Mutant Legacy

by Karen Haber

  “Why are they doing this?” Betty said. “Why don’t they just leave us alone?”

  “Because we frighten them,” I said. “Because they don’t understand and so they’re scared and want to destroy whatever scares them.”

  “But they’re lying.”

  I patted her hand. “Of course they are. There are some very powerful people out there who are very frightened of us and of Rick’s memory. They’re behind this. I’m sure of it. But don’t worry. We have very good lawyers and our own resources.”

  “Metzger,” Alanna said. She tapped the green enameled tip of one fingernail against a mound of printouts as if it were the Book Keeper himself beneath her talon. “It’s got to be Metzger. He’s been after us from the start and these attacks have all been too well orchestrated to be coming from separate sources.”

  “We don’t know it’s him.”

  “But you agree with me, don’t you, Julian?”

  I nodded. “Unfortunately, I do.”

  The accusations came thicker and faster and on their heels came a stampede of reporters, lawyers, and private investigators.

  Early one morning I awoke in a sweat from disturbing dreams. Star had been here, in Better City, waving and calling to me. I had cried out to her, begging her to wait for me. But the faster I ran toward her, the more quickly she receded, out of reach. She disappeared in a flash of green light leaving me wide awake, staring at the ceiling as tears slid down my face. Despite every meditative exercise I knew, I could not return to sleep. Finally I got out of bed, dressed, and slipped out of B.W. headquarters to wander through Better City.

  The streets were empty. It was too late even for late parties, too early for morning-shift workers and merchants, and even the mechs that cleaned the streets were still locked away, inert, in their underground burrows, their sensors awaiting the trigger of sunlight.

  My footsteps on the pavement were the only sound besides the wind. But ahead of me I thought I saw a darker shadow crouched in a sheltered doorway. I could almost hear somebody breathing, and for a moment I wondered if it was Star, come back from my dreams to torment me.

  A sound: feet slipping against pebbles. The dark shadow moved and shifted. Rationality reasserted itself. This was no specter from my dreams. It was somebody trying to hide.

  “Who’s there?” I said.

  In answer, the shadow got to its feet, took the form of a man, and began running. I sprinted after him for a moment before I grew irritated and weary. I stopped and threw a mindlock on my quarry, freezing him in his tracks.

  Who are you? Answer me!

  To my amazement, he broke my hold, sent a mindbolt sizzling toward me that I barely ducked in time, and sped away around a corner out of sight.

  A powerful telepath! It was an unknown mutant prowling through Better City. Now I was more convinced than ever that Metzger was behind this.

  I raced back to B.W. headquarters and buzzed every telepath on the staff. Then I summoned Joe Martinez, the security chief.

  “Meet me in the front hall in five minutes,” I said. “And hurry.”

  They appeared in all manner of dress and undress, hair spiky from sleep, eyes heavy, stifling yawns.

  “There’s an intruder in the city,” I said. “He’s a mutant, a telepath, definitely a level one. We must find him and capture him immediately. I need to know who sent him, and what the hell he’s doing here.”

  Joe Martinez blinked at me sleepily. “But if he’s such a powerful telepath, how can I or anybody else on my staff hope to grab him?”

  “I’ll give you a temporary mental repulsor field,” I said. “He won’t be able to touch you mentally, but physically, you’ll be able to grab him.”

  “Why not use it on all the telepaths as well?”

  “Because it has the unfortunate effect of dampening the telepathic powers of whoever is wearing the shield. And I need every telepath on staff to sniff him out.”

  “Is he armed?” the security chief asked.

  “Unknown,” I said. “In any case, be careful.”

  He brandished a laser rifle with infrared scope attached. “Is this careful enough?”

  We split up into five teams of two, using nightsight goggles for better vision in the predawn murk, and spread out into the sleeping city.

