Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  The maneuver was unpleasant, for the alien seemed unconscious, flaccid and still, and mere physical closeness to the creature was repellent. The feel of the thick wettish “hand” pulsing feebly in my own was almost sickeningly intimate. But at last I managed to maneuver myself close enough to establish a common center of gravity between us—an axis on which I seemed to hover briefly suspended.

  I pulled Haalvordhen’s “hand” into this weight-center in the bare inches of space between us, braced the needle, and resolutely stabbed with it.

  The movement disturbed the brief artificial gravity, and Haalvordhen floated and bounced a little weightlessly in his skyhook. The “hand” went sailing back, the needle recoiling harmlessly. I swore out loud, now quite foolishly angry, and my own jerky movement of annoyance flung me partially across the cabin.

  Inching slowly back, I tried to grit my teeth, but only succeeded with a snap that jarred my skull. In tense anger, I seized Haalvordhen’s “hand,” which had almost stopped its feverish pulsing, and with a painfully slow effort—any quick or sudden movement would have thrown me, in recoil, across the cabin again—I wedged Haalvordhen’s “hand” under the strap and anchored it there.

  It twitched faintly—the Theradin was apparently still sensible to pain—and my stomach rose at that sick pulsing. But I hooked my feet under the skyhook’s frame, and flung my free arm down and across the alien, holding tight to the straps that confined him.

  Still holding him thus wedged down securely, I jabbed again with the needle. It touched, pricked—and then, in despair, I realized it could not penetrate the Theradin integument without weight and pressure behind it.

  I was too absorbed now in what had to be done to care just how I did it. So I wrenched forward with a convulsive movement that threw me, full-length, across the alien’s body. Although I still had no weight, the momentum of the movement drove the hypodermic needle deeply into the flesh of the “hand.”

  I pressed the catch, then picked myself up slowly, and looked around to see the crewman who had jeered at me with his head thrust through the lock again, regarding me with the distaste he had displayed toward the Theradin, from the first. To him I was lower than the Theradin, having degraded myself by close contact with a nonhuman.

  Under that frigid, contemptuous stare, I was unable to speak. I could only silently withdraw the needle and hold it up. The rigid look of condemnation altered just a little, but not much. He remained silent, looking at me with something halfway between horror and accusation.

  It seemed years, centuries, eternities that he clung there, just looking at me, his face an elongated ellipse above the tight collar of his black leathers. Then, without even speaking, he slowly withdrew his head and the lock contracted behind him, leaving me alone with my sickening feeling of contamination and an almost hysterical guilt.

  I hung the needle up on the air, curled myself into a ball, and, entirely unstrung, started sobbing like a fool.

  It must have been a long time before I managed to pull myself together, because before I even looked to see whether Haalvordhen was still alive, I heard the slight buzzing noise which meant it was a meal-period and that food had been sent through the chute to our cabin. I pushed the padding listlessly aside, and withdrew the heat-sealed containers—one set colorless, the. other set nonhuman fluorescent.

  Tardily conscious of what a fool I’d been making of myself, I hauled my rations over to the skyhook, and tucked them into a special slot, so that they wouldn’t float away. Then, with a glance at the figure stretched out motionless beneath me safety-strap of the other skyhook, I shrugged, pushed myself across the cabin again, and brought the fluorescent containers to Haalvordhen.

  He made a weary, courteous noise which I took for acknowledgment. By now heartily sick of the whole business, I set them before him with a bare minimum of politeness and withdrew to my own skyhook, occupying myself with the always-ticklish problem of eating in free-fall.

  At last I drew myself up to return the containers to the chute, knowing we wouldn’t leave the cabin during the entire trip. Space, on a starship, is held to a rigid minimum. There is simply no room for untrained outsiders moving around In the cramped ship perhaps getting dangerously close to critically delicate equipment, and the crew is far too busy to stop and keep an eye on rubbernecking tourists.

  In an emergency, passengers can summon a crewman by pressing a call-button. Otherwise, as far as the crew was concerned, we were in another world.

