"You're c-crazy," said Dwan, but her tone was so different, I knew it wasn't her speaking.
"Dwan called me Jimbo. Only one person in the whole world ever called me Jimbo, and now he's part of the massmind, and now the massmind calls me Jimbo. Ted, I know you're in there. Stop wasting all our time and help me."
Dwan opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. For a moment, she just grinned at me blankly. A string of drool came from her thick lips. This was the real Dwan-Dwan without strings. Maybe there never had been a Dwan, only a meat puppet too stupid to live without help. Oh God, that was a dreadful thought! I hoped it wasn't true. Although I didn't know which was better, being just smart enough to know you're mentally disabled or being so unconscious that you couldn't tell. For some reason, I wanted Dwan to have consciousness, so I could beg her forgiveness. That might let me feel a little less terrible. And then I realized I was still being selfish. Oh, hell-even trying to rescue Lizard was a selfish act. So what? Was there anything in the world that wasn't selfish? At least this way I was putting my selfishness at the service of humanity, wasn't I?
Abruptly, Dwan said, "Okay, Jimbo. What do you want?"
"I need a phone. Patch me through to Randy Dannenfelser."
"That's not possible," Dwan said thickly.
"Bullshit. You and I both know it's possible. The massmind is the biggest consumer of network bandwidth in the world. Connect through a synthesizer if you're so damn worried about your secrecy. But I'm trying to save Lizard's life."
"Jim, she's dead-"
"Do you have any proof of that?" I was afraid of the question, more afraid of the answer.
"No, but-"
"Then patch me through, goddammit, and quit wasting Dwan's time. She doesn't have a lot of strength, you know."
Dwan went blank again. It must have been quite an argument. I wondered who was arguing with whom. I wondered who I'd even been talking to.
Suddenly, Dwan's face took on a new expression. The amazing thing was that I recognized it. "This is Dannenfelser-"
Oh my God! An exhilarating and awful realization swept over me. I stared at Randy Dannenfelser's personality peering out of Dwan Grodin's body. The sensation was eerie.
I gulped and said, "This is McCarthy. I've got a terminal."
"It's too late," Dwan said. "We've lost too many prowlers, a third of our strength. I can't spare it."
"You promised-" I started to say, then realized how stupid that must sound. "Listen to me, Randy, I don't have time to argue. Just release one prowler to the network, right now, give me the code number, I'll pick it up. I promise you, I'm going to make you a hero. Channel it through one of your own operators, tell him to keep his hands off the controls, and you can take the credit. Just do it."
Dwan shook her head. "No. Forget it. I'm disconnecting now."
"Randy-wait! If you do this for me, I'll tell you something you desperately need to know."
"There isn't anything that I desperately need to know. Certainly not from you. You flatter yourself."
"You're implanted," I said quickly. "If you don't believe me, hang up the phone. Go ahead-you can still hear me talking in your ear, can't you? Even though you've broken the channel? That's because the massmind is implanting my voice directly into your experience."
It was a gamble. Would the Telepathy Corps let him hear my words? Would the massmind cooperate? The Teep Corps had an agenda of its own.
Dwan looked terribly uncomfortable. She scratched her nose; then she started feeling her head.
My God. It worked. What was the Teep Corps doing?
"You can't feel it, Randy. You're touching your nose, you're scratching your head, I can see you-"
"You're peeking into my head!"
"No, I'm communicating to you through Dwan Grodin, the talking potato. Sorry, Dwan. The massmind is providing the connection. She's echoing your expressions, your movements, everything. We can use Dwan as the terminal for the prowler. Now, release it to me, please-"
"I don't believe this," said Dwan. She had both her hands over her ears. "This is amazing. This is fucked. I'm going to-I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Believe it, Randy. And stay on purpose. I need that prowler now."
"No, it's too late," Dwan/Randy said. "I could have done something before-but you disappeared."
"They had me drugged, Randy. Dr. Shreiber is going to pay for this, I promise you."
