The Kyben Stories

by Harlan Ellison

  Parkhurst spoke unhurriedly, quietly, trying to calm Tallant. “This is the advance guard of a gigantic Kyban fleet, mister. We’re sure of that because there are almost fifty ships in the force that attacked us. If that’s what they are using for an advance scout, the fleet must be the largest assembled during the War.

  “It’s obvious they intend to crush right through, the sheer force of weight breaking through all the Earth defenses, and perhaps strike at Earth itself.

  “This is the big push of the War for the Kyban, and there is no way to get word to Earth. Our inverspace transmitters went when they burned down the transpoles at the meridian. There’s no way to warn the home planet. They’re defenseless if all the outer colonies go—as they surely will if this fleet gets through.

  “We’ve got to warn Earth. And the only way we can do it, and with luck save the lives of the few thousands left alive on Deald’s World, is to stall for time. That’s why we needed a man like you. You.”

  Then he fell silent, and they waited silently.

  The only sounds in the room were the click and whisper of the blank-faced machines, the tight, sobbing breaths of Benno Tallant.

  Finally the big wall-chronometer had ticked away ten minutes, and the technician signaled Parkhurst once more.

  The blond man took up the hand-mike again, and began speaking quietly, earnestly, knowing he was no longer dealing with subordinates, but the men in power up there above the planet; speaking as though each word were the vital key to a great secret.

  “We have placed a bomb on this planet. A sun-bomb. I’m sure you know what that means. The entire atmosphere will heat, right up to the top layers of the stratosphere. Not quite enough to turn this world into a nova, but well enough above the point where every living thing will perish, every bit of metal heat to incandescence, the ground scorched through till nothing can ever grow again. This world, all of us, all of you, will die.

  “Most of your fifty ships have landed. The few that remain in the sky can not hope to escape the effects of this bomb, even if they leave now. And if they do—you are being tracked by radar—we will set the bomb off without a moment’s hesitation. If you wait, there is another possibility open to you.”

  He tossed a glance at the technician, whose eyes were fixed on a bank of radar screens with one pip in the center of each. The technician shook his head, and Tallant realized they were waiting to see if their story was accepted. If one of those pips moved out away from the planet, it would mean the Kyban did not believe, or thought it was a bluff.

  But the Kyban obviously could not chance it. The pips remained solidly fastened to the center of the screens.

  Then Tallant’s eyes suddenly widened. What Parkhurst had said was finally penetrating. He knew what the blond man meant! He knew where that bomb was hidden. He started to scream, but Shep’s hand was over his mouth before the sound could escape, could go out over the transmitter to the Kyban.

  He became violently ill. Shep drew away from him, cursing softly, pulling a rag from a console top to wipe himself off. Tallant continued to vomit in dry, wracking heaves, and Shep moved back swiftly to catch him as he fell.

  The lisping man eased Tallant onto a console bench, and continued daubing at his spattered uniform.

  Tallant knew he was on the verge of madness.

  He had lived by his wits all his life, and it had always been the little inch someone would allow him that had afforded the miles he had attained. But there was no inch this time. Bewildered, he realized he could not take advantage of the weakness or the politeness of these men, as he had taken advantage of so many others. These men were hard, and ruthless, and they had planted a sun-bomb—My God In Heaven!—a sun-bomb in his stomach!

  He had once seen stereos of a sun-bomb explosion.

  He threw up again, this time falling to the floor.

  Through a fog he heard Parkhurst continue: “We repeat, don’t try to take off. If we see one of your ships begin to blast, we’ll trigger the bomb. We give you one alternative to total destruction. To destruction of this planet you will need so desperately for storage, refueling and supply for your fleet. One alternative.”

  He paused, looked around the communications room, which had suddenly seemed to grow so crowded. He seemed a bit embarrassed, perhaps by the obvious histrionics of the tense situation. Parkhurst licked his lips and went on carefully, “Let us go. Let the Earthmen on this planet blast away, and we promise not to set off the bomb. After we have left the atmosphere, we will set the bomb on automatic, and leave it for you to find yourselves. If you doubt we have actually done as I say, take a stabilization count with whatever instruments you have to detect neutrino emission.

