Psi Hunt

by Kurland, Michael

  “Gentlemen, ready your weapons!” Friendly announced. “There’ll be a double issue of grog for every man-jack of you when this night’s work is done. After me and mind your step.” The crew dropped from the ramp and raced toward the sagging door, with Friendly in the lead and Robert lugging a submachine gun, second. “Hold it,” Friendly called as they reached the arch. “This door’s probably still hot as hell.”

  “Ready for that,” Lyle said, coming up front. He had a CO2 fire extinguisher on his back, and he played the stream from it over the doors until white foam clung to everything and the cylinder was empty. “That should have done it.”

  “Glad you thought of that,” Friendly said. “Who’s minding the store?”

  “Harvey. We flipped for it.” Lyle unstrapped the cylinder and tossed it aside.

  “Okay, let’s go in.”

  The corridor was unfaced rock, and led to a ramp that folded in on itself and went down at a ten degree angle. The light came from bare fixtures high on the wall. The place smelled of rock dust and was dry and cold and inhuman. The noise the men made as they raced down the ramp was damped and swallowed by the rock, so that those on one level could only slightly hear the men above or below.

  “Where to?” Robert asked.

  “Is Ohara here?” Friendly asked.

  “Down—further down!” Ohara called from the rear. So they continued down the ramp. And further down. And the ramp got steeper and the light got dimmer and the air grew moist and even colder. And still they went down.

  “See the tracks,” Friendly said. “They use some sort of vehicle to travel up and down this thing. Probably an electric cart.”

  “They could have left it up there for us,” Robert said. “It would have been a nice gesture.”

  “I’ll speak to them.”

  “Hold!” Ohara called finally. “We’re at the level.”

  “There’s no door here.”

  “There is. There must be; we’re there.”

  “Well then, it’s here somewhere. Let’s find it.”

  They poked and probed and knocked and hammered to find a way off the ramp, but the rock seemed solid. Friendly pointed a spotlight toward the ground and studied the rock surface carefully. The crystal in his ring glistened in reflected light. “They are subtle,” he said finally, “but not subtle enough. Look—here’s where the electric cart turns, you can just make out the rubber marks from this angle. It must go into the wall over there. Which means that the wall is a door.”

  “How do we open it?”

  “Who’s got the satchel charge?”

  One of the crew trotted down the ramp and set his backpack down by the wall. He opened it and pulled out bricks of trisec explosive which he stacked beside him.

  “Fine,” Friendly said. “Plaster the wall there from the ground to about four feet up, then blast. The rest of us will wait up one flight for you.”

  The explosion sounded loud and deep and stretched out in the underground tunnel, and a second later the earth shook and a blast of air slapped their faces. “All clear!” the demo man called. “A nice little hole.”

  “That was quite a blast,” Friendly said, rounding the corner.

  “Yep,” the demolitions man agreed. “Take a look at the wall.”

  Friendly peered into the settling dust. “What wall?”

  “That’s the question. Must have been some composition that looks and feels like rock, but without the density. It went up with the trisec.”

  The corridor revealed behind the dust cloud that had been a wall was straight and smooth and white and empty, brightly lighted, and slanted down at a slight angle from where they stood. Robert, submachine gun at ready, raced into it after Friendly, and the rest of the crew came behind, hugging either wall in approved military, style.

  Suddenly: a grinding noise. Robert looked up to see a row of steel bars dropping at him from the ceiling. He dove forward and the gun went skittering from his hand, bouncing off the far wall as his shoulder hit the floor. He rolled with the impact, springing to his feet again with little pause. The steel bars had now dropped into place across the corridor, leaving Robert and Friendly on one side and the rest of the men—and the machine gun—on the other. The space between the bars was not wide enough to permit the passage of a submachine gun.

  “Hit it with another charge!” Friendly yelled.

  “We’ll have to send up for one,” the crew chief called.

  “Great. Okay, we’ll see you later. Come on, Burrows, let’s make it into this ant hive.”

  “I’ve lost my gun,” Robert said.

  “That’s what happens to ye who put your trust in reeking tube and iron shard; you get shook when you’re not heeled. Don’t worry about it, just come on!” Friendly pulled the cap-and-ball pistol from his belt and, holding it in front of him with two hands like a divining rod, lumbered down the corridor with Robert at his heels.

  A squad of white-robed sibs burst out of a doorway and rushed at Friendly. “Hold!” he yelled, waving the wide-mouth pistol at them. They stopped short and backed up to the wall of the corridor. “What do you want here?” one demanded.

  “You have something of mine,” Friendly told him. “I want my woman back—now!”

  “Why—what makes you think we have your woman here? You may look if you like. There is no one here.”

  “I’ll do just that.” Friendly reached out and grabbed the sib’s arm, pulling him away from the wall. He twisted the speaker around and jammed his arm into the small of his back. “You come with me,” he said, leveling the pistol at the back of the man’s head. “The rest of you just freeze where you are.”

  They remained frozen as Friendly propelled his captive down the corridor and around a turn. “Take us to her,” Friendly whispered in the man’s ear.

  “We don’t have anyone here,” the man insisted. “That would be kidnaping.”

  “Horrors,” Friendly said. “Let me put it this way: I am going to keep pushing you until we end up somewhere; if it isn’t at the girl or the Prophet Lassama himself, you are going to suffer a sudden infusion of lead into your brain.” He pushed. “Head out, brother.”

  “Violence!” the man sniffed. “Come along with me, then. I will take you to the Prophet Lassama.” He walked ahead with as much dignity as someone with his hand jammed up into the small of his back could manage.

  A large man stood in front of them in the room they entered. Compelling. He stretