low mountain range coming into view.

  “You have been here three days,” she said. “Your ID says Peter Andriessen but I have seen a rebroadcast from Earth that says you are Lutt Hanson, Jr. Which?”

  “Lutt.”

  “My goodness! We have a famous visitor!”

  “What is this ship?”

  “This is the Legion’s flying bordello. We go where we are needed.”

  Keerist! A flying whorehouse!

  He stared up at his rescuer. “Are you . . .”

  “I am called the Virgin Chanteuse. I sing for the boys but I do not perform on my back.”

  “You’re one of the group that went down to the surface and rescued me, aren’t you?”

  “That is another service we perform when the need arises.”

  “How bad. . .was I hurt?”

  “Our doctors say you are remarkably lucky. Surface burns and contusions, no serious internal injuries.”

  So my Dreen got in a few repair licks before he vanished.

  “My back?”

  “The injury missed your spine.”

  She smiled and dimples formed beside her mouth.

  “Thirsty,” he said.

  There was a sensuous grace to her as she moved to a wall spigot and drew a cup of water. He smelled carnation perfume when she helped him drink.

  “So you sing,” he said when she removed the empty cup.

  “I also wait on tables, make my own clothes and supervise the ship’s seamstresses.”

  “And help with the wounded.”

  “I am with you partly because I speak your language well. And we were curious. Why would a Hanson risk his life here?”

  “Business.”

  “But it is so dangerous.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “We were poor and . . .” She shrugged. “But you, you really came here on business?”

  “Right.”

  “When we suspected you might really be a Hanson, one of our girls said, ‘If a Hanson jumps out a tenth-story window, you must follow him. Profit is to be made there.’”

  “Is this flying bordello profitable?”

  She tittered. “The better girls are no longer poor. Never call them whores. They are love specialists. These are the women of the Legion, the toughest and most deserving troops in God’s creation.”

  “How did you . . . I mean, what . . . ” He broke off, wondering if his desire for this woman was visible in his eyes.

  “My father and three brothers were legionnaires, all killed in battle against those damnable Mao Guards. But a woman cannot serve the Legion except. . .”She glanced around. “Besides, I am Catholic and I have a care for my soul.”

  “You’re certainly beautiful enough.”

  “So I am told frequently, but . . . ” Again, that gentle shrug. “I promised my father and elder brother I would not sell my body.”

  “The virgin singer,” he said.

  “It sets me apart,” she said. “The Madame says it is good for business, something they can dream about but cannot have.”

  “What’s your real name?” he asked.

  “I am Nishi D’Amato.” Her eyes flashed a definite hazel as she smiled at him. “But I must go now. Others need me.”

  The clinging black garment rippled over her back and buttocks as she left the room.

  Nishi. Is she the Ni-Ni of my dreams? Was I drawn to Venus to be with her?

  That is a very mystical idea, Lutt. Your Venus on Venus!

  So the damned Dreen was still here!

  We still share this flesh, Lutt. A lucky thing for you I was here to effect idmaged repairs of our body. It does not appear the doctors discovered our secret.

  Maybe not.

  When we were dying, you made promises about sharing our body. I think its time we—

  Forget it, sucker. I can promise anything when I’m in trouble.

  But you promised!

  I warned you once I may not keep my promises.

  Lutt, this is something I will remember. And next time . . .

  Shit! You didn’t help because you wanted to save me. You were saving yourself just like anybody would.

  I will separate us at the first opportunity. This is my promise, Lutt. We Dreens keep our promises.

  Lotsa luck, Ryll baby. I don’t think you can do it.

  ***

  It never really gets dark on Venus. This is a war fought in murderous orange. Night becomes a nostalgic memory and everything around you captures the look of Hell.

  —Lorna Subiyama, a story from Venus

  Prosik stared out an armored window of his Venusian barracks and pondered the malignant fate that had brought him to this place. The landscape glowed with a fiery ferocity and he shuddered at the things he had learned about the planet. Agony and quick incineration could well prevent any idmaged attempt to save himself if his inceram armor malfunctioned.

  The barracks he shared with nine other Zone Patrol men presented an almost unused appearance after their breakfast in quarters—ten lockers, ten bunks, racks with spare armor—everything inceram gray. The others already had gone to their assignments. None had known the Earther Prosik mimicked, a guard sergeant named Lew Doughty. All said this was punishment duty and sympathized when he told them about the damage to the Dreen ship for which he had been blamed.

  “I guarded some Dreens once,” one said. “Make you wanta puke. We oughta blow ’em all away.”

  Venus duty centered on the United States Consulate and Sergeant Doughty was scheduled to stand guard in two hours. In the interim, he studied a manual titled “How to Stay Alive on Venus.” It was not reassuring.

  Prosik’s defense in his Zone Patrol guise was to play dumb and resentful, a pose he did not find difficult. He also drew on every Earther story he could remember but he knew the other men already thought him clumsy. Prosik had heard one whisper to a companion: “Give you odds this one doesn’t last ten days.” Prosik thumbed through the survival manual, more and more dismayed as he read:

  Use the buddy system and never go alone into the city. You could be killed for your armor or your organs.

  Gorontium is Legion territory. Never get into an argument or a fight with a legionnaire. You can’t win.

  Stay away from the Legion bordello! Even if you manage to get inside you will never emerge alive.

  Eat and drink only Zone Patrol fare. Addictive substances and other dangerous additives have been found in bars and restaurants here.

  Ask no personal questions of new acquaintances. They will take you for a spy and that can get you killed.

  Remember the Four Cs at all times: Courtesy, Caution, Coolness, and Courage. Be suspicious of everyone and everything except your Zone Patrol buddies.

  Check your armor after every servicing and before using it each day. Always run a function check in the exit lock. You cannot surv
ive outside without working armor.

  Habiba protect me! Prosik thought.

  He suddenly found the familiar prayer meaningless. Had it prevented this state of affairs? No! Had it ever brought him anything he truly wanted? Never!

  Prosik longed for a frond of bazeel and time to enjoy it.

  Bazeel, my only friend.

  “Sergeant Doughty!”

  It was the speaker above the exit lock at the end of the barracks.

  “Yo!” He had heard the others respond that way.

  “Your duty assignment has been moved up. You are due at the consulate in twenty minutes.”

  “But I haven’t checked my armor or—”

  “You’re replacing a casualty. Get moving!”

  Prosik threw “How to Stay Alive” onto his bunk and began getting into his armor. That, at least, was familiar from the drills on the transport that had brought him to this hellish place.

  And how do I find the time and conditions to seek out the Earther, Hanson, and that awful Ryll who got me into this fix? How does Mugly expect me to do that? He must know the difficulties. Curse them all!

  ***

  Earthers place great store in their tools and other toys. Weapons particularly are attractive to them even though experience has demonstrated that weapons are just as perilous to the users as to anyone thought of as enemy.

  —The Habiba Commentary

  Nishi brought Lutt’s dinner on the evening of his first day of consciousness and informed him the flying bordello had just settled to its home berth at Gorontium. He could see the outlines of buildings bathed in lambent orange out the armored port of his infirmary room.

  Lutt thought Nishi looked radiant in a white singlesuit of clinging cut. He took a deep breath to put aside lustful thoughts and concentrated on her almond eyes.

  “What happened to my equipment, my cameras?” he asked as she put the tray on his bedside table and fluffed his pillows.

  “They are stored in a nearby room. Nothing seems to have been damaged.’9