  I began scanning for the man immediately, casting wide my telepathic net. Nothing. Either he had left no mental footprint or else he had been extremely clever in concealing it. Beside me, Lynn Goreman, a level-three telepath, had even less luck. She shook her head and we hurried down the street.

  As the sky began to redden with dawn, I grew more and more frustrated. Even in a small city, one telepath could not escape from a group carefully searching for him, could he? Unless he had already left the area. I moved faster, convinced that with every step I took I was falling farther and farther behind.

  Just as I was convinced he had escaped us completely, a mental cry went up—he had been located and caught near the Roman arena. A drug dart had rendered him unconscious long enough for us to move him to a secured room in B.W. headquarters and it was there that I interrogated him.

  He was an odd-looking mutant, tall and thin with long, bony arms and legs, bluish skin, and a bald head that seemed to come to a point slightly right of center. As soon as he began to shake off the effects of the sedative I began to question him.

  “Who sent you?” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  He said nothing, merely rubbed his neck where the dart had struck him and glared at me.

  I tried a mind probe but it was repulsed by a shield of remarkable density. He seemed to be completely protected, impervious to the best of my telepathic tricks.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Alanna stood in the doorway. She looked wide awake and as though she had been up for hours.

  “A prowler,” I said. “Probably some kind of spy.”

  She strode over and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  He remained silent, staring at the floor.

  Alanna shook him angrily. “Answer me, dammit!”

  Still the man refused to speak.

  “Perhaps he’s mute,” Lynn Goreman said.

  “I don’t think so,” said Alanna.

  Slowly the strange mutant began to float upward, out of his seat. His eyes grew large, almost bulging with surprise.

  He floated up, up, up, and then he began to rotate, round and round, end over end, faster and faster, until he looked like a blue-gray blur spinning in the middle of the air.

  A thin, gurgling cry burst from him as his velocity increased. It was painful to listen to, much less watch, him.

  “Stop it, Alanna,” I said. “This is going too far.”

  “Going too far? I’d bounce him off the four walls of this room if I thought it would do any good in getting some answers. In fact, I still might try it.”

  “Please,” the intruder cried. “Stop. I’ll talk to you. I promise.”

  He clattered to the floor and was violently ill in several directions. A mechmaid rolled out of its cubbyhole to deal with the mess, clucking like a tired charwoman as it vacuumed, swabbed, and dried the floor.

  “Start talking,” Alanna said. “Unless you’d rather resume spinning?”

  I stepped between them. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  I looked at Alanna and she frowned, but then a cup in the wallserve filled with water, levitated, and floated over to him.

  He emptied it greedily.

  I knelt beside him. “Now, you must tell us who sent you and what you were doing here.”

  He nodded in apparent weariness. “All right,” he said. “I can’t hide it much longer and I don’t want another ride like that.” He gave Alanna a resentful glance that managed to be respectful at the same time. “He warned me you would be tough.”

  “Who?”

  “The Book Keeper.”

  “Metzger?” Alanna
said, pouncing on the name.

  “Yeah, of course. He’s got a whole crew of us that he’s sent in here.”

  “Why?”

  “To cause trouble. Disrupt your operations. Spy. He means to shut you down, you know.” He smiled wanly, revealing a mouthful of large bluish teeth. “Nothing gets Metzger frothing faster than Better World. Or you, Akimura. He really has it in for you. Thinks you’re an out and out traitor to the cause. He can’t stand you.”

  “The feeling could not be more mutual.”

  “What are we going to do with him?” Alanna asked me.

  The mutant shrugged with almost gleeful insouciance. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me. Metzger will never stop. That man doesn’t understand the meaning of the word no.”

  “Perhaps if we repeat it to him enough times,” Joe Martinez said.

  And then I knew. I turned toward Alanna and mindspoke her. Hold him still.

  She nodded in full understanding of my meaning and as I reached for the man she froze him in his seat. Only his eyes could move, back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster in his growing terror.