  I paused in midair to Haalvordhen’s skyhook. Its containers were untouched and I felt moved to say, “Shouldn’t you try to eat something?

  The flat voice had become even weaker and more rasping now, and the nonhuman’s careful enunciation was slurred Words of his native Samarran intermingled with queer turns of phrase which I expected were literally rendered from mental concepts.

  “Heart-kind of you, thakkava Varga Miss, but late. Haalvordhen-I deep in grateful wishing—” A long spate of Samarran, thickly blurred, followed, then as if to himself, “Theradin-we, die nowhere only on Samarra, and only a little time ago Haalvordhen-I knowing must die, and must returning to home planet. Saata. Knowing to return and die there where Theradin-we around dying—” The jumble of words blurred again, and the limp “hands” clutched spasmodically, in and out.

  Then, in a queer, careful tone, the nonhuman said, “But I am not living to return where I can stop-die. Not so long Haalvordhen-I be lasting, although Vargas-you Miss be helping most like real instead of alien. Sorry your people be most you unhelping—he stopped again, and with a queer little grunting noise, continued, “Now Haalvordhen-I be giving Vargas-you stop-gift of heritage, be needful it is.”

  The flaccid form of the nonhuman suddenly stiffened, went rigid. The drooping lids over the Theradin’s eyes seemed to unhood themselves, and in a spasm of fright I tried to fling myself backward. But I did not succeed. I remained motionless, held in a dumb fascination.

  I felt a sudden, icy cold, and the sharp physical nausea crawled over me again at the harsh and sickening touch of the alien on my mind, not in words this time, but in a rapport even closer—a hateful touch so intimate that I felt my body go limp in helpless fits and spasms of convulsive shuddering under the deep, hypnotic contact.

  Then a wave of darkness almost palpable surged up in my brain. I tried to scream, “Stop it, stop it!” And a panicky terror flitted in my last conscious thought through my head. This is why, this is the reason humans and telepaths don’t mix—

  And then a great dark door opened under my senses and I plunged again into unconsciousness.

  * *** *

  It was not more than a few seconds, I suppose, before the blackness swayed and lifted and I found myself floating, curled helplessly in mid-air, and seeing, with a curious detachment, the Theradin’s skyhook below me. Something in the horrid limpness of that form stirred me wide awake.

  With a tight band constricting my breathing, I arrowed downward. I had never seen a dead Theradin before, but I needed no one to tell me that I saw one now. The constricting band still squeezed my throat in dry gasps, and in a frenzy of hysteria I threw myself wildly across the cabin, beating and battering on the emergency button, shrieking and sobbing and screaming…

  They kept me drugged all the rest of the trip. Twice I remember waking and shrieking out things I did not understand myself, before the stab of needles in my arm sent me down into comforting dreams again. Near the end of the flight, while my brain was still fuzzy, they made me sign a paper, something to do with witnessing that the crew held no responsibility for the Theradin’s death.

  It didn’t matter. There was something clear and cold and shrewd in my mind, behind the surface fuzziness, which told me I must do exactly what they wanted, or I would find myself in serious trouble with the Terran authorities. At the time I didn’t even care about that, and supposed it was the drugs. Now, of course, I know the truth.

  When the ship made planetfall at Samarra, I had to leave the Vesta
and transship for Terra. The Vesta’s little captain shook me by the hand and carefully avoided my eyes, without mentioning the dead Theradin. I had the feeling—strange, how clear it was to my perceptions—that he regarded me in the same way he would regard a loaded time bomb that might explode at any moment.

  I knew he was anxious to hurry me aboard a ship for Terra. He offered me special reservations on a lino-cruiser at a nominal price, with the obvious lie that he owned a part interest in it. Detachedly I listened to his floundering lies, ignored the hand he offered again, and told a lie or two of my own. He was angry. I knew he didn’t want me to linger on Samarra.

  Even so, he was glad to be rid of me.

