THE MUTANT SEASON
ROBERT SILVERBERG & KAREN HABER
Phoenix Pick
An Imprint of Arc Manor
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The Mutant Season by Robert Silverberg and Karen Haber. Introduction copyright © 1989 by Agberg Ltd. Text copyright © 1989 by Kare n Haber. All rights reserved. This book may not be copied or reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise without written permission from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Th is is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual persons, events or localities is purely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and pu b lisher.
Tarikian, TARK Classic Fiction, Arc Manor, Arc Manor Classic Reprints, Pho e nix Pick, Phoenix Rid er, Manor Thrift and logos associated with those imprints are trademarks or registered trad e marks of Arc Manor, LLC, Rockville, Mar y land. All other trademarks and trademarked names are properties of their respe c tive owners.
Digital Edition
ISBN (Digital Edition): 978-1-61242-147-6
ISBN (Paper Edition): 978-1-61242-146-9
Published by Phoenix Pick
an imprint of Arc Manor
P. O. Box 10339
Rockville, MD 20849-0339
www.ArcManor.com
INTRODUCTION
Robert Silverberg
THE MUTANT—the stranger IN OUR MIDST, the secret alien, the hidden Changed One—is one of the great mythic figures of science fiction. If science fiction is, as I believe it to be, a literature of change, a literature of infinite possibilities, then the mutant is a quintessential science-fictional force, bringing the zone of change very close to home indeed, right into the human germ plasm.
The word itself indicates that. Mutare, in Latin, means “to change.” From that Latin verb the Dutch botanist-geneticist Hugo de Vries coined the terms “mutation” and “mutant” late in the nineteenth century. De Vries, who was experimenting with breeding evening primroses, had observed sudden striking changes in his flowers as he crossed and recrossed different strains. His research led him to the conclusion that all living things are subject to such changes, or mutations, and that mutant forms frequently pass their altered traits on to later generations. Thus the evolutionary process itself can be viewed as a succession of mutations.
De Vries’s theories have long since been confirmed by modern genetic research. We know now that the physical appearance of living organisms is determined by bodies known as genes, within the nuclei of cells; the genes themselves are composed of complex molecules arranged in elaborate patterns, and any change in the pattern (or “code”) of the genetic material that substitutes one molecule for another will produce a mutation. Mutations arise spontaneously in nature, induced by chemical processes in the nucleus or by temperature conditions or by cosmic rays striking a gene; they can also be produced artificially by subjecting the nucleus to X-rays, ultraviolet light, or other hard radiation.
Mutations are seldom spectacular. Those mutants that are startlingly different from their parents—the ones with three heads, the ones with no digestive tracts—tend not to survive very long, either because the mutation renders them unable to perform the normal functions of life or because they are rejected by those who sired them. The mutants that do succeed in passing their mutations along to their descendants are generally only slightly altered forms: large evolutionary changes result from an accumulation of small mutations rather than from any one startling genetic leap.
The mutant theme has long been a favorite of science-fiction writers. The pioneering experiments of H. J. Muller, who in 1927 demonstrated that radiation could be used to induce mutations in fruit flies, gave rise to a whole school of speculative mutant stories almost immediately. From one of the great early s-f novelists, John Taine (a pseudonym for the mathematician Eric Temple Bell), came The Greatest Adventure, in 1929, in which the strange corpses of giant reptiles begin drifting up from the depths of the ocean, and are eventually linked to ancient experiments in mutation carried out by a civilization that had lived in Antarctica. A year later, Taine’s The Iron Star told of the startling mutagenic impact of a meteor on the wildlife of a region in Africa; and in 1931 Taine’s Seeds of Life showed a man gaining superhuman powers after being irradiated, and passing them on to the next generation. Edmond Hamilton’s “He That Hath Wings” (1938) described the birth of a mutant child to parents who had been exposed to irradiation. And there were many other such stories, most of them taking wild liberties with the scientific knowledge of the day for the sake of dramatic effect.
The explosion of the first atomic bombs in 1945 brought the concept of mutation-causing radiation vividly to the whole world’s attention, and, unsurprisingly, it became an obsessive theme of postwar science fiction—so much so that the editor of the leading s-f magazine of the day, who at first had asked his writers to examine the scientific and sociological implications of the atomic era in close detail, finally had to call a moratorium on atomic doom fiction because it was starting to crowd everything else out. It was in that period, though, that some of the finest work on the theme was done—notably Henry Kuttner’s “Baldy” series (1945-53), in which telepathic mutants living among normal humans undergo persecution, and Wilmar Shiras’s Children of the Atom (1948-50), a poignant story of superintelligent mutant children. And ever since, mutants have played prominent roles in the speculations of science-fiction writers. They turn up in Walter Miller’s classic A Canticle for Liebowitz, in Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series, in the novels of John Wyndham, in a host of stories by Robert A. Heinlein, and—constantly, always to terrifying effect—in motion pictures. The mutant is science fiction’s metaphor for the outsider, the loner, the alienated supercreature. The theme of mutation is one of the most valuable tools science fiction has for examining the nature of human society, the relation of one human being to another, and the ultimate destiny of our species.