  “That should convince you instantly that this is no bluff!

  “We will tell you this, however. There is one way the bomb may be deactivated. You can find it in time, but not till we have gotten away. It is a gamble you will have to take. The other way…there is no gamble at all. Only death.

  “If you don’t comply, we set off the bomb. If you do accede to our demands, we will leave at once, and the bomb will be set to automatic, and will go off at a designated time. It’s armed with a foolproof time-device, and it can’t be contained by any neutrino-dampers.

  “That is our conditioned demand. We’ll wait for your answer no more than an hour. At the end of that time, we trigger the bomb, even if we are to die!

  “You can reach us over the band on which you are receiving this message.”

  He motioned to the technician, who threw a switch. A bank of lights went dark, and the transmitter was dead.

  Parkhurst turned to Tallant, lying shivering in his own filth. His eyes were very sad, and very tired. He had to say something, and it was obvious what he said would be cruel, terrifying.

  Don’t let him say it, don’t let him say it, don’t let him say it, Benno Tallant kept repeating in the maddened confines of his mind. He screwed his eyes shut, put his slippery fists to them to ensure the darkness, perhaps blotting out what Parkhurst would say.

  But the blond man spoke.

  “Of course,” he said quietly, “that end of it may be a bluff. I may be lying. There may not be any way to damp that bomb. Even after they find it.”

  IV

  Tallant had been in such bad shape, they had had to lock him in the operating room, after removing everything breakable. Shep had been for strapping Tallant to the table, but Parkhurst and the pig-faced man—an ex-baker turned sniper named Banneman—were against it.

  They left Benno Tallant in the room, while the hour elastically drew itself out. Finally, Shep palmed the loktite open and came in to find the looter lying on his side in the room, his legs drawn up near his chest, his hands down over his knees, the wide, dark eyes staring unseeingly at the limp, relaxed fingers.

  He drew a pitcherful of water from a tap in the next room, and threw it on Tallant’s face. The looter came out of his almost trancelike state with a wail and a start. He looked up, and memories flooded back at once. And the dust hunger.

  “J-just a sniff…just a s-sniff is all I want…please!”

  Shep stared at the weakling with a mixture of disgust and livid hopelessness. “This is the savior of Earth!” He spat on the floor.

  Tallant’s guts were untwisting. His mouth was dry then foully wet then dry again. His head ached and his muscles were constricted. He wanted that dust more than anything, he had to have it. They had to help him. He whined, and crawled toward Shep’s boots.

  The lisping man drew back. “Get on your feet. They expect the answer any minute.”

  Tallant got to his feet painfully, steadying himself on the operating table. They had the table bolted to the floor, but he had managed to bend two of its legs in his frantic, screaming drive to get out, to get to the dust.

  “Come on,” Shep said.

  Shep led the shivering, drooling Tallant to the communications room once more, and when Parkhurst saw the state of disintegration coming over Tallant, he s
poke quietly to Doc Budder. The spike-chinned old man nodded, and slipped past Tallant, out the door. Tallant stared around the room with blank eyes, till Doc Budder came back.

  The old man held a snow-white packet, and Tallant recognized it for what it was. Dream-dust. “Gimme, gimme, gimme, please, ya gotta give it to me, give it, give me…”

  He extended shaking, pale hands, and his twitching fingers sought the packet. Doc Budder, recognizing another addict was getting his craving, while he suffered without his own poison, held the packet back, taunting Tallant for a moment.

  The addict struggled toward the old man, almost fell on him, his breath ragged and drool slipping out of his mouth. “Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme…” His voice was a whisper, fervent, pleading.

  The Doc laughed shrilly, enjoying the game, but Parkhust snapped, “Let him alone, Doc. I said let him have his dope!”

  The Doc threw the packet to the floor, and Tallant was on hands and knees in an instant, scrabbling for it. He had it in his hands, and he ripped the packet open with his teeth.

