by Eric Flint
Jommy smiled at her, unintimidated by the weapon. "I believe it's my home, Granny. I paid for it."
"My home!" She swung the shotgun around, pointing at all of them. Petty dove for cover behind the car, while Gray stood next to his daughter, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.
Through his tendrils Jommy sent questing thoughts, soothing emotions. During the four years he had lived here with the old woman, he had done much work to alter her personality, to smooth over the corruption in her twisted mind. He had changed her into some semblance of a normal human being, but she had been through much recently—and he hadn't been around to reinforce his work. The old woman certainly didn't know how to show compassion—at least not naturally.
"Granny, is this any way to say hello?"
"I would prefer to say goodbye. Or better yet, rest in peace."
Still smiling, Jommy was sure he could do this. No one in the world knew Granny and her weaknesses better than he did. The greedy woman had manipulated him when he was just a boy, coerced him into committing many crimes. But she had also saved him from killers like Petty. He had owed her a debt of gratitude, though by any reasonable measure, he had already paid her back a thousand times over.
"Well, for my part I'm glad to see you alive and healthy. After the tendrilless almost destroyed this valley, I wasn't sure just how you had recovered."
The old woman cackled, still gripping the shotgun. "Oh, Granny's good at surviving. Do you have any idea how much misery you put her through? How much work it was to rebuild this house?"
In all the time he had known the old woman, Granny had been allergic to physical labor. He stepped closer until the shotgun barrel was only a few feet away, still pointed directly at his chest. "And it looks like you did a fine job."
"Damn right I did." Four of her chickens strutted around the yard in front of them. One scuttled under the big car. "I went through a lot of hard times because of you, Jommy Cross." Maintaining her huffy act, she glared at Kier Gray and Kathleen. "And if one slan wasn't enough to cause me misery, who are all these people? Are they slans, too?"
Petty barely poked his head up from behind the car. One of the chickens pecked at his ankle, and he cried out in pain, kicking at the bird. Feathers flew as it ran squawking toward Granny.
Jommy extended a hand behind him; Kathleen came forward and took it. "This is Kathleen Layton. She's the love of my life." The young woman blushed.
Granny grew misty eyed for just a moment, then forced her wrinkled face into a scowl. "How sweet. And what about the other two? And you better impress me. Otherwise, why should I keep you here on my property? Granny's got enough shotgun shells for all of you."
"That man cowering behind the car is the great slan hunter, John Petty, chief of the secret police."
Granny grinned with her papery lips. "Oh, Mr. Petty! I've admired your work."
The slan hunter blinked at her, then stood to his full height. Ashes and soot from the car smeared his chest, cheeks, and jacket.
"And this is Kier Gray, the President of Earth," Jommy said. "Is that impressive enough for you?"
Cradling the gun in the crook of one arm, Granny fumbled in a pocket of her apron and withdrew a ten credit note, flapping it to unfold the paper. She held it up with her bony fingers, stared at the portrait on the money, comparing it with Gray. "Yes, that's him all right. You haven't aged a bit, Mr. Gray."
The President couldn't shake Granny's hand because she was gripping the shotgun too tightly. Jommy could tell the old woman was relaxing, but she wanted to maintain her semblance of power for as long as possible. It was Granny's way.
"From what the wireless says, he's not President of much anymore. I wasn't surprised to hear about those evil slans attacking. I always knew there were thousands of them just waiting to come after decent, law-abiding humans."
"They aren't slans, Granny. They're a different breed—"
"They're all slans to Granny! And I wouldn't be surprised for a second to find out that you and all your ilk were behind this."
Kathleen looked indignant. "We most certainly aren't! We've been hunted down. The grand palace is destroyed."
"Don't excite yourself, Missy. This is a peaceful valley, and I intend to keep it that way—through force of arms if necessary." She looked down at the shotgun, then finally rested the stock on the porch beside her. "And having you folk here increases Granny's danger. Who knows how many people are after you? Could be angry mobs, could be assassins . . . maybe more slans, maybe even secret police."
Then her eyes got that familiar greedy gleam. "Hmm, on the other hand, there'll be a big reward for you. Could be enough money to put a nice addition onto the ranch house."
Gray's rich familiar voice was very regal. "I'll make you a proposal, ma'am. As the President of Earth, I could dredge up a ransom a lot larger than any reward offered by those hunting for us. Consider it your reward for services rendered."
"It would be more money than one woman could imagine," Petty said.
She turned her steely glare at him. "Granny has a very good imagination, Mr. Petty." The wheels were turning in her head. "But if the world is overrun by slan traitors, how can even President Gray pay me anything? Sounds like your wallet could very soon be empty."
The President turned on his charm. "Think of it this way: If the world is destroyed by our enemies, how could you spend a reward even if you have it? It makes much more sense to help us out, and then send us a bill."
