by Dean Koontz
Dean Koontz – Beastchild
[Version 2.0 by BuddyDk – august 4 2003]
[Easy read, easy print]
[Completely new scan]
The Hunter was born to hunt,
as his prey was born to be
brought down at his desire . . .
Sara Laramie moved through the iron castings in the foundry yard, keeping low so that she was at all times concealed from view. The Hunter Relemar was in pursuit of her. She did not know that he was a Hunter; it was obvious, however, that he was different from other naoli.
Deep scream, lovely scream, wanting out . . . She reached the thousand gallon storage tank in which she now made her home. She pulled open the entry plate (it squeaked; Relemar listened for squeaks) and went inside. Behind her, there was a scraping noise . . . Rats, she thought, lighting the glow lamp. The tank brightened to a warm yellow.
"Hello," said Relemar the Hunter. He was trying to smile.
This time, she did not suppress the scream . . .
BEASTCHILD IS FOR
LISA TUTTLE
AND DANNY JENNINGS
AND JACK CORDES
AND FOR THE USPO
WHICH INTRODUCED US
science fiction by Dean R. Koontz
available in Lancer editions
THE DARK SYMPHONY, 74-621
HELL'S GATE, 74-656
Beastchild
Dean R. Koontz
LANCER BOOKS NEW YORK
A LANCER BOOK
BEASTCHILD
The characters in this book are entirely imaginary and have no relation to any living person.
Copyright © 1970 by Dean R. Koontz
A substantially shorter version of this novel appeared in Venture Science Fiction Copyright © 1970 by Mercury Press, Inc.
LANCER BOOKS, INC. • 1560 BROADWAY
NEW YORK, N.Y. 10036
Chapter One
In his onyx-walled room in the occupation tower, Hulann, a naoli, had disassociated his overmind from his organic regulating brain. He removed it from all stimuli, including the cells of his memory banks, where it could not even dream. He slept the perfect death-like sleep that only his kind, in all the myriad worlds of the galaxy, seemed to be able to achieve.
The naoli? The lizard men? They're the ones who die every night, aren't they?
To Hulann in his sleeping state, there was no sound whatsoever. No light. No images of color, no heat or cold. If there was a taste upon his long, thin tongue, his overmind could not know. Indeed all the stimuli were so censored that there was not even darkness. Darkness, after all, represented only nothingness.
He could return to wakefulness in any one of three ways, though there was a decided order of preference among these methods. First, and most unpleasant, was his body's built-in danger alarm. If his regulating brain, the heavily convoluted organic portion of his mind, should discover something seriously amiss with his temporal shell, it would be able to contact and wake his overmind through a fail-safe system of seldom-used third-order nerve clusters. Such a contact would shock its own gray cortex opening the nether-world pocket in which the ethereal overmind sleeps.
(Pause here for an anecdote or two. In a thousand places across the stars, stories are told which concern the naoli and the seriousness with which alcoholic beverages affect their "danger alarm" waking system. These stories are told in barrooms in port cities, down in the basements of questionable buildings that lease their rooms to even more questionable businessmen, or in sweet-drug centers on better looking but no more honest streets. It seems that while sweet-drugs bring only euphoria to the naoli, alcohol transforms them into bobbling, bouncing, scaly-tailed clowns who—after half an hour of making total fools of themselves—collapse into their death-sleep. They stretch out stiff as ice right on the floor. In some less reputable establishments (which is to say most of these places) the other patrons make great sport out of carrying the unconscious lizard men to odd places like garbage bins and ladies' washrooms and letting them there to wake. This damages nothing but the naoli's ego. A far more nasty pastime among these same drunken buffoons is to see how far they must go to trigger the naoli's "danger alarm" system. But the alarm is stupefied by alcohol and does not work well. The stories you hear later are about naoli lying there with their webs sizzling, not even twitching in response. Or of a naoli with fifty pins stuck in its legs, sleeping peacefully while its heavy blood seeped out through its tough gray skin. Naoli's do not often drink liquor. When they do, it is usually alone. They are not a stupid race.)
Much less unpleasant but still not desirable, a naoli could come awake if the Phasersystem had something to tell him. That could, of course, be anything from urgent news to another spate of propaganda from the central committee. More often than not, it was the latter.
Finally, and best of all, the overmind could awake of its own accord. Before retiring into the nether-world, the overmind could plant a suggestion with a time-trigger. Then, ten or eight, or fifteen or twenty hours later, it would click into consciousness with the clarity of a tri-dimensional screen being turned on.
This morning, Hulann, a naoli archaeologist among the thousands in the occupation forces, was tuned into the real world by the second of these three methods, the Phasersystem.
One moment: Nothingness.
Then: Color. Crimson to bring total wakefulness. Rouge to indicate psychological conditioning period (i.e.—propaganda). Then amber to soothe jangled nerves.
Finally: Three-dimensional, total-sensory visions of the Phasersystem, fed directly into the organic brain and translated by the now functioning overmind.
In the Phaserdream, Hulann was in a thick forest of strange, dark trees whose criss-crossing arms and broad, black-veined leaves thatched a roof that thrust back the sun. Only fine rays of peach light filtered through to the wet, rustling, musty floor of the place. These were soon dissipated, for there was nothing here from which they might be reflected. The surface of each growth was dull, filmed with a mucous-like substance of a uniform gray-, brown color.
He was on a narrow, winding path. Each step he took down this trail only isolated him farther from whatever place he had begun his journey, for the tangled mass of vegetation flourishing on the forest bottom closed in behind him as swiftly as he advanced. There was no going back.
There seemed to be things hiding in the trees,
He moved on.
Eventually, the trail began to narrow. Vines, stalks, and ropy roots, pressed closer, closer, until he could no longer walk without the chilling touch of the cold, slimy life forms.
He tucked his tail between his legs, wrapping it around his left thigh in the age-old reaction to danger, to the unknown, to that which made the scales of the scalp tighten and ache.
To the naoli, a voice chanted monotonously from nowhere, the human mind was unfathomable . . .
Still, the forest closed in on him. He could almost see it moving.
The things in the swaying trees whispered to one another.
They were whispering about him.
To the human, the same voice said, the naoli mind was equally mysterious . . .
Yes, definitely, something was moving in the trees. In several places, simultaneously, he caught a shivering, shimmering, rippling action. He was not certain whether he was seeing the movements of a dozen creatures spread along his flank—or whether one was being hidden behind the trunks and the leaves, watching.
The confrontation, the chanter chanted, was an inevitability. It was clear that the naoli had to move first in order to protect its very future . . .
Now, the trail had ceased to exist. Ahead, there was only dark vegetation. It seemed to writhe.
He looked behind. The trail had closed.
The naoli met the alien
s . . .
Hulann saw that the small, bare circle where he stood was rapidly being encroached upon by the eerie fungus-like vines. A tentacle of green slithered over his foot, making him leap in surprise.
The naoli saw the danger . . .
The forest reared up, snaring him with its chlorophyl ropes. He found his arms pinned at his sides by clutching leaves. Roots had grown up one side of his feet, across them, down the other side and into the earth again. He could not move.
The movement of the things in the trees came closer.
He tried to scream.
If the naoli had not acted, the voices said—
The things in the trees sprang, great dark shapes leaping onto him, engulfing him, chilly, wet things with fog for eyes and fingers that touched the insides of his over-mind, squeezing the warmth out of it . . .
—the naoli would have died! The voice finished.
And Hulann died. The dark beasts sucked away his warmth, and he slipped out of his body forever.
There was a moment of intense blackness. Then the Phasersystem began to feed colors to him again, as it was feeding to nearly all the naoli on the occupation force. Amber to soothe the nerves again. Then blue to engender a sense of pride and fulfillment.
Then the last stage of the psychological conditioning/ propaganda began. The questioning to determine fitness:
Why did the naoli strike first?
Hulann's overmind replied and was monitored by the main computer behind the Phasersystem. "For survival of our race."
Why did the naoli strike so completely?
"The human race was tenacious, ingenius. If the naoli had not been thorough, the human race would have grown, regrouped, and destroyed the naoli forever."
Should any naoli feel guilt over this extinction of the human race?
"Guilt has no role in it. One cannot feel guilt over something on so cosmic a scale. Nature ordained the meeting of our races. Since we have met with the other eleven races without trouble, it must have been intended as a test to match us against the humans. We did not wish to war. It was a natural necessity. I feel no guilt."
There was a pause in the Phasersystem's interrogation. A moment later, the voice continued, but on a slightly different tonal level. Hulann knew that he had been taken off the general program of questions and was receiving individual attention from a more refined portion of the computer's "brain."
You have registered eighteen points on a scale of one hundred in relation to your sense of guilt.
Hulann was surprised.
Is this a conscious guilt? the computer asked. Please be truthful. You will be under observation of a multi-systems polygraph.
"It is not a conscious guilt," Hulann's overmind replied.
There was another pause as the Phasersystem considered the sincerity of his answer. You are honest, it said at last. But if this guilt index should rise—even if it remains subconscious, you understand—beyond thirty points on a scale of one hundred, you will have to be replaced in your position with the occupation forces and returned to the home system for recuperation and therapy.
"Of course," his overmind replied, though he felt depressed with such a prospect He liked his work and considered it valuable. He was trying to save the fragments of a race none of them would see again.
The Phasersystem continued to probe his psyche, looking for faults that could open and swallow him.
Somewhere, Hulann, a group of these humans is still holding out. Now and then, a representative of them is reported to have contacted members of the other eleven races in search of support for a counter-attack. We have thus far been unable to find the place they hide, the place they call the Haven. What do you feel when you consider the existence of this small but alien group?
"Fear," he said. And he was telling the truth.
If you discovered the whereabouts of these last creatures, would you report it to the central committee?
"Yes," Hulann said.
And if you were chosen to be in the expedition charged with the destruction of these last humans, could you kill them?
"Yes."
The Phasersystem. was silent.
Then: Consciously, you are telling the truth. But your guilt index jumped to twenty-three on both questions. You will request an appointment with the traumatist at his earliest convenience.
Then the colors came in, orange at first, then fading through various shades of yellow. Lighter and lighter until there were no colors and the Phasersystem had released control of him.
Hulann remained in the force webbing that held him suspended four feet above the blue floor. It seemed as if he floated above the sky, a bird or a cloud, not an earthbound creature. He probed his own mind, looking for the guilt the computer told him was present. He could see nothing. Yet the computer could not err. When he thought of the Haven, his scalp tightened and hurt. He was afraid. Afraid not only for himself, but for his race and history.
For a short moment, he had a vision of dark, fog-eyed things hiding behind a shield of trees, watching.
He snorted, opening his second set of nostrils now that he would need a full air supply for movement. When his lungs swelled and adjusted to the new air flow, he got out of bed.
For some reason, he was sore this morning, as if he had done a great deal of work the day before (when, in fact, he had not)—or as if he had tossed and turned in his sleep. Which was impossible for a naoli who slept the graveyard slumber. He very much wanted to cleanse himself, but he would soon have to be at the diggings to direct the day's operation.
He dialed breakfast, devoured it within minutes (a delicious paste of fish eggs and larva, something a remote force of naoli would surely have had to do without even a mere fifty years ago. Progress was truly wonderful.) and looked at the clock. If he left now, he would arrive at the diggings before the others. He did not want to do that.
Well, after all, he was the director of the team. If he were late, that was merely his prerogative.
He went into the cleansing room and cycled the watertight door behind. He set the dials where he liked them, and the thick, creamy fluid began to bubble up. ward through the holes in the floor.
He scrunched his toes in it, feeling good.
When it was up to his knees, he bent and splashed it over himself. It was warm and viscuous. He felt it sluicing at his thousands of overlapping scales, drawing out the dust that had accumulated between them.
When it was four feet deep in the cubicle, he stretched in it like a swimmer, letting the stuff buoy him. He was tempted to return to the dials and set the room for longer cycles, but he wasn't that irresponsible. Soon, the mud-cream began to grow less heavy, thinning, thinning, until it seemed only as thick as water (though it still buoyed him with the same efficiency of the mud-cream). This new form washed off the cleansing cream, dissipated it. Then the clear fluid began draining out of holes in the floor.
He stood, waited until it was gone. His scales were already dry. He opened the door and went into the living room, gathered up his note tapes and stuffed them into the recorder case. He slung the recorder over one arm, the camera over the other, and set out for the diggings.
The others were busy with their individual projects. They toiled through the half-demolished structures, prying with their tools, x-raying partitions and mounds of fallen stones and steel. They had been assigned the ruined sections of the city which the humans had destroyed with their own weapons trying to fend off the naoli forces. Hulann did not care that their site was a difficult one. If he had been assigned to the group tilling the un-destroyed sectors of the city, he would have been bored to tears. Naoli could cry. There was no adventure in gathering things that were sitting in the open. The pleasure came from unearthing a treasure, from the painstaking work of separating a find from the rubble around it.
Hulann nodded to the others, stepped by Fiala, then turned to look at her collection of statsheets which she had uncovered only yesterday. They had been waterlogged but readable. Sh
e was translating.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"Nothing much that's new."
She licked her lips with her tongue, then stuck more of it out and flicked at her chin. She was pretty. He did not understand how he had almost walked by without stopping.
"Can't expect a treasure every day," he said.
"But they have a mania for repetition. I've found that."
"How so?"
"Day after day, the same stories appear in the stat sheets. Oh, new ones come along. But once they printed a story, they didn't let up on it. Here. Look. For seven days in succession, this stat sheet gave frontpage coverage to the destruction of their Saturn moon bases and the pulling back of their defense ring."
"It was a major story."
"No story is that major. After two or three days, they were only repeating themselves."
"Research it," he said. "It may prove interesting."
She went back to her papers, forgetting his intrusion.
He watched her a moment longer, reluctant to leave. More than any other female he had seen in the last two hundred years, she made him want to make a verbal commitment. It would be a delight to go away with her, into the warren of his own house back on the home world, and fuse for sixteen days, living off the fat of their bodies and the ceremonial waters they would take with them.
He could envision her in ecstasy.
And when she came out of the warren, she would have the gaunt, fleshless look of a desirable woman who has mated for a standard fusing period.
She would be gorgeous in the aura of her femininity.
But Fiala was not concerned with the things in his reproductive pouch. Indeed, he often wondered if she had a sex drive. Perhaps she was not a male or a female at all. Perhaps she was a third sex: an archaeologist.
He continued along the diggings until he reached the end, walked a hundred yards through a narrow street where the substantially damaged buildings still stood. He had saved the best spot for himself. Others might consider that reprehensible, but he viewed it as a simple perogative of his position.