  He struggled across the floor on his knees, to the comm-console and ripped a piece of paper from a pad. He folded it one time, and let the white dream-dust filter out of the packet, into the trough of paper.

  Then he turned to the wall, crouching down so they could not see what he was doing, and inhaled the dust through each nostril.

  Even as the dust slid up his nasal passages, the hunger died, the strength returned to him, the pressure eased from the base of his skull, his hands stopped trembling.

  When he turned back he was no longer a shambles.

  He was only a coward.

  “How much longer?” Banneman asked from across the room, carefully keeping his eyes from Tallant.

  “Any minute now,” the technician answered from behind his commask. And as though his words had been a signal, the squawkboxes made a static sound, and the rasp of a translating machine broke the silence of the room.

  It was in a cold, metallic voice, product of changing Kyban to English.

  “We accept. You have the bomb, as our instruments indicate, so we allow you seven hours to load and leave.” That was the message, that was all.

  But Tallant’s heart dropped in his body. If the alien instruments showed an increase in neutrino emission, it could only mean his last hope was gone. The Resistance did have the bomb, and he knew where it was.

  He was a walking bomb. He was walking death!

  “Let’s get moving,” Parkhurst said, and started toward the corridor.

  “What about me?” Tallant’s voice rose again and he grasped at Parkhurst’s sleeve. “Now that they’ll let us go, you don’t need me any more, do you? You can take that—that thing out of me!”

  Parkhurst looked at Tallant wearily, an edge of sadness in his eyes. “Take care of him, Shep. We’ll need him, seven hours from now.” And he was gone.

  Tallant remained with Shep, as the others left. He turned to the lisping man, and cried out, “What? Tell me! What?”

  Then Shep explained it all to Tallant.

  “You’re going to be the last man on Deald’s World. Those Kyban have tracing machines to circle down on centers of neutrino emission. They would find it in a moment if it were in one place. But a moving human being isn’t always in one place. They’ll never suspect it’s in a human being.

  “They’ll think we’re all gone. But you’ll still be here, with the bomb. You’re our insurance policy.

  “Parkhurst controls the bomb as long as he’s on the planet, and it won’t go off. But as soon as he leaves, he sets it on automatic, and it goes off in the time allotted to it.

  “That way, if an alien ship tries to follow us, tries to take off, the bomb explodes. If they don’t take off, and don’t find it in time, it goes off anyhow.”

  He was so cool in explaining, so uncaring that he was condemning Tallant to death, that Benno Tallant felt the strength of his dream-dust rising in him, felt anguish and fury at being used as a dupe and a walking bomb.

  “What if I just turn myself in to them and let them cut it out with surgery, the same way you put it in?” Tallant said snappishly, with momentary bravery.

  “You won’t,” Shep answered smugly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they won’t bother being as gentle as we were. The first detachment of Kyban foot-soldiers that trace the bomb to you will pin you to the ground and let an attaché slice you open.”

  He watched the horror that passed across Tallant’s face. “You see, the longer you keep running, the longer it takes them to find you. And the longer it takes them to find you, the better chance we have of getting back to warn Earth. So we had to pick a man who was so stinking cowardly, he would keep running…because his whole nature depended on running…on staying alive.

  “No, you’ll keep running, fellow. That’s why Parkhurst picked you. You’ll run, mister, and never stop!”

  Tallant drew himself up, and screamed, “My name is Tallant. Benno Tallant. Do you understand I have a name! I’m Tallant, Benno, Benno, Benno, Tallant!”

  Shep grinned nastily and slumped down on the console bench. “I don’t give a flying damn what your name is, fellow. Why do you think we never asked you your name?

  “Without a name, you’ll be all the easier to forget. This isn’t an easy thing to do—for Parkhurst and the others—they have feelings and scruples about you, fellow.

  “But I don’t. A dream-duster just like you assaulted my wife before—before—” He stopped, and his eyes raised to the ceiling. Aboveground, the Kyban sat, waiting. “So I sort of figure it all evens out. I don’t mind seeing a dustie like you die, at all. Not at all.”