A word about the writing of this book.
In 1973 I published a very short short story, “The Mutant Season,” in which, in just a few pages, I sketched out the notion that mutants have been living among us for many years as an underground group within our society—a kind of secret Gypsy tribe—and are now finally allowing themselves to attain higher visibility. I was content to suggest, rather than to elaborate in any great detail, what effects this might have, both on our society and on the mutants. And there I left it.
Years later my good friend, the indefatigable and ingenious Byron Preiss, suggested to me that there was a lot more to the idea that I might want to explore at greater length—perhaps as a series of novels, even, to be written in collaboration with my wife, Karen Haber, who was just beginning her own career as a science-fiction writer. My first reaction was surprise. “The Mutant Season” was such a tiny story—only about two thousand words long—that the notion of mining it for several novels seemed outlandish. But then I reread it, and realized that Byron was right: I had implied a whole society in those few pages, and then had simply let it slip from my mind.
So here is The Mutant Season at novel length—with more to come, as we dig into the fuller implications of a parallel culture of mutants living secretly, and then not so secretly, within modern American society. It has been an interesting experiment in collaboration for us. Karen and I worked the story and its characters out together, basing them (with some considerable modifications) on my original little piece, which by now has been projected into epic length covering sever
al generations. She then went on to write the first draft of the book, after which I edited it line by line, offering suggestions for revisions, both thematic and stylistic; and back she went to the word processor for another round. And so it went over many months of close and mostly harmonious work. Writing a book with your spouse is a little like trying to teach your spouse to drive a car: it calls for patience, good humor, and quick reflexes. I don’t recommend it to every couple. But we came through umpteen drafts of The Mutant Season still sharing bed and board, and most of the time we’re still on speaking terms, too. The other day she handed me the first fifty pages of Volume Two. I have the feeling that these mutants are going to be around the house for a long time to come.
—Robert Silverberg
Oakland, California
March 1989
1
WINTER is the mutant season, Michael Ryton thought, slamming the door of the beach shack behind him. The coldest time of the year was the time for their annual gathering. That seemed appropriate, somehow. Especially this year.
The December wind whipped sand against his ruddy cheeks, forcing his fine blond hair back from his forehead to wave like a bright flag in the waning daylight. Behind his filtershades, his eyes watered from the cold.
“Mike, there you are!” His dark-haired sister, Melanie, wrapped almost to her eyebrows in the purple thermal muffler their mother had knitted at last year’s meeting, stumbled out of the shack. She was always stumbling over something. “It’s four o’clock. You’re late for the meeting. They’re delaying the sharing until you get there.”
“Damn! Let’s go.”
Michael swallowed his irritation. It wasn’t Mel’s fault that they had to come to Seaside Heights every winter. Had to stay in these rickety, hard-to-heat bungalows from which generations of paint hung in greenish brown ribbons. Shacks, really. Built sixty and seventy years ago for first- and second-generation Americans escaping the sweltering canyons of New York City streets in August for the relative luxury of gritty, sun-baked beaches along the nearby New Jersey shore. But the crowds were gone, the beaches deserted. This was December now. Their season.
He stalked toward the meeting house while Mel struggled along the overgrown path, trying to keep up with his long strides. Even without the sand and weeds to hamper her steps, she wasn’t the most graceful girl he knew. Not by half. He thought of Kelly McLeod, the way she moved, the way she threw her head back, black hair a shining mane, when she laughed. Now there was grace. He’d never seen her stumble.
Poor Mel. If he hadn’t been so pissed off about coming here, maybe he would even feel sorry for her. She was the only null in the clan. That was trouble enough for one lifetime.
They turned the corner, walking into the wind with eyes squinted to avoid airborne sand, passed another row of shacks, and finally saw the blue shingles of the meeting house, the largest bungalow in the compound. He pulled open the aluminum storm door. Mel nearly knocked him over as she skidded to an off-balance halt behind him. Michael gave her a quick, commiserating look over his shoulder—he knew what was coming—took a deep breath, and went in.
The light on the desk screen blinked “call waiting” in yellow letters. Andie Greenberg looked up from her screen and ran her hands through her dark red hair. The reception desk was empty. Caryl must be on break. Andie sighed. She’d have to take the call herself, since Jacobsen was expecting Senator Craddick. That Scanners Club speech would have to wait. She saved and cleared the screen, then pushed the button that accessed the call.
The screen stayed dark, which meant the caller was using a pay phone or had purposely cloaked the call. Andie’s stomach tightened.
“Is this Jacobsen’s office?” a deep male voice growled.
“You have reached the office of Senator Jacobsen,” she confirmed in her coolest lawyer voice. “Please state your business.”
“Are you Jacobsen?”
“I’m her administrative assistant, Andrea Greenberg.”
“That damned mutant bitch better watch it. We’re sick of freaks trying to tell us what to do. When we get through with her, she’ll wish she’d never been hatched—”
Andie cut the connection. She took a couple of deep breaths, telling herself to calm down, she should be accustomed to threats by now.