  The problem for me was to find a way through the man’s mental shields. I probed gently, then less gently, and finally at full strength, but I could find no seam, no flaw to exploit. Whoever had put them in place had been a master telepath.

  I poked, I pried, I prodded. And then I found a minute defect that allowed me access to the man’s subconscious memory.

  He had a surprisingly orderly mind and I saw that he had been well educated. I saw, too, evidence of damage—most likely from drugs—to his long-term memory, which was too hazy and indistinct for a man of his age. Certain synapse paths seemed to have been obliterated while others had been streamlined for quicker access, quicker thought and action.

  Five minutes in his head was all it took me to become convinced that this man had been trained by Metzger and used in a variety of capacities, none of them legal or remotely savory.

  His short-term memory still functioned well, and as I dipped here and there I saw his various disagreeable activities: in addition to thievery and spying he didn’t seem to mind committing murder if the price was right. His mind-crimes abounded, and what’s more, he was proud of them.

  No, I didn’t enjoy sharing his mind, not for a moment. But I had to plant the posthypnotic suggestion quite deeply, and there was no way to do it without direct linkage. He was resistant at first, but a jolt to his hypothalamus finally got him quiet and cooperative.

  My work done, I withdrew from him gratefully. It had been tempting to shatter his shields from the inside—a few good scary delusions were all that it would have taken—but I wanted him to appear untouched if Metzger probed him.

  Okay, Alanna. Let him go.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then the mutant tore himself out of the chair, fell to the floor, and began crawling on his hands and knees toward the door before he realized that the force prevailing against him was gone. Once he saw that he was free to move about he stood up, blinked, and rubbed the top of his head.

  “What did you do?” be said.

  “Nothing much. Just put a patch on a few leaky memories.

  He stared at me blankly, uncomprehending. “So what happens next? Whatever it is, I don’t want it to include her.” He nodded toward Alanna.

  “Simple,” I said. “You leave.”

  “You mean you’re going to let me go, just like that?”

  “That’s right.”

  His golden eyes narrowed in suspicion, making him even uglier. “I don’t get it. What’s the catch? First you shoot me with a tranquilizer, drag me in here, and have that lady spin me around the room for a while. Then she won’t let me move. And now you say that I’m free to go.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Metzger is really wasting his time,” the mutant said. “You’re all crazier than hell.”

  Alanna took a menacing step toward him. “I heard the man tell you to leave.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  “Not without an escort,” Joe Martinez said.

  “Save it,” said the mutant.

  Martinez adjusted his sleek laser rifle in its shoulder holster. “No, really, I insist. At least as far as the shuttleport. I just want to make sure you get on a flight for Philadelphia. I know Julian here would never forgive me if I neglected a guest’s transportation needs.” And with a wink he followed the mutant out of the room.

  “Was it such a good idea to release him?” Alanna said.

  “What was I going to do, bring him up on charges in front of the joint Mutant Councils and accuse the Book Keeper? Fat chance they would do anything to him. And if I went through normal channels and had him arrested for trespassing, he’d be jailed, Metzger would pay the fine, and he would go free.”

  “Tell me why this way is better.”

  I smiled. “Because this way Metzger will get a few interesting surprises.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, you’ll just have to be patient, Alanna. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s late—actually, it’s early—and I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  The news reached us two days later. The mutant spy had marched right into Metzger’s office, delivered his report, then given Metzger a special message directly from me to him: a coercive/corrective mindbolt. Unprepared for the attack, the Book Keeper was wide open with all his shields down—as I’d expected—and his unprotected mind absorbed the full power of the blast. He immediately lost consciousness and was still in a comatose state. The damage to his brain was being analyzed but it seemed unlikely that he would function as Book Keeper again.

  Instead of relief I felt shame and horror. What was happening to me? I had been trained to use my telepathic powers for healing, not for aggression, never in direct attack. What I had done went against everything I believed in and had worked for all my life. I felt like a hypocrite and a monster. Although I tried to tell myself that Metzger had declared war on us and in warfare one uses any weapons at hand for protection, I didn’t really believe it, and I certainly didn’t feel vindicated.

