The Stork Factor

by Zach Hughes

  life and then working on the darkened lights in his brain until, with a cry, he sat up and looked at her. For a painful moment his shield was down and she screamed in horror. He closed. «You healed me.» He rose. He looked at his hand. He held his arms out and looked at them in bemused wonder. «I was dying.» Yes. She watched him fearfully. Had she been wrong? Had she, by saving him, unleashed a monster? «You saved me for hell,» he said bitterly. She made a disgusted movement with her lips. Fool. And he remembered. She had told him, speaking in his mind. Save yourself! You could have. «How?» I've done enough. «How?» He stepped close to her. «Tell me.» No. «If you don't I'll"—he searched for words—"come in.» But she knew before he voiced it. He saw the fear on her face. He opened. He searched and she screamed silently and tried to block but he was too powerful. And it was there. So simple. «Of course,» he said. He closed. He looked into himself and, somewhere in that never-before-used portion of his brain was a pattern of all the complex things which made him, all the cells and glands and veins and organs and tissues, all outlined for him and he could look into any minute recess of his being and all he saw was weakness and sickness and, experimentally, he altered, changed, stimulated, and things changed and moved. He did not notice the woman leaving, so bemused was he. He examined his newly repaired heart, made adjustments, opened clogged arteries and veins, set healthy cells working to reproduce and replace diseased tissue, repaired glands, felt a huge sweep of pure elation. Heal? God, he could heal! Even the near-cancerous waste of his seared lungs. And the waste was too much. He couldn't void it all at once. He halted, thought it out, retired to the room where the cold machines had first examined him. There was a voice trying to reach him, the voice of the

  machine. He closed it out. He cleansed his body of sickness, disease, waste, malfunction. He voided wastes, vomited wastes, sweated wastes but, rather than losing weight, he gained as muscles were made healthy, as fatty tissue was solidified. Knowing his needs, he called for them, foods, liquids. He ingested them without tasting, hurrying to perfect a body which had known only pain, sickness, ill health since shortly after his birth. And the wondrous feeling of vitality swept over him as the task was completed and he, taller, heavier, perfectly formed, smooth-skinned, radiant with health, ventured out to look for the woman. He found her in the aft portion of the ship. She was behind a locked door, but he could sense her. He sent. His mind, more alert, benefited by the cleansing of his polluted, sick body, knew now that it was not necessary to voice the words. «I must know. I must know all of it.» She resisted. He placed his palm on the door, read the pattern of the lock, opened it. She was huddled on her bed. «I won't hurt you.» She looked at him, wide-eyed. He read the thought. At first he felt the old reaction. But he knew, now, that she was no angel. Nor was she an instrument of the devil. She was merely a human being from a far place, a human being with fantastic abilities, abilities which were no longer a mystery to him. He read her thought. Handsome. With sexual overtones. He was, at first, repelled. But that was unimportant. His brain, freed of the burden of his wasted body, worked rapidly. «I must know,» he repeated. «Open.» He pushed. Her shield gave. She sighed. He saw her. Blaze. Beautiful. Desirable. Not evil. Mistaken, perhaps. For looking in he saw clearly the sweep of the civilization from which she came. He saw the Trang people, beautiful, perfect. He saw her wistful need for the euphoria of the drug and he saw her need for—other things and everything came clear to him. Back on Earth there was a lowered birth rate because of the fantastic overcrowding and the eternal misery of existence. The population of the Earth stayed static because of the lowered birth rate, because of child mortality, because of the early mortality of the average man. In her world there was no birth. Having discovered the secret of eternal life, the race had no need for birth, had expanded, after the advent of the mutation which opened up their healing centers, to give every member of the race adequate room, had ceased expanding, then, and for countless eons, now, there had been no birth, no death. Static. As static, in its way, as Earth. And neither was right. Now he had the power to change it all. Somehow, he, sub-being, worse than retarded, more than moronic, had developed the power and, somehow, his brain, having never been used to full capacity, was more powerful than that of a member of the race. He could change. «Can I make this change in people on Earth?» I don't know. He searched deeper. He saw, behind the Trangized race, the vast network of machines. Thinking machines. Idle machines. Wasted resources. The possibilities opened to him. He left her, smiling, not angry

  when, as he turned to go, his new, vital body straining inside his too-small

  clothing she let slip one last hint of her eternal need. He went back to the room of the machines. «Talk to me,» he said. The voice came. He opened to it. It blasted inside his skull, an attack

  meant to be fatal, an attempt to burn his brain, to kill. Startled, he closed, shot back. For a moment, he knew, once again, the fear of death, but the fear pumped in him, glands working, his every fiber fighting and, with a smoking, sizzling hiss, wires fused and things blew with little popping sounds and the voice, weakened, was controlled. «Now talk to me,» he ordered. The voice faded. «Talk or—» He opened, projected, seeking the machine mind. Stop. You have already blown half the system aboard the ship. «I'll destroy it.» Then you, and she, would be lost in space. He closed. He had not considered that possibility. In fact, since the machines, or whoever was behind the machines, had apparently decided that it would be best to kill him, why shouldn't they strand him in space? He opened quickly, searched for an answer. She is of the race. She must be protected. «I'm like her. Yet you tried to kill me. Am I not of the race?» You are—sub-human—more than retarded—worse than moronic. «I was.» He sent. A hissing and more smoke from the machines inside the room. Stop. «What am I?» Mutant. «From what?» Pictures. A race, changing. Mental abilities opening. Vast change. Men becoming supermen. Words changing to thoughts. The ability to heal, to control the last, minute cell in one's own body. And a segment, relatively small, not changing staying the same. A minority outside the pale, a minority which still died and had disease and reminded the new, beautiful people of their former mortality. Then ships flashing out. New planets. The people who had not changed being exiled, left on primitive planets to exist as they saw fit, without benefit of the vast technology developed by men like them before the super beings mutated into control. A hundred planets all peopled by castoffs, worse than retarded, more than moronic—by the standards of the new people. Left alone. Left to develop and crowd themselves off the primitive, isolated planets through sheer breeding, left to war as the memories of the once great technology faded and barbarism swept the uneducated descendants of the original exiles and now and then, before Trang, ships checking and checking until, as the race became Trangized and withdrew to garden planets and eternal love and euphoria, check sensors were installed to guard, to warn of any change in the lowly lives of the new barbarians on the exile planets. And some ugly pictures, too, as the machine fed history tapes to him, race members on a lark, going down, ravishing the females, guiding males into wild ventures. The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were air; and they took them wives of all which they chose. And God spake unto Moses, saying—Giants on the earth, half-god, half-man. The gods fighting on one side or the other in ancient wars. Flying saucers. White gods coming to earth on pillars of flame to watch the sacrifices on the blood altars of the Incas. Is that all there is? Was God not dead, but Trangized? Was man no more than the cast-off dregs of this race which first peopled a large portion of the galaxy and then rested, euphoric, never sated on eternal sex? Is that all there is, he thought? Then what's the use.

  But his new vitality, the unbelievable feeling of health after a lifetime of misery, brought him quickly out of hopelessness. He pushed God away into a small corner of his mind. He was not prepared to reject God, although the foundations of his faith had been somewhat weakened. There were other things to think about. Back on Earth, Caster was in the
hands of the Brotherfuzz. His first impulse was to turn the ship around, go back immediately. With his new powers he could fix the things they'd done to her. Unless— «The race is immortal since each member can regenerate his body indefinitely. Can they not be killed?» The powers are limited, the machines told him. «I could be killed by, say, a fire gun?» By any totally destructive method which would damage the— an image of the portion of his brain which had newly come to life. «Even a conventional bullet, then.» He could go back, but he would be one man alone. And one blast from a fire gun, one bullet could end it. But ahead of him, at the end of those incredible, unbelievable distances, were the means he needed to save Caster and to destroy the power of the Brothers forever. «When will we arrive.» An expression in terms of time he didn't understand. «In Earth days?» He frowned at the answer. Weeks. Almost a month, with Caster in the hands of the Brotherfuzz torturers. Saddened, he paced the small room. Perhaps he should go back, try to rescue Caster, then go to the home

  system of these people and carry out his plan. But it was too risky. It came to this: Caster against the future of all the human beings on Earth. And the machines had talked of others like them, scattered on the outskirts of the galaxy on other Earth-like planets. Them, too. «Caster, Caster,» he said aloud. «Forgive me.» With some of the ship's computer system ruined, it was necessary for the girl, he thought of her as Blaze, after the rosy glow of her mind, to check navigation. He watched. He asked questions. She, impatient, feeling somewhat put upon to be called to do tasks usually handled automatically by the ship's system, told him that she was not in the business of education. When his quick anger seeped through his shield, she quickly suggested the educational potential of the system. He spent long days with the history of technology of the race being force-fed into his receptive mind. He encountered resistance, at first, but the machines were programmed to function on the command of any member of the race and his mind was now capable of giving orders. He spent long hours learning about the potential of the ancient computer system which was now largely idle and, as ideas solidified, he began to communicate with the base system on the planet known as A-l. «I need your help,» he told the distant mind, which, to him, seemed alive. I am programmed to protect and serve the race. «We are of the race.» You did not develop. «We can develop. I have developed.» This does not mean that all have the same potential. «It is there.» Proof? «There have always been those among us who showed the latent abilities.» Not always. Each exile was measured. «All right, not always. But in written history. There was a man known as Jesus who could raise the dead.» And Luke found himself, then, telling the old, old story as best he remembered. And there were others, evangelists, men of God who had healed. And there were the healing miracles in which a place became sacred in the memory of a saint and, the very memory of that saint having consecrated the ground, many people healed themselves with their own inner faith. Interesting, but I am a servant of the race. «You were built to serve an expanding race. You were built to help people the stars. You are now sterile, a great waste, idle. Your race is