  Descending at last from the eternal formalities of the Terran landing zone, I struck out quickly across the port city and hailed a Theradin ground-car. The Theradin driving it looked at me curiously, and in a buzzing voice informed me that I could find a human conveyance at the opposite comer. Surprised at myself, I stopped to wonder what I was doing. And then-

  And then I identified myself in a way the Theradin could not mistake. He was nearly as surprised as I was. I clambered into the car, and he drove me to the queer, block-shaped building which my eyes had never seen before, but which I now knew as intimately as the blue sky of Terra.

  Twice, as I crossed the twisting ramp, I was challenged. Twice, with the same shock of internal surprise, I answered the challenge correctly.

  At last I came before a Theradin whose challenge crossed mine like a sure, sharp lance, and the result was startling. The Theradin Haalvamphrenan leaned backward twice in acknowledgment, and said—not in words—”Haalvordhen!”

  I answered in the same fashion. “Yes. Due to certain blunders, I could not return to our home planet, and was forced to use the body of this alien. Having made the transfer unwillingly, under necessity, I now see certain advantages. Once within this body, it does not seem at all repulsive, and the host is highly intelligent and sympathetic.

  “I regret the feeling that I am distasteful to you, dear friend. But, consider. I can now contribute my services as messenger and courier, without discrimination by these mind-blind Terrans. The law which prevents Theradin from dying on any other planet should now be changed.”

  “Yes, yes,” the other acquiesced, quickly grasping my meaning. “But now to personal matters, my dear Haalvordhen. Of course your possessions are held intact for you.”

  I became aware that I possessed five fine residences upon the planet, a private lake, a grove of Theirry-trees, and four hattel-boats. Inheritance among the Theradin, of course, is dependent upon continuity of the mental personality, regardless of the source of the young. When any Theradin died, transferring his mind into a new and younger host, the new host at once possessed all of those things which had belonged to the former personality. Two Theradin, unsatisfied with their individual wealth, sometimes pooled their personalities into a single host-body, thus accumulating modest fortunes.

  Continuity of memory, of course, was perfect. As Helen Vargas, I had certain rights and privileges as a Terran citizen, certain possessions, certain family rights, certain Empire privileges. And as Haalvordhen, I was made free of Samarra as well.

  In a sense of strict justice, I “told” Haalvamphrenan how the original host had died. I gave him the captain’s name. I didn’t envy him, when the Vesta docked again at Samarra.

  “On second thought,” Haalvamphrenan said reflectively, “I shall merely commit suicide in his presence.”

  Evidently Helen-Haalvordhen-I had a very long and interesting life ahead of me.

  So did all the other Theradin.

  *

  Hell Matter

  by Jean Rabe

  Originally published in Kittens, Cats, & Crime by Five Star books, 2003

  It was barely evening, the sun just set, and the smell of the wet earth was strong. The rain—it had rained all afternoon—was nearing an end, I thought, as the sky was merely spitting now and then in an irregular rhythm that I found most annoying.

  I hated rain.

  I hated it especially when in this, the height of Missouri’s summer, it did nothing to cool things. Somehow despite the time of day, it only served to make everything steamy and more uncomfortable, and thoroughly, thoroughly sodden. Had I not sequestered myself just beyond the opening of this cave I would have been thoroughly wet too, and hot and miserable—rather than dry and only slightly miserable, and terribly, terribly bored.

  As I watched the slowing drops, I heard the cicadas start their song. And from somewhere off I heard a steady and repeated slosh and crunch, the heavy sound of men’s boots tromping through puddles and across stretches of gravel. An unremitting “shush” told me they were dragging something. Perhaps they would come past this cave and I would have something to watch other than mud and rocks. And if they talked, I would have something to listen to other than this odious drizzle and the simple drone of insects.

  I waited, and after several moments the sloshing and shushing grew louder, and the rain began to drum harder—making me realize it had only teased me moments ago into thinking it might stop. The wind picked up suddenly, sending some of the rain inside. There was a flash, lightning. The rumble of thunder followed. I retreated farther into the dry darkness, listening to a patter that was coming angrily now, listening to the sloshing, to the men, who had finally started talking and who were slogging uninvited into my favorite cave. I hoped they were only coming inside to escape the storm, and that they would leave when the rain no longer toyed with me and truly stopped. I did not care to share this place.

  “Hate this rain,” one said.

  I was amused at this, that a man would have something in common with me.

  “The weather’s nothing to be bothered up about. It’s good that it’s raining,” the other said. I could tell that there were only two of them. “It’ll cover our tracks. Folks’re staying in their houses tonight. No one saw us leave town. No one way out here to see us.”

  Except me. I could see fairly well in the growing darkness.

  What they’d been dragging was a boy, their hands under his armpits. They dropped him when they came even with me, the shorter man letting out a deep breath, thankful to be free of his burden. The boy didn’t move, and I wondered if he was dead. I didn’t much care for boys, as I’d met more than a few mean ones in my years—pelting me with rocks, tying things to my tail, chasing me, trying to set my fur on fire. I didn’t much care for boys at all. But I didn’t want this boy to be dead. I didn’t want him rotting inside my favorite cave and fouling the air.

  The taller man pulled a small lantern from a pack. He fumbled to light it, as I crept ‘round a rock to keep out of sight. From the shadows I continued to watch them, glad that my boredom was banished and still worried that the boy was dead and would soon begin to stink.

  I have a keen memory, and so I recognized the men from my trips into town. They were disparate, and it seemed odd that they would keep company. I’d seen the taller one along the river, where the steamboats and barges tie up. He dressed finer on the bank, all ruffles around his neck and wrists, gold rings flashing on each hand, hair smoothed back and dark as oil, and head topped with a cap with a shiny black brim. An important man. But the rings didn’t flash much in the lantern’s soft light, and he was dressed in the color of night, clothes in good repair, though not so fancy as his river attire.

  The shorter one? His clothes were dark, too, but old and spotted. Not an upmarket soul. He had the craggy, drooping face of a bulldog, and he walked with his right foot turned slightly out. I remembered seeing him most often in the shadows of the town’s buildings, sometimes in the backs and in the alleys, where people carelessly threw out food. That’s what I went into town for, the discarded food. I was getting older and slower, and only old, slow mice were finding their way into my belly. I’d come to—sadly—appreciate the people’s garbage.

  The boy? I might have seen him, too, but I would not have recalled it—I did my b
est to avoid boys. In truth I hated them only a little less than the rain.

  “We should tie him up,” the tall one announced. “Don’t want him running off on us.”

  Not dead, I sighed, grateful there would be no horrible odor in my cave.

  “Tie Sammy up? He ain’t going anywhere, Hobe. You walloped him good. He’s unconscious.”

  The tall man nudged the boy with his boot. “Mebee he’s unconscious. Mebee he’s not. Could be playing possum. We can’t take any chances he’ll slip away.” He fumbled in his pack and pulled out a length of rope. The two men propped the boy up against the opposite wall of the cave and tied his hands behind his back, then tied his ankles together. He was a lean boy, with a hawkish nose and unruly hair. His clothes were worn and thin, holes at the knees and elbows, and he was caked with mud from being drug here.

  “Not sure I like this, Hobe, killing a boy. I ain’t got no hankering to…”

  “Can’t take any chances, I told you. ‘Sides, who’s really going to miss him?”

  “I hear tell he works for Joseph Ament. So Ament’ll miss him.”

  “Ament can find another cub,” the one called Hobe said. “I’m not willing to take the chance. I’ll not go to jail ‘cause some boy heard us jawing.”

  “Should’ve drowned him in the river, then,” the shorter man said. “Wouldn’t’ve had to come way out here in this weather. Sammy’s always down by the river, folks’d think he slipped.”

  A shake of the tall man’s head. “My crew’s on my boat. An’ there’re a few hands working on the river—in spite of this weather. Someone might’ve seen us. Nobody’d see us around here.”

  The shorter man shrugged, drawing his shoulders up practically to his ears. “Guess you’re right, Hobe. No one comes out to these caves, ‘cept some kids, maybe a trapper once in a while.”