Xenopath - [Bengal Station 02]

by Eric Brown

* * * *

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TRANSFERENCE

  Vaughan was awoken by bright sunlight and he sat upright suddenly, wondering if the dialogue with Breitenbach the night before had been nothing but a dream.

  He struggled through the narrow aperture of the mound. Breitenbach was standing across the avenue, as large as life, shrugging himself into his tattered thermal jacket.

  “I trust you slept well?”

  Vaughan laughed. “I think the whisky helped.”

  They breakfasted on local fruit and water, sitting around the dead embers of the fire as the sun rose over the peaks and warmed the valley.

  Later, Breitenbach led the way through the corridor to the ledge where the night before they had positioned the Hortavan gemstones. Vaughan emerged blinking into the sudden wash of sunlight, staring along the winding track to where it vanished between distant peaks and wondering what exactly to expect.

  “When are they due?” he asked. He leaned against the cold bulk of the mountainside and inclined his face towards the warmth of Eta Ophiuchi. “They’ll be here shortly,” Breitenbach said with certainty.

  Vaughan stared at the old man. “I was wondering last night... but I didn’t want to ask—”

  “Go on.”

  Vaughan looked into the oldster’s eyes. “Are you aware of the Hortavan in your head?” he asked. “I mean, what is it like, sharing... yourself with a wholly alien being?”

  Breitenbach smiled. “Most of the time I am unaware of the Hortavan’s presence. It’s content to abide in my consciousness, contemplating its own thoughts without my knowledge. Occasionally it will communicate with me—it learned our language very quickly—and I with it.”

  “That must be strange.”

  Breitenbach smiled again. “Voices in the head, Mr Vaughan. No stranger than being a telepath, privy to the thoughts of others. Except, in my case, those thoughts can reciprocate. The alien in here—” he touched his temple, “has eased the loneliness of my existence these past five years.”

  “If it wished,” Vaughan began tentatively, “it could assume control of you, dictate your thoughts?”

  “I assume that that would be entirely possible,” Breitenbach said. “There have been times, when I have been ill or injured, when the Hortavan has assumed control and eased me through, but in the normal course of events, the alien is content merely to exist.”

  Vaughan thought about it, then gestured at the crystals lodged in the cliff face. “Then why don’t they remain in the stones?” he asked. “Why do they risk becoming the mind-parasites of creatures whose lives are under threat?”

  “Think of the crystals as cold sleep facilities,” Breitenbach replied. “The stored Hortavans are not conscious, but are suspended between life and death. The crystals are perishable, or rather they can sustain the identity matrices of the Hortavans for only so long. That period is coming to an end. Already, many of the crystals have corrupted; many lives have been lost. Of course there is a danger in transferring the remaining Hortavans to the pachyderms, but my guest—” again he gestured to his temple, “thought it the lesser of the two evils to effect the transfer. The southern range is riddled with subterranean caves where the Hortavans can take refuge in times of crisis.”

  Vaughan looked along the track to the snow-clad peaks scintillating in the morning sun. He thought of the military patrol he had seen yesterday, and the procession of pachyderms crossing the last valley. What if the militia had happened upon them?

  “There must be a way to stop the slaughter,” he said.

  Breitenbach smiled. “We have tried, and we are trying, and we will try, my friend. We have informed Eco-Col, but they’re conservative and take our claims lightly. We had hoped that Professor Travers’s report might persuade them.”

  “Have you gone to the authorities on Earth?”

  “We’ve tried everything. What you fail to realise is how powerful Gustave Scheering is, how much control he has of governments and colonial representatives. He is a ruthless multi-millionaire and controls many top politicians and colonial representatives.”

  Vaughan considered. “If Scheering himself could be persuaded... If he could become the unwitting host of a Hortavan, then surely—”

  Breitenbach laid a hand on Vaughan’s shoulder. “Do you think we haven’t thought of that, my friend? Kormier tried to get to Scheering, with the express intent of transferring his Hortavan guest. He was not the first to try.” Breitenbach made a gesture of hopelessness. “Scheering is aware of the danger. He is paranoid about security. He keeps himself surrounded by bodyguards at all times.” He stopped and looked along the length of the track. His sudden smile was as radiant as the sun. “At last,” he murmured.

  Vaughan turned.

  In the distance he saw the giant form of a Grayson’s pachyderm round the bend in the track, pause and raise its trunk in what could have been interpreted as a bellow of triumph. It advanced, taking great, slow loping strides as if wading through quicksand. Behind it, in procession, came other pachyderms. Soon the length of the track was filled with the creatures, trunk to tail.

  The leading bull paused fifty metres before where Vaughan and Breitenbach stood. It raised its trunk and caressed the cliff face—and Vaughan realised that it had touched not the rock but the first of the inset crystals.

