Daughter of Regals

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Furthermore it probably had a characteristic smell the animals had been taught to associate with food and friends.

  So the man was pretty much safe. The animals weren’t going to turn on him.

  Finally he started heaving sacks and bales out onto the ground: hay and grain for the deer, chow for the dogs, fruit for the monkeys—things like that. When he was finished emptying his cockpit, he jumped out of the ‘craft to put the food in the troughs.

  I still waited. I waited until the dogs ran out into the clearing. I waited until the hawk snatched a piece of and flew away. I waited until the handler picked up a sack of grain and carried it off toward some of the troughs farthest away from the ‘craft (and me).

  Then I ran.

  The buck saw me right away and jumped back. But the dogs didn’t. The man didn’t. He was looking at the buck I was halfway to the ‘craft before the dogs spotted me.

  After that, it was a race. I had momentum and a headstart; the boxers had speed. They didn’t even waste time barking; they just came right for me.

  They were too fast. They were going to beat me.

  In the last three meters, they were between me and the ‘craft. The closest one sprang at me, and the other was right behind.

  I ducked to the side, slipped the first dog past my shoulder. I could hear his jaws snap as he went by, but he missed.

  The second dog I chopped as hard as I could across the side of the head with the edge of my left fist. The weight of my blaster gave that hand a little extra clout. I must have stunned him, because he fell and was slow getting up.

  I saw that out of the corner of my eye. By the time I finished my swing, I was already sprinting toward the ‘craft again. It wasn’t more than three running steps away. But I could hear the first dog coming at me again. I took one of those steps, then hit the dirt.

  The boxer went over and cracked into the bulging side of the ‘craft.

  Two seconds later, I was in the cockpit.

  The handler had a late start, but once he got going, he didn’t waste any time. When I landed In the cockpit, he was barely five meters away. knew how to fly a hovercraft, and he’d made it easy for me—he’d left it idling. All I had to do was rev up the fan and tighten the wind convector until I lifted off. But he was jumping at me by the time I started to rise. He got his hands on the edge of the cockpit. Then I yanked him up into the air.

  The jerk took his feet out from under him, so he was just hanging there by his hands.

  Just to be sure he’d be safe, I rubbed a hand along the arm of his jumpsuit, then smelled my hand. It smelled like creosote.

  I leveled off at about three meters. Before he could heave himself up into the cockpit, I banged his hands a couple times with my heavy left fist . He fell and hit the ground pretty hard.

  But a second later he was on his feet and yelling at me. “Stop!” he shouted. “Come back!” He sounded desperate. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  “You’ll be all right,” I shouted back. “You can walk out of here by tomorrow morning. Just don’t step on any mines.”

  “No!” he cried, and for a second he sounded so terrified I almost went back for him. “You don’t know Ushre! You don’t know what he’ll do! He’s crazy!”

  But I thought I had a pretty good idea what Fritz Ushre was capable of. It didn’t surprise me at all to hear someone say he was crazy—even someone who worked for him. And I didn’t want the handler along with me. He’d get in my way.

  I left him. I gunned the ‘craft up over the trees and sent it skimming in the direction of the front gate. Going to give Ushre and Paracels what I owed them.

  6

  But I didn’t let myself think about that. I was mad enough already. I didn’t want to get all livid and careless. I wanted to be calm and quick and precise. More dangerous than anything Paracels ever made—or ever even dreamed about making. Because I was doing something that was too important to have room for miscalculations.

  Well, important to me, anyway. Probably nobody n the world but me (and Morganstark) gave a nasty damn what was happening at Sharon’s Point—just as long as the animals didn’t get loose. But that’s what Special Agents are for. To care about things like this, so other people don’t have to.

  But I didn’t have to talk myself into anything; I knew what I was going to do. The big thing I had to worry about was the lousy shape I was in. I was giddy with hunger and woozy with fatigue and queasy with pain, and I kept having bad patches where I couldn’t seem to make the ‘craft fly straight, or even level.

  The darkness didn’t improve my flying any. The sun went down right after I left the clearing, and by the time I was halfway to the front gate evening had turned into night. I suppose I should’ve been grateful for the cover: when I finally got to the gate, my bad flying probably wouldn’t attract any attention. But I wasn’t feeling grateful about much of anything right then. In the dark I had to fly by my instruments, and I wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Direction I could handle (sort of), and I already had enough altitude to get me over the hills. But the little green dial that showed the artificial horizon seemed to have a life of its own; it wouldn’t sit still long enough for me to get it into focus. I spent the whole trip yawing back and forth like a drunk.

  But I made it. My aim wasn’t too good (when I finally spotted the bright pink freon bulb at the landing area, it was way the hell off to my left), but it was good enough. I went skidding over there until I was sitting almost on top of the light, but then I took a couple minutes to scan the area before I put the ‘craft down.

  I suppose what I should’ve done was not land there at all. I should’ve just gone until I got someplace where I could call the Bureau for help. But I figured if I did that Ushre and Paracels would get away. They’d know something was wrong when their hovercraft didn’t come back, and they’d be on the run before the Bureau could do anything about it. Then the Bureau would be hunting them for days—and I’d miss out on the finish of my own assignment. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  So I took a good look below me before I landed. Both the other ‘craft were there (they must’ve had shorter feeding runs), but nobody was standing around outside— at least not where I could see them. Most of the windows of the barracks showed light, but the office complex was dark—except for the front office and the laboratory wing.

  Ushre and Paracels.

  If they stayed where they were, I could go in after them, get them out to the ‘craft—take them into St. Louis myself. If I caught them by surprise. And didn’t run into anybody else. And didn’t crack up trying to fly the 300 km. to St. Louis.

  I didn’t even worry about it. I put the ‘craft down as gently as I could and threw it into idle. Before the fan even had time to slow down, I jumped out of the cockpit and went pelting as fast as I could go toward the front office.

  Yanked open the door, jumped inside, shut it behind me.

  Stopped.

  Fritz Ushre was standing behind the counter. He must have been doing some work with his accomputer; he had the console in front of him. His face was white, and his little boar eyes were staring at me as if I’d just come back from the dead. He didn’t even twitch—he looked paralyzed with surprise and fear.

  “Fritz Ushre,” I said with my own particular brand of malice, “you’re under arrest for murder, attempted murder, and conspiracy.” Then, just because it felt good, I went on, “You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to speak, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to be represented by an attorney. If. you can’t afford one—”

  He wasn’t listening. There was a struggle going on in his face that didn’t have anything to do with what I was saying. For once, he looked too surprised to be cunning, too beaten to be malicious. He was trying to fight it, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. He was trying to find a way out, a way to get rid of me, save himself, and there wasn’t any. Sharon’s Point was dead, and he knew i
t.

  Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there was a way out. All of a sudden the struggle was over. He met my eyes, and the expression on his face was more naked and terrible than anything he’d ever let me see before. It was hunger. And glee.

  He looked down. Reached for something under the counter.

  I was already moving, throwing myself at him. I got my hands on the edge of the counter, vaulted over it, hit him square in the chest with both heels.

  He smacked against the wail behind him, bounced back, stumbled to his knees. I fell beside him. But I was up before he could move. In almost the same movement, I got my knife out and pressed the point against the side of his fat neck. “If you make a sound,” I said, panting, “I’ll bleed you right here.”

  He didn’t act like he heard me. He was coughing for air. And laughing.

  Quickly, I looked around behind the counter to find what he’d been reaching for.

  For a second I couldn’t figure it out. There was an M-16 lying on a shelf off to one side, but that wasn’t it—he hadn’t been reaching in that direction.

  Then I saw it. A small ray box built into the counter near where he’d been standing. It wasn’t much—just a big red button and a little red light. The little red light was on.

  Right then, I realized I was hearing something. Something so high-pitched it was almost inaudible. Something keen and carrying.

  I’d heard something like it before, but at first I couldn’t remember where. Then I had it.

  An animal whistle.

  It was pitched almost out of the range of human hearing, but probably there wasn’t an animal in 10 km. that couldn’t hear it. Or didn’t know what it meant.

  I put my knife away and picked up the M-16. I didn’t have time to be scrupulous; I cocked it and pointed it at Ushre’s head. “Turn it off,” I said.

  He was just laughing now. Laughing softly. “You cannot turn it off. Once it has been activated, nothing can stop it.”

  I got out my knife again, tore the box out of the counter, cut the wires. He was right. The red light went off, but the sound didn’t stop.

  “What does it do?”

  He was absolutely shaking with suppressed hilarity. “Guess!”

  I jabbed him with the muzzle of the M-16. “What does it do?”

  He didn’t stop shaking. But he turned to look at me. His eyes were bright and wild and mad. “You will not shoot me.” He almost giggled. “You are not the type.”

  Well, he was right about that, too. I wasn’t even thinking about killing him. I wanted information. I made a huge effort to sound reasonable. “Tell me anyway. I can’t stop it, so why not?”

  “Ah,” he sighed. He liked that idea. “May I stand?” I let him get to his feet.

  “Much better,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Browne.” After that, I don’t think I could’ve stopped him from telling me. He enjoyed it too much. He was manic with sharp appetite maybe he didn’t even know glee. Some about was about to get fed.

  “Dr. Paracels may be old and unbalanced,” he said, “but he is brilliant in his way. And he has a taste for revenge. He has developed his genetic techniques to the point of precise control.

  “As you may know, Mr. Browne, all animals may be conditioned to perform certain actions upon certain signals—even human animals. The more complex the brain of the animal, the more complex the actions which may be conditioned into it—but also the more complex and difficult the conditioning process. For human animals, the difficulty of the process is often prohibitive.”

  He relished what he was saying So much he was practically slobbering. I wanted to scream with frustration, but I forced the impulse down. I had to hear what he was saying, needed to hear it all.

  “Dr. Paracels—bless his retributive old heart—has learned how to increase animal brain capacity enough to make possible a very gratifying level of conditioning without increasing it enough to make conditioning unduly difficult. That provides the basis for the way in which we train our animals. But it serves one other purpose also.