Granny considered for a long moment and then, in a fluid motion as fast as a snake striking, she reached down and snatched up the chicken pecking around the flowers at the porch. She lifted it into the air and wrung its neck. The bird barely had time to squawk.
"All right, you can stay for supper." The old woman grinned. "Then I'll show you how I welcome my guests."
CHAPTER 20
Once she entered the library's archive vault, the lights came on automatically, powered by the emergency generator. The stale air had a metallic flatness of recyclers, filters, and dehumidifiers.
Anthea saw a maze of wonders, historical treasures beyond her wildest imagining. Even with her new speed-reading ability, she had a lot to study. Standing inside, she just stared for a moment; her baby's small hazel eyes were hungry, looking around him.
Metal shelves were stacked high with bulging and yellowed boxes of documents. Books bore red-and-white Classified and Restricted Use stickers; many of the volumes seemed incredibly old. One small table held a stack of polymer-coated papers, preserved newspaper clippings from when slans had first appeared. Some clippings quoted outspoken supporters, while others declared that these new "terrible mutants" posed a severe danger to humanity. The dates on the newspapers came from a different calendar entirely; she couldn't tell how old they really were.
After finding a safe and comfortable place for the infant to rest, Anthea turned her attention to the old records. When tendrilled children first began to be born—unexpectedly, it seemed—they were treated as freaks, oddities, and misfits. By the time the public began to suspect the powers of the new race, a flood of slans had been born all around the world. Was the emergence of mutations an accident or part of a carefully coordinated plan? The records were unclear on that point.
As the first generation of slans grew to adulthood, the reports became darker and more disturbing. New radical groups formed, in particular a masked and black-robed society calling itself the Human Purity League. Bloodthirsty vigilantes, they hunted down and lynched slans.
Some brave first-generation slans acted as spokesmen on television and radio talk shows, begging for understanding and acceptance. The spokesmen claimed that slans did not choose to be what they were, but that they could not give up their birthright. They simply wanted to live in peace like any other human, to go about their business.
Their detractors, however, insisted that "slan business" was to destroy "inferior" humanity much the same way that modern man would have hunted down and eradicated Nean
derthals. "How can a slan not feel this way?" claimed the leader of the Human Purity League. "They must believe themselves to be superior—and if they believe themselves superior, then all humans need to be concerned."
This attitude sparked protests from militant slans, who retaliated against the prejudice and persecution by standing up for themselves. "We are superior. We are the next step in human evolution. Why should we be ashamed of our skills and abilities? We should use them, not hide them."
Absorbing information as swiftly as she could sift through the records, Anthea read with growing horror. In four separate incidents, black-robed vigilantes dragged outspoken slan advocates out of their homes in the middle of the night, then drugged them into a stupor to dull their mind powers. The Human Purity League hacked off the tendrils of the advocates, then hung the victims from lamp posts or trees as an example "for all good humans to follow."
These terrifying acts drove many slans into hiding. Slans went to back-alley clinics to have their tendrils surgically removed so they could live quietly among human society. Entire networks and underground railroads sprang up to give these "neutered" slans new identities in safe places.
Saddest of all, Anthea thought, was one small article reporting (with no particular significance) that a large percentage of those shamed slans who had chosen the illicit tendril-amputation surgery exhibited an extremely high incidence of suicide afterward. Approximately eighty percent of those desperate enough to take such measures chose not to survive with dulled senses and mental blindness; they killed themselves within months.
The Human Purity League began to sport clean-shaven heads as proof of their tendril-free scalps. Flagrantly bragging about their actions, the Purity League insisted that anyone with long hair—male or female—had to be hiding something. Their thugs knocked down people in the streets and forcibly shaved their heads. Very few of their targets turned out to have tendrils, but this did not stop their antics.
Anthea felt a tightening in her gut as she continued reading. She already knew how history would turn out, and now she could see the events escalating toward a full-scale war between slans and normal humans.
Pushed into a corner, slan activists began to fight back more aggressively. They formed support groups and protective societies. They met openly where they thought their large numbers would guarantee them safety. But in a particularly appalling incident, the Human Purity League surrounded one such hall where they claimed the evil slans were plotting the overthrow of Earth. They barricaded the doors, barred the windows, then set the whole building on fire, burning to death over three hundred slans.
That had been the tipping point that turned slans entirely against their human persecutors. From there, it had only grown worse and worse.
Trembling with all she had learned, Anthea realized that very few people alive knew this truth. Humans still exhibited an undiminished hatred toward the mutant race. No wonder the true slans (if any of them still remained) lived in desperate hiding.
Weary of the sickening reports, Anthea stretched her legs and moved along the shelves, pulling down boxes and poking among the other paraphernalia. She found dusty devices, strange laboratory equipment that looked antique while at the same time futuristic. The sealed items were labeled merely "unknown slan weapon" or "dangerous slan mind-control device."