  Breitenbach said, “The bull is already host to a Hortavan. It is greeting its people.”

  “And the other pachyderms?” Vaughan began.

  “Watch,” Breitenbach said.

  The second pachyderm in line drew level with the first crystal, and something happened so swift and fleeting that Vaughan thought it a trick of his eyes, and then wondered if anything had happened at all.

  He watched, more closely, as the third animal drew alongside the crystal.

  An instantaneous while light pulsed from the embedded stone, hit the pachyderm’s massive brow and dissipated. It was over in a fraction of a second; had he blinked, he would have missed the miraculous event of the transference.

  As each animal drew alongside the recess, the crystal discharged an alien consciousness and the pachyderms proceeded, plodding stoically after their leader, as if nothing at all had occurred.

  “How many alien minds does one crystal contain?” Vaughan asked.

  “Perhaps a hundred,” Breitenbach replied. “Though some crystals have corrupted over time, and lost many of their stored identities.”

  Vaughan wanted to laugh aloud at the improbability of what he was witnessing, the sheer miracle of the transfer, and at the same time the wonder of the racial salvation it represented.

  By now the first bull had reached the mouth of the corridor. It paused, reached out its short trunk to Breitenbach and touched the old man on the forehead. Breitenbach closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and smiled in delight.

  As the bull loped past, easing its way into the corridor, Breitenbach said, “It thanks you for risking your life to ensure the renewed existence of its fellows.”

  Vaughan could only smile and shake his head as he turned and watched the procession of pachyderms take on board their cargo of extraterrestrial intelligence.

  The animals passed by one by one, their wrinkled hides pungent, something statuesque and graceful in the colossal gravity of their tread as they followed their leader into the corridor.

  Vaughan said, “Where are they headed now?”

  “From my valley, a cutting leads to a vast underground chamber, where the pachyderms usually spend six months before heading north again. This time, however, they will avoid the northern valleys and Scheering’s militia, and remain in hiding.”

  Vaughan looked along the track. The last animal of perhaps fifty was passing the crystals. “There will be others?” he asked.

  “Until the last of the crystals are empty,” Breitenbach said. “They will come in their individual herds over the course of the next few weeks.”

  Vaughan watched the last pachyderm pass the recess. A white l
ight sprang forth, hit the creature, and vanished.

  He stared. There was something about the light...

  It reminded him of something he had seen, and recently: the reflection of a laser, he had thought at the time.

  On the surveillance film of Robert Kormier’s murder...

  The laser had struck Kormier, and only later, on watching the killing in slow motion, had Vaughan noticed the white light lance from Kormier and hit the watching girl full in the face...

  Kormier’s Hortavan, making the transfer as he died.

  Making the transfer to its new host, the Thai girl, Pham...

  Breitenbach was turning and following the last of the pachyderms down the corridor, gesturing Vaughan to follow.

  He did so, as if in a daze.

  Now he knew why the killer had been so intent on tracing Pham—not because he feared she had witnessed the killing, but because he had read the girl’s mind and was aware of the transfer. The assassin had killed Kormier because he was playing host to the alien—and he would stop at nothing to trace and eradicate the alien’s new host, Pham.

  They came to the valley, the sunlight blinding after the shadows of the corridor. Already, the last of the pachyderms were making their way through a narrow fissure in the rock at the far end of the valley.

  Breitenbach said, “You will stay a while longer?”

  “I must get back to Mackintyre. I have a return flight to Earth.”

  Breitenbach inclined his head. “I wish you a safe journey, and thank you for what you have done for the Hortavans.”

  Vaughan said, “I intend to do more. I have... I have an idea, a way I might be able to stop the slaughter.”

  Breitenbach smiled. “You would earn the eternal gratitude of the Hortavan race, if you succeeded, my friend.” Even as Breitenbach said this, Vaughan detected scepticism in his tone.

  He hesitated, wondering whether to tell the radical his plan.

  Breitenbach gestured. “It is best if I do not know,” he said. “If Scheering’s henchmen found me...”

  They shook hands, and Vaughan crossed to the flier and eased himself in behind the controls. He hoisted the vehicle into the air and looked down at Breitenbach.

  The old radical was a tiny, tattered figure, his right arm lifted in farewell.

  Vaughan waved, then lifted the flier from the valley and accelerated over the enclosing peaks.

  He followed the jagged line of the coast, keeping on the seaward side of the mountains in order to avoid the military patrols, and then turned inland towards Mackintyre.

  He discovered he was thinking ahead—to trying to find Pham among the teeming millions on Bengal Station.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE VOICE IN HER HEAD

  The last thing Sukara recalled was the Westerner, smiling as he raised his laser and shot her in the head. And now this... Was she going mad?