  “Each of our animals has been keyed to that sound.” He gestured happily at the air. “They have been conditioned to respond to that sound in a certain way. With violence, Mr. Browne!” He was bubbling over with laughter. “But not against each other. Oh no—that would never do. They have been conditioned to attack humans, Mr. Browne—to come to the source of the sound and then attack.

  “Even our handlers are not immune. This conditioning overrides all other training. Only Dr. Paracels and myself are safe. All our animals have been imprinted with our voices, so that even in their most violent frenzies they will recognize us. And obey us, Mr. Browne. Obey us!”

  I was shaking as bad as he was, but for different reasons. “So what?” I demanded. “They can’t get past the fence.”

  “Past the fence?” Ushre was ecstatic. “You fool! The gate is open’ It opened automatically when I pressed the button.”

  So finally I knew what that handler back in the preserve had been so scared about. Ushre was letting the animals out. Out to terrorize the countryside until God knows how many people were killed trying to hunt them down. Or just trying to get away from them. Or even just sitting at home minding their own business.

  I had to stop those animals.

  With just an M-16? Fat chance!

  But I bad to try. I was a Special Agent, wasn’t I? This was my job. I’d signed up for it of my own free will.

  I rammed the muzzle of the M-16 hard into Ushre’s stomach. He doubled over. I grabbed his collar and yanked his head up again.

  “Listen to me,” I said very softly. “I didn’t used to be the type to shoot people in cold blood, but I am now. I’m mad enough to do it now. Get moving.”

  I made him believe me. When I gave him a shove, he went where I wanted him to go. Toward the front door.

  He opened it, and we went out together into the night. I could see the front gates clearly in the light from the landing area. He was absolutely right. They were open.

  It was already too late to close them. A dark crowd of animals was already coming out of the preserve. They bristled with weapons. They didn’t hurry, didn’t make any noise, didn’t get in each other’s way. And more came over the ridge every second, moving like they were on their way out of Fritz Ushre’s private hell. In the darkness they looked practically numberless. For one dizzy second I couldn’t believe Ushre and Paracels had had time to engineer so many helpless creatures individually. But of course they’d been working at it for years. Sharon’s Point must have been almost completely stocked when they opened for business. And since then they’d had twenty months to alter and raise even more animals.

  I had to move fast. I had one gamble left, and if it didn’t work I was just going to be the first on a long list of people who were going to die.

  I gave Ushre a shove that sent him stumbling forward. Out in front of that surging crowd. Between them and the road.

  Before he could try to get away, I caught up with him, grabbed his elbow, jabbed the M-16 into his ribs. “Now, Mr. Ushre,” I said through my teeth. “You’re going to tell them to go back. Back through the gates. They’ll obey you.” When he didn’t respond, I gouged him viciously. “Tell them!”

  Well, it was a good idea. Worth a try. It might even have worked—if I could’ve controlled Ushre. But he was out of control. He was crazy for blood now, completely bananas.

  “Tell them to go back?” he cried with a laugh. “Are you joking?” There was blood in his voice—blood and power. “These beasts are mine! Mine! My will commands them! They will rain bloodshed upon the country! They will destroy you, and all people like you. I will teach you what hunting truly means, Mr. Browne!” He made my name sound like a deadly Insult. “I will teach you to understand death!”

  “You’ll go first!” I shouted, trying to cut through his madness. “I’ll blow you to pieces where you stand.”

  “You will not!”

  He was faster than I expected. Much fast
er. With one quick swing of his massive arm, he smacked me to the ground.

  “Kill him!” he howled at the animals. He was waving his fists as if he was conducting an orchestra of butchery. “Kill them all!”

  A monkey near the front of the crowd fired, and all of a sudden Ushre’s hell erupted.

  All the animals that had clear space in front of them started shooting at once. M-16 and .22 Magnum fire shattered the air; bullets screwed wildly in all directions. The night was full of thunder and death. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t being hit.

  Then I saw why.

  Two thin beams of ruby-red light were slashing back and forth across the front of that dark surge of animals. The animals weren’t shooting at me. They were firing back at those beams.

  laser cannon!

  I spotted one of them in the woods off to one side of the landing area. The other was blazing away from a window of the barracks.

  They were cutting the animals to shreds. Flesh-and-blood can’t stand up against laser cannon, no matter what kind of genes it has. Monkeys and bears were throwing sheets of lead back at the beams, but they were in each other’s way, and most of their shooting was wild. And the people operating the cannon were shielded. It was just slaughter, that’s all.

  Because the animals couldn’t run away. They didn’t know how. They were conditioned. They reminded me of a tame dog that can’t even try to avoid an angry master. But instead of cringing they were shooting.

  The outcome wasn’t any kind of sure thing. The animals were getting cut down by the dozens—but all they needed was a few hand grenades, or maybe a couple of mines in the right places, and that would be the end of the cannon. And the dogs, for one, didn’t have to be told what to do. Already they were trying to get through the fire with mines in their jaws. The lasers had to draw in their aim to get the dogs, and that gave the other animals time to spread out, get out of direct range of the lasers.

  It was going to be a long, bloody battle. And I was lying in the dirt tight in the middle of it. I didn’t know how I was going to live through it.