  As for the renegade telepath: he was apprehended and sent by the Mutant Council to Dream Haven in northern California where he was shot so full of mind-damping drugs he wouldn’t have known which end of a mindbolt to use if he could have remembered how to generate one. He had no memory of our little session with him and little recollection of his visit to New Mexico—my posthypnotic suggestion had seen to that.

  Meanwhile, Better World thrived. The sharings went on, the towers of Better City rose higher and higher, and for quite a while my half-sister and I seemed to have overcome our differences.

  I began to regard Better World as a healing center of the first order, devoted to taking on difficult cases and furthering the study and synthesis of healing techniques. Meditation, psychoanalysis, aromatherapy, altered consciousness, drug therapy, yoga, sensory deprivation, mutant chants: whatever worked was not questioned but rather welcomed as part of a multifaceted, multidisciplinary approach. I envisioned establishing a network of similar facilities in the years to come. We would spread Better World’s comfort around the globe and perhaps even off-planet.

  I became fascinated by the enormous healing potential of the group sharings: the remarkable effects these sessions had upon both mutants and nonmutants. A plan began to take shape in my mind for a methodical, documented long-term study of the implications of these effects.

  The months passed quickly and before I knew it we were facing the anniversary of Rick’s death. Alanna organized a ceremony that included a processional and recitation. It was a bit too much like a pageant for my taste but I knew she was still working through her grief and I thought this would be useful therapy.

  So the day came and the mechdrums sounded a mournful beat. Slowly we marched into the Roman arena and up to the stage, and assumed our designated positions around the podium. The arena was packed and the audience was hushed, exp
ectant.

  Alanna spoke first.

  “I remember,” she said. “I was standing beside him that night and I remember how he died. I don’t want to stop remembering, not for a moment. None of us who truly cared for him will ever be able to shed those memories. Our last glimpse of Rick.”

  Betty was next. “He was too good,” she said. “Too fine to last. But we’ll honor his memory and continue our good work. Rick loved us. He saved us. None of us will ever forget him.”

  I came third.

  “My brother was unique,” I said. “A marvel. I loved him, loved him deeply, and I can’t tell you how I miss him. We all miss him. Please, join hands and share with me now as we remember Rick and cherish him.”

  I had mastered the group sharing technique by now and slid easily into the calming, harmonious circuit. When we had finished we all had tears on our cheeks. We left the arena, accompanied by the hushed strains of “Rick’s Ode.” Each one of us, led by Alanna, paused to place a white rose or chamiso branch at Rick’s tomb. I have to admit that even I was moved—though a little uncomfortable at the intensity of the Rick worship.

  Shortly after that Narlydda died, and Alanna was forced to leave Better World temporarily to see to her mother’s estate. Narlydda’s reclusive ways, which had only become more pronounced when Skerry died, had in no way diminished her fame as an artist and at her death she was part of the venerated pantheon. Every major museum in the world was vying for the work that Narlydda had left unconsigned. I didn’t envy Alanna her task, especially as I was well aware of her complicated feelings for her mother, half admiring, half resentful. Better World was a safe place for her energy, a path her mother would not follow.

  And so, I was astounded when Alanna announced that her mother’s remaining work would be housed at Better World in a special museum to be built in Rick’s honor.

  “Using whose funds?” I demanded.

  “There’s plenty of money from Mother’s estate,” Alanna said carelessly. “This won’t even put a dent in it. Nor will the contest I’m going to announce.”

  “Contest?”

  Her eyes glowed as she told me her plan. “Yes, a tribute to my mother’s memory, and Rick. I want to hold a yearly competition for young artists. The subject, of course, will be Rick or Better World. And each prize-winning entry becomes our property, to be added to our collection.”