Dwan scratched her left tit. She looked momentarily puzzled. "This is a very curious sensation," she said. I wasn't sure if it was Randy or Dwan speaking. "Urnk," she said. Then, "It looks like one of our prowlers is having a problem -number fourteen-I'm pulling it off the circuit for a diagnostic check. If there's another attack, however, I'm putting it back on-line immediately."
"Thank you, Randy. I'm going to give you a big hug and a kiss when I get back-"
"You do and I'll court-martial you. I promise you. I don't want you ever touching me again." Coming out of Dwan's mouth, the words sounded eerie.
"I promise," I said. "Anything you want."
Dwan nodded curtly, and then Randy Dannenfelser was gone.
Opportunities for live observations of the workings of a mandala nest have been extremely limited. Most of our data has had to be gathered only after a nest has been scourged; the possibility of misinterpretation due to insufficient or incomplete information is considerable. Nevertheless, at the time of this writing, there is some evidence to suggest that the elder gastropedes continue to thrive and grow for some time after retirement.
This suggests that the reservoir chambers are not just dying rooms, but, in fact, may serve an additional purpose that aids the species and/or the survival of the mandala nest. What that purpose is, remains unknown to us.
Although there is no hard evidence to support the theory, it has been hypothesized that the retired gastropedes are not dying, but may in fact be metamorphosing into breeding queens, whose sole purpose is to produce eggs for the nest.
Corollary to this theory is the possibility that a young gastropede functions primarily as a male, mating enthusiastically with any willing female; but when it achieves a certain threshold size, it becomes itself a female, commanding a family and later a tribe of subservient males.
Perhaps, after a lifetime of success-surviving, feeding, growing, building, interacting, and of course, mating with other successful individuals-the queen gastropede is, carrying and storing enough sperms to fertilize hundreds of thousands of eggs.
This breeding strategy would guarantee that no individual gastropede can reproduce until it has earned the right. By firmly establishing a prosperous mandala, an individual not only demonstrates its personal success, it also demonstrates its leadership over all other individuals within its family and tribe. Its reward is not simply a decadent retirement, but the right to reproduce itself hundreds of thousands of times over, guaranteeing the prevalence of its genetic line.
If this is true-that Chtorran gastropedes reproduce by evolving into massive egg-laying queens-then the question must be asked:
How did the gastropedes reproduce before the appearance of queens in the mandala nests?
And if the gastropedes can reproduce without developing into queens, then why metamorphose into queens at all?
Proponents of the theory argue that the gastropedes have not been reproducing before the appearance of the queen form, that the infestation must have begun with a large enough reservoir of eggs to provide enough generations of individuals to guarantee the eventual development of queen gastropedes.
Opponents of the theory remain skeptical and point to a directly observed live hatching of an infant gastropede in a renegade camp as proof that eggs are being produced from a source other than a queen gastropede. Proponents regard that incident as inconclusive. The matter remains unresolved.
—The Red Book,
(Release 22.19A)
Chapter 79
Cyrano on the Ground
"Life isn't one damn th
ing after another. It's the same damn thing over and over again."
-SOLOMON SHORT
The electric potato was herself again, blinking and scratching and looking very confused.
"Dwan, listen to me-" I levered myself into a painful sitting position. "Come over here." I took both her hands in mine. "I need you to pretend something with me. Okay?"
"You're hurting m-me," she said.
"It's a game," I said. "A very exciting game. I want you to pretend that you're-a prowler. Prowler number fourteen. I want you to pretend that you're riding inside it, seeing what it sees, hearing what it hears, feeling what it feels. I want you to pretend that you can take it anywhere you want to go. Can you do that? Close your eyes, sweetheart-that's it-and just let yourself be inside prowler number fourteen. That's my girl."
Dwan's face puckered up uncomfortably. Her eyes popped open again, blinked, and widened in surprise. She looked around, her head swiveling back and forth in a movement that was both graceful and mechanical.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"I'm m-moving through the trees. Under a tent. It's the skin of the d-dirigible. I can -see"-she looked up-"the f-framework is all b-broken and crunched. Pieces of it are hanging in the f-forest."