The buzzer from Jacobsen’s private line went off. She must have monitored the call, Andie thought. The screen brightened to a view of her inner sanctum, the senator seated behind her rosewood desk. She stared solemnly from the screen, golden-eyed, golden-haired, and mysterious.
“Was that Craddick?”
“No.” Andie tried to sound casual.
“Another threat?” Jacobsen asked, contralto voice pitched even lower than usual.
Andie nodded.
“How many this month?”
“Fourteen.”
The senator smiled frostily. “I suppose I should feel neglected. When I first took office, that was the average count for the week. They must be getting bored. Don’t let them rattle you, Andie.”
“I know. I won’t.” Andie’s cheeks reddened. Jacobsen nodded and faded from view. This mutant business scared a lot of people, she thought. Which was why she’d chosen to work for Jacobsen. If mutants and nonmutants didn’t learn to cooperate, that fear of the unknown would never go away.
The mail cart arrived, bell chiming. V.J. hopped off the cart, carrot-colored braids flying, and swung a sack of mail onto Andie’s desk. “Hear about Seth?” she asked.
“No. What happened?”
“Letter bomb for the senator went off prematurely. Would have made a real mess up here. Instead, it just made a mess of Seth. The mail room wasn’t damaged much. Those steel walls will stand up to a minor warhead.”
Andie knew her mouth was hanging open. She shut it and swallowed painfully. “My god! I thought they had metal detectors. What about the X-rays?”
V.J. shrugged. “Somebody got creative.”
“Where is Seth?”
“They took him to Sisters of Mercy. Looks like they’ll be able to save his hand.”
“When did it happen?”
“This morning.” She squinted. “Careful of those letters, now.” V.J. hustled out the door, jumped back on the cart and was gone.
Andie stared after her, seeing nothing. Even with regenerative technology, Seth probably would never have full use of his hand again. And he is—was—such a good artist, she thought grimly. Two of his acrylic washes, scarlet and blue, hung in her apartment. Poor Seth. A victim of the mutant haters? Or the mutants and their desire for a seat in the public arena?
And what was she doing here? Would she be the next to open a letter bomb? Or catch a bullet meant for her boss? Was she crazy? Maybe she should have taken her mother’s advice after law school and become a public defender.
No. She’d made the right decision. Andie reminded herself that she’d applied eagerly for this job. Working with the first mutant senator in congressional history was an honor. She believed fiercely in the cause of integration. And what better place to be than where she was, right hand to the Honorable Eleanor Jacobsen? The senator fascinated her: half saint, half warrior, and totally enigmatic behind those golden eyes. Andie admired Jacobsen with an intensity that approached adulation. Shaking off her momentary depression, she pushed the intercom button. Jacobsen had to be told about the bomb.
“That deadline is absolutely unacceptable, Mr. McLeod. You know we can’t build a closed-cycle Brayton generator and have it lift-ready in less than six months. Impossible.” James Ryton’s voice rang across the conference room.
Despite his irritation, Bill McLeod kept his face impassive. Mustn’t blow the negotiations now, he thought. I’ve spent hours putting this deal together. He reminded himself that his consultancy with NASA was a plum assignment; only a few retired Air Force pilots enjoyed the kind of connections he had. But, oh, what he’d give to be home with his feet up, or at the airstrip, working on his antique Cessna ultralight. That orange trim n
eeded sanding. He took a sip of cold coffee and wiped his moustache with a napkin to buy thinking time.
Ryton was a hard bargainer. And that snotty mutant attitude didn’t help either. Made it seem like he was doing him a favor just to show up for the meeting. But Ryton’s group had the top transmitter engineers in this part of the world. There were a few better in Leningrad and Tokyo, but Ryton was closest. McLeod had to have him on the solar collector project, or rather, the government had to have him. And Ryton knew it, too.
“Well, Mr. Ryton, what do you say to nine months?” He waited. Silence loomed as the two men glared politely at each other.
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve?”
“Done.”
McLeod did allow himself a sigh of relief. It’s those damned government regulations, he thought. Ever since Greenland got ’waved, NASA had been under heavy scrutiny about safety precautions. If not for the French-Russian Moonstation, the entire solar collector project would probably have been scrapped. McLeod knew that, after Greenland, every NASA administrator had offered a silent prayer of thanks for that Moonbase.
But despite the increased paperwork and procedures, NASA needed the generator flight-ready in nine months. Thank God, Ryton had a reputation for getting work in well ahead of schedule. What with delays and the controversy over Moonstation, the twelve-month framework was realistic.
Business concluded, McLeod shook hands with the mutant, who seemed to recoil from the touch. His palm was warm, almost hot, but dry. Strange, McLeod thought, they look so cool with those golden eyes and honey-colored skin, but God knows what their body temperatures are. Hard not to think of them as freaks. He knew it was considered bad taste to call them that now. But are they really human? And did he really want his kid hanging around one of them?
Kelly McLeod left the skimmer in the driveway and slung her discpack across her shoulders, the straps slithering against the red plastic of her parka. The yard lights looked warm and inviting against the blue dusk, their amber reflections pooling in the snow that capped the hedges.
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