  The voice in her head said: Be calm. Do not be alarmed. I am with you, and I will help.

  She recalled only vague memories of what had happened. The Westerner wanting Vaughan, making her discard her mind-shield. He had read that Pham was due back soon.

  Oh, God—Pham!

  Be calm, said the voice. Pham is safe. She will not return here immediately.

  He shot me, Sukara thought. I knew that I was dead, that I’d never again see Jeff.

  You are not dead, Sukara.

  My baby! she thought, cradling the swell of her stomach. Is Li okay?

  Your child is unaffected, said the voice.

  Sukara felt the panic subside. Who... what are you? she thought.

  I will explain later. All that matters now is that I will help you. But you must do as I say. We are still in danger.

  He lasered me through the head, Sukara thought. How can I be alive?

  I entered your mind, made certain repairs, eased you through the trauma of your death and brought you back to life.

  The idea was beyond Sukara’s comprehension. All she knew was that she was indeed still alive. She would see Jeff again!

  We are still in danger, said the voice. You must do as I say.

  Okay, Sukara thought.

  She felt the cover of the sofa beneath her body. She was lying where the Westerner had shot her, in the sunken bunker in the middle of the lounge.

  Pain? She considered this, and found that, miraculously, she felt nothing. The killer had lasered a hole in her head, killed her, and now she did not even have a headache.

  Where do you come from? She thought.

  I am from the planet of Mallory, said the voice.

  Mallory, Sukara thought. But that’s where Jeff is!

  Then she remembered the killer. He must still be here.

  That is correct. He is waiting for Pham, and then for Vaughan. He is in the kitchen now, eating.

  Later, she knew that her reaction was ridiculous, but at the time she experienced a sudden indignation that the killer was helping himself to her food.

  She thought: But if Jeff comes back, walks right into...

  Calm yourself. I will have dealt with the assassin before Vaughan’s return.

  How? She thought.

  I will tell you that in a little while, when you are fully recovered.

  Fully recovered, Sukara laughed to herself. The killer lasered me dead, and now I am recovering... She wondered if she were dreaming.

  This is no dream, Sukara. This is reality. Open your eyes.

  Cautiously she did so. She was lying on her back on the sofa. She reached up, touched her forehead where the laser had struck her. Her fingers touched a sticky crust of blood.

  She pulled her hand away, horrified.

  The voice in her head explained:I had to leave the external wound, Sukara, so as not to alert the killer to your resurrection.

  Then she thought: But he’s a telepath! He’ll read my mind and know I’m still alive!

  That is my immediate concern, the voice said. At the moment his implant is deactivated. I surmise that he will activate it soon, before Pham returns.

  Then he will read my mind! Sukara thought in panic.

  We must retrieve your mind-shield.

  She had tossed it across the room, she remembered.

  She tried to move, but the voice said: Careful. Move your legs first, and then your body. I am monitoring the assassin. Freeze when I tell you, do you understand?

  I understand.

  She moved her legs, wincing as they fizzed with painful pins and needles. Then she shifted her body to a more comfortable position on the sofa. Now she was able to look over the edge of the sunken bunker, across the lounge and into the kitchen.

  She saw the killer as he crossed the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich, and the sight of him filled Sukara with dread.

  Be calm. I am with you, the voice soothed.

  The killer passed from sight. She heard the cooler door open and shut, and a hiss as the cap was removed from a bottle of Blue Mountain beer.

  It was irrational, but what incensed her was not so much that he had shot her through the head, but that he was helping himself now to Jeff’s beer.

  She shifted her gaze to where she had thrown her mind-shield, and there it was. It sat on the pile of the carpet, winking silver in the light of the afternoon sun that cascaded through the window.

  It was perhaps three metres from where she lay, midway between the bunker and the kitchen door.

  I could get it! Sukara thought.

  But the voice in her head counselled caution. Not yet. I am monitoring the assassin. I will tell you when to move.

  You can read his thoughts?

  Not so much read his thoughts, as interpret his intentions. I am aware of his emotions, through the barrier of his shield. Be prepared...

  Okay, Sukara thought.

  But even then, she thought, even when I have the shield and he can’t read my mind, how will we overcome the killer before Pham and Jeff get back?

  I told you, the voice said patiently
,Pham will not return when she planned to, and by the time Vaughan returns we will have dealt with the assassin.

  How?

  Leave that to me, Sukara. For the time being, be calm, and await my instructions.

  The odd thing was, even though there was an armed killer in the next room, who had killed her once and would have no qualms about killing her again, she felt curiously calm. She wondered if the voice in her head, which had healed her wound and brought her back from the dead, was responsible for her mental state now, as she lay in the bunker and stared through the door of the kitchen.