"Where are you?" I repeated.
"I'm-under the's-stern. It's ripped very badly."
"Can you climb up into it?"
"I d-don't think so-"
"Remember, Dwan, you're a prowler now." i squeezed her hands in mine. "Remember, you have pincers on your feet. You can go up a tree, you can hang on to things that people can't. Now, look-is there a way for you to climb up?"
Dwan's head swiveled around and around. She looked up above us with a calculating eye. She frowned and squinted and worked her face through a series of strange contortions. At last, she pointed. "I c-can g-go up that way."
"Do it," I commanded.
"I'm's-scared," she said.
"Don't worry, nothing can hurt you. It's just a pretend game. And I'm right here with you the whole time."
"I d-don't want to d-do this anymore. It hurts."
"It's very important, Dwan. Do you like Lizard?"
"G-general T-tirelli is v-very n-nice. I l-like her."
"You have to do this for her."
"It h-hurts."
"Lizard's in trouble. You're the only one who can save her."
"Is she's-sick?"
"She might be. I know this is uncomfortable for you, but you have to do it for her."
Dwan shifted her position; she seemed to writhe inside her body. I couldn't figure out what she was doing, then she announced, "I'm cl-climbing the't-tree now. I'm almost n-near the't-top. It's v-very high up here."
"Don't look down."
"Wh-what d-do you want me to d-do now?"
"I want you to climb up inside the, wreckage of the ship. Can you do that?"
"I'm climbing," she said. "It's very d-dark in here. There's b-broken's-stuff everywhere. The skin of th-the ship is hanging over everything. I c-can't see very w-well."
"Turn on the lights, Dwan. You have lights. Turn them on."
"I d-don't know how to do that."
"Think them on. Think about the lights in your head. Feel them. Think where they are. That's right. Good. Now think them on. That's the way. Are they on?"
Dwan's face brightened. "I can see b-better now. I fixed my eyes too. I c-can see different colors. It's p-prettier this way."
"Good girl." I squeezed her hands. "Where are you now?"
"I'm in a c-corridor, I think. It l-looks like the running't-track. It's very long, b-but it's all b-broken up."
"Is there room to walk?"
"No. It's all crunched in. You'd have to crawl down real low-"
"Dwan, remember, you're a prowler now. Can you get through as a prowler?"
Dwan's face focused and cleared. She nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. I can g-get through." She flexed her fingers experimentally. "Can I use m-my hands?"
"Yes!" I practically shouted in her face. "Yes, good girl! That's very smart."
"I'm going forward n-now."
"Good, see how fast you can go. I want you to head for the main lounge, okay?"
"Okay, Shim."
"I want you to look for the main staircase-"
"The corridor b-breaks here, Shim. Should I come back?"
"No!" I realized I was shouting. I lowered my voice. "No, don't come back. Is there a way across? A way around?" Dwan frowned, thinking hard.
"Look carefully, Dwan."
She was sweating profusely. Tiny drops were glistening on her forehead. She was getting very red in the face. "I c-can't go any f-farther, Shim. It's b-broken."
"It's very important, Dwan."
Tears of frustration started to pool in her eyes. "I c-can't see any way."
She didn't have the advantage of her augment here. The same circuitry was needed to simulate the VR experience. And she couldn't figure this out without help.
"What do you see, Dwan?"
"There's a b-branch that c-came crashing through everything-it's a b-big't-twisty one."
"Can you cross on the branch?"
"It's too n-narrow for m-me-"
"You're a prowler. You have grabby claws instead of hands, remember?"
"Oh, yeah-yeah!" Her face brightened. She worked her hands in front of me for a moment. Little clutching motions. "I think I c-can-yes, Shim, I can d-do it. I'm crossing. I'm in the other p-part of the ship n-now. I'm in the c-corridor again. This part isn't so broken. I c-can run. It feels g-good. I'm not allowed to run m-most times-"
"You're doing fine-that's my good girl. Be careful."
"I'm careful."
"All right, I want you to go to the forward lounge, Dwan. Can you find it?"
"Everything's real b-broken up, real b-bad-I can't g-go any f-farther. I have to go around-oh, I c-can climb up through—yes, that works. Here's a hole. It opens up. It's all b-broken, b-but there's room to climb over everything. I can keep going-oh!"
"What?"
"I found a body."
"Who is it?"
"It's a's-soldier. She w-was pretty too." Dwan started to whimper. "Sh-she's all b-broken."
"Dwan, listen to me. Is there a dog tag around her neck?"
"Y-yes."
"Take it. You have special hands for taking pieces of things. Take the dog tags. Can you do that?"
Dwan frowned for a moment. "I've g-got them. Okay?"
"Good girl. Who is it? Read me the name on the tags."
"L-lopez. Her n-name was L-lopez. M-macha Hernandez L-lopez."
Shit. For a moment, I couldn't speak. I knew what had happened. Lopez had been looking for General Tirelli, and-and something had happened.
"All right," I said, recovering myself. "Where are you?"
"I'm on the m-main deck now. The c-corridors are c-crumpled. I can't g-go any f-farther, Shim."
"Yes, you can. You're very strong now. You can pull the walls apart if you have to. I want you to pull the walls apart and keep going forward, okay?"
"Okay, Shim-" After a minute, she added, "This is f-fun."
"Be careful, watch out in case anybody's alive. I want you to watch for the main lounge, okay?"
"Okay. There's a l-lot of j -jungle in here. Everything slants d-down and there's a l-lot of't-trees and's-stuff poking up through the floor. I guess-oops, that's a big hole."
"How deep is it?"
"It goes a l-long way d-down. But I see a w-way to climb d-down if I have to-I c-could g-get out here."
"Good. Remember this hole. I want you to come back this way."
"Do you w-want me to c-come b-back now?"
"No, I want you to keep looking for Lizard. Find the main lounge."
"Okay. I'm g-going up again. It's a little steep here, but I can m-manage it. I'm using m-my claws. This is f-fun. Wait a m-minute-"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm c—cutting a hole so I c-can g-get through-" She was silent a minute, but her f
ace contorted furiously as she worked. "Okay, I'm f-fine—" She stopped. She frowned. "What's-smells purple?"
"Look around, sweetheart. What do you see?"
"Um-there's a lot of water here. Something m-must have leaked. I hear n-noises. Chewing n-noises. There's b-bugs in the air. Lots of b-bugs. Stingflies, I think they're called. And-ouch!" She looked annoyed and slapped at something. "One of those m-millipedie things. I stomped it."
"Don't use-" I kept myself from finishing the sentence.
"Don't use what?"
"Uh, nothing. It's fine. Just keep going." I wasn't sure I wanted her to think about the weapons in the prowler. Not yet. Maybe it was better if she didn't know they were there; then she wouldn't be tempted to use them.
"Oh," she said, abruptly.
"'What?"
"I found out what's-smells purple."
"What does?"
"It's a w-worm," she said. "It's the one that ate Lieutenant Siegel. It's looking at m-me. It's very b-big. I think it's hungry." And then Dwan started to cry.
A related theory of gastropede reproduction also postulates that retired gastropedes are breeding queens, but in this theory, the queen gastropede does not lay its eggs; instead, it stores them within its body as tumoroid growths.
According to this theory, at some point in time, through some still-unknown mechanism, the eggs are all awakened at the same time; they hatch, and the infant gastropedes begin eating the mother's flesh and any of their siblings they chance upon. But unlike the jellypig young, the goal here is not to break free as quickly as possible, but to remain inside the protection provided by the mother's body. In this scenario, the young gastropedes are best served by feeding and growing within the parent for as long as possible, gaining as much size and strength as they can, until the hosting parent finally dies and they must emerge to survive on their own.
The primary advantage of this reproductive strategy is that the young are provided with an ample food supply and considerable protection during the earliest, most vulnerable phase of life.
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