  static. You can serve the race with a small portion of your capacity. It is no task for a great system, a galactic system, to control the shipment of Trang once a year and to send the small ships from planet to planet during the commitment changes between the members of the race. And

  yet, out there, there are countless stars, countless planets, waiting. And we have the people for them, people who desperately need the release of

  stellar colonization. Wouldn't it be satisfying to you to be directing, once again, a great, outward movement instead of a minor shifting of people from bed to bed?» I am not programmed for emotion. «You are programmed for function. I'm giving you a chance to function.» My first responsibility is to the race. I could not actively encourage the emergence of a rival race who could pose a threat to the race. «From your own information I've learned of the richness of the universe. The race has occupied a vast empire at the heart of the galaxy.

  But vast as that empire is, it covers only a minor portion of the total area. We could direct our expansion out ward. The fringe worlds alone would offer ample opportunity for a thousand years.» And after that? «God will guide us,» Luke said. Your dependence upon this God has interested me. In the early days of the race, they, too, believed in a supernatural being. Now there are few who even remember the name of this being, or imaginary being. There were those who said he would be found when our ships began crossing deep space. The movement into space was actually opposed by some who said we were trespassing on his domain. Adventurers who visited the exile planets seized upon your belief in a supernatural being to experiment and, for some, to merely have amusement. I have no proof of the existence of any force save natural ones. Yet, I do not understand why primitive people, universally, create some form of worship. The race has existed for—a time period—without dependence on a god. «And what has your race accomplished in this—time period?» You are saying that the rule of the universe is movement. That is not necessarily so, although in nature the rule holds true in the form of change, revolution. «I can only question. I can only ask why there is a universe. Why is there so much of it? Why are there planets capable of supporting human

  life? What is the purpose of life? Is it accidental? I don't know. I know only

  that the life of my people is a life of misery and that this misery could be eased. I can suggest that the original race set about accomplishing some purpose and did great things until they were—sidetracked—by Trang. I can suggest that it just might possibly be God's will that this purpose now be carried forward by the people of what you call the exile planets. Can you deny this possibility.'» I have insufficient data. «Are you prepared to destroy me'.'» I can destroy no life form unless it directly threatens a member of the race. «And if we arrange it so that there is no threat?» He voiced a plan. We will talk. The ship jumped past the outer fringes of the empire. The dense concentration of stars in the heartland of the galaxy made the recharging period brief. Then the home planet was below and Blaze was ecstatic. The landing was made under the supervision of the base computer. Informed that her presence was no longer required. Blaze departed. Within hours she was in her structure, Trang easing the frustrations of the long period in space, a new companion discovering that she was, indeed, one of the most accomplished, desirable women in the empire. She did not know that, days later, a vast fleet of huge ships lifted from various planets, rendezvoused outside the limits of the populated portion of the central galaxy, and then proceeded toward the fringe worlds. Only a few elders of the race, eager to return to commitments and Trang, saw the ships leaving, saw the vast, encircling curtain of deadly radiation spring up behind the departing fleet, a curtain which could not be penetrated by any living being. The secret of the protective curtain was locked inside the mind of the portion of the central computer which had been left behind. Aboard the fleet, other elements of the computer had been programmed, irrevocably, to consider the curtain a natural phenomenon which made the central galaxy forever off bounds for the new race. CHAPTER SIXTEEN Far away, people were dying. Thirty million perished during the first week of the rebellion against the Second Republic. The Brothers, alerted by the sobbing, agonized confessions of Irene Caster, broke out the fire-gun arsenal in panic and burned entire sections suspected of being nests of rebellion. In turn, as they fought for the things in which they believed, the underground devastated Brother areas with disease. The Republic of South American, seeing what it considered an opportunity, attacked the Second Republic from the south with conventional methods and with huge masses of troops. With the attention of the government diverted to the threat from outside, the underground survived and fought with biological and chemical weapons. Outside, in the cities, the people took sides, some of them attacking government troops—armed with propellant weapons and a few fire-guns—with sticks, rocks, their hands. A lone enemy missile streaked through defenses, evading the antimissile weapons. A radioactive cl
oud rose over a vast burned-out section of South City. The Brothers set fire cannon to work, advancing by ground down the connecting isthmus, devastating the countryside, razing the cities, and