In one cabinet she found an old-fashioned video viewer and canisters of tapes. "S. Lann recordings: Original statements. Highest Security Access." Doctor Samuel Lann, the first investigator—some said the creator—of the slans! She knew she had to watch the tapes.
She lifted the viewer and brought it back to the table where the baby still lay, wide awake. She spent several minutes deciphering the player and loading the old and brittle tapes. She feared the tape might snap as it rattled through the viewing mechanism, but she had to learn what Samuel Lann had said in his own words.
Once she activated the power switch and heard the wheels clattering, jumpy images began to flicker on the screen. She saw a handsome man with dark-brown hair, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw that denoted confidence and trustworthiness. He seemed defiant yet patient as he faced his questioners. She realized that this was Lann and that these were interrogation tapes. Even back before the Slan Wars, there must have been an organization equivalent to the secret police and the slan hunters.
"Why do you fear my children?" Lann said. "I love them. Two fine daughters and a son—triplets—who happen to have been born with an unusual birth defect. They're no threat to you."
The interrogator said in a gruff voice, "Anyone with powers such as theirs is a threat to us. Anyone who has the ability to control minds must themselves be controlled before they harm our government or our population."
"But they're just children, barely fifteen," Lann said mildly. Even Anthea could tell he was hiding something.
"They are weapons, living weapons that could be turned against us if we do not control them."
Another voice, a woman's, spoke up from outside the field of view, "And how many others like this are there, Dr. Lann? How many children have tendrils? We've heard reports from other countries—countries that you visited. Wouldn't you like us to bring together these other mutants, just so we can give them proper medical care?"
Lann wasn't falling for it. "Ask the other parents. How can I judge how many have been born?"
"Born? Or created, Dr. Lann?" said the male voice.
"What are you suggesting?"
"In your laboratory we found and confiscated many devices, strange machines that had the ability to alter human brains."
The woman continued in a soothing voice, "Your research is well-known, Doctor. You are quite prominent in the field of mental enhancement."
"Yes, I have made a career of studying the nature of the human mind, of memories and knowledge. My dream is to record and share those components that make up a person's history and personality."
The male interrogator seized on the comment. "And did those diabolical machines also expand the brains of your children, mutate them into these powerful creatures who can manipulate thoughts? You could be manufacturing enhanced humans, putting your own fingerprints on the evolution of the race."
"Don't be absurd." Lann laughed at first, then saw that the others were serious.
"We know you have the capability," the woman added.
"No one has that capability. I may be a genius in my field, but not even my children—who are far smarter and more imaginative than I am—could concoct such a bizarre conspiracy of using mind machines to produce a whole new race of human beings. Surely you can see that's ridiculous?"
"What we see, Dr. Lann, is that your three children have powers we do not understand. We've already received reports from our counterpart agencies that an alarming number of others just like them have begun popping up in the most unlikely places. Children born with tendrils—"
The woman interjected, harsher now, "Or perhaps innocent babies were exposed to unusual rays produced by your machines, which caused the tendrils to grow. Are you seeding them around the world, Dr. Lann, trying to create a quiet revolution?"
"Of course not."
There was a long silence, and finally the interrogators decided to let him go. "You watch yourself, Dr. Lann—because we'll certainly be watching you."
With a shudder, Anthea removed the tape and put in the next one. Beside her, the baby was fully alert. When she looked at her little boy, she experienced a poignant understanding of how Dr. Lann must have felt upon seeing his own three children born with strange tendrils. Was he surprised, or intrigued?
There was no record of the woman who had been mother to those first three slan children. Had the mother been normal, or a secret slan all along? Maybe the race had existed far longer than anyone suspected. Had that long-forgotten woman—or Dr. Lann himself—been exposed to some strange chemical or mutagen? She doubted she would ever know.
In the next interrogation tape, Dr. Lann looked haggard. Purple
bruises surrounded one eye, and a bandage covered his forehead. His clothes were rumpled, even torn, but his face held a murderously defiant spark that hadn't been there before.
"By being so outspoken, you call attention to yourself, Doctor," said the interrogator, a different one than before. "If you don't want to be singled out for our special attentions, then you shouldn't speak on the behalf of these dangerous mutants."
"Someone has to," Lann snapped back. "Someone needs to be the voice of reason. Obviously, it won't come from your new secret police organization." A stiff gloved hand struck him across the face. Lann spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at his interrogator. "You have no right to hold me here. I have committed no crime."
"You have attempted to destroy the human race. That's a significant crime in our book. Mutants are cropping up everywhere—it's a veritable plague! I doubt we could possibly stop the spread now, even if we exterminated all of them before they have a chance to breed. They keep appearing even from seemingly normal parents."