  Tallant made a break for the door, then, but Shep had his rifle up, and a sharp crack slammed it into the small of Benno Tallant’s back. The looter slumped to the floor, writhing in pain, crying out.

  Shep slipped back to his seat.

  “Now we’ll just wait about seven hours,” he said quietly. “Then you become real valuable, fellow. Real valuable. Y’know, you’ve got the life of the Kyban fleet in your belly.”

  He laughed, and laughed some more, and Benno Tallant thought he would go mad from the sounds of underground laughter. He just wanted to lie down. And die.

  But that would come later.

  The rocket field was silent at last. The noise of loading the few remaining thousands of Dealders had crashed back and forth for seven hours, and the ships had gone up in great clouds of fumes and exhaust trailings. Now the last ship was finished, and Benno Tallant watched as Parkhurst lifted the little girl. She was a tiny girl with yellow braids, and she clutched a plastic toy. Parkhurst held her an instant longer than necessary, staring at her face, and Tallant saw compassion and sorrow for his own dead children coursing across the blond man’s face. But he felt no sympathy for Parkhurst.

  They were leaving him here to die in the most frightening way possible.

  Parkhurst hoisted the little girl, set her inside the ship’s plug-port, where the other hands received her. He began to swing up himself.

  He paused with one hand on the swing-rail. He turned and looked at Tallant, standing with shaking hands at his sides, like a lost dog, pleading not to be left behind.

  It was difficult for him, Tallant could tell. The man was not a murderer; he felt this was the only possible solution to the problem.

  He had to warn Earth. But Tallant could feel no companionship. My God! They were condemning him to turn into a sun…

  “Look, mister, it’s like this. We’re not as stupid as the Kyban think. They assume we’ll blast and leave the bomb here. We’ll be in our pokey little ships, they’ll find and damp the bomb, then take off and wipe us out somewhere in space. All canned and ready to be burned.

  “But they’re wrong, Tallant. We made sure they wouldn’t find that bomb.

  “In time, with their neutrino-detectors, they could get the sun-bomb. But not if the carrier is moving. We had to find a man like you, Tall
ant. A coward, a runner.

  “You’re the only assurance we have that we’ll make it to an Earth outpost to warn the mother world. I—I can’t say anything to you that will make you think any better of us; don’t you think I’ve burned over and over in my mind for what I’m doing? Get that look off your face, and say something!”

  Tallant stared silently ahead, the fear draining down and around in him like poison rotting his legs.

  “Somehow, even though I know you’ll die, and I know I’m sentencing you to death, I look on you with pride. Can you understand anything as strange as that, mister? Can you understand that even though I’ve used the life in you the way I’d use the power of a robot-truck, I’m prideful because I know you’ll keep them away from you for a long, long time, and I will be able to save these few people left, save the Earth.

  “Can you understand that?”

  Tallant broke. He grabbed Parkhurst’s sleeve. “Oh, please, please, in the name of God, take me with you! Don’t leave me here! I’ll die…I’ll…die…”

  Parkhurst firmly disengaged Tallant’s hand, his face tense.

  Tallant fell back. “But why? Why do you hate me? Why do you want me to die?” Sobs caught in the looter’s throat.

  The Resistance leader’s face became grim. “No, don’t think that! Please, don’t think that! I didn’t even know you when we found we needed a man like you for this, mister. I hate your type, that’s true, but there’s no reason for me to hate you!

  “You’re a hero, mister. When—if—we get through this, a monument will be set up for you. It’s no good, and it won’t help you, but it will be set up.

  “In the past seven hours I’ve schooled myself to despise you. I have to, mister, or I’d never leave you here. I’d stay in your stead, but that wouldn’t do any good. I wouldn’t have the same desire to run. I’m tired; my wife, my kids, they’re all dead. I want to die, I just want to die. But, but, you—you want to live, and you’ll run till they can’t find you, and that will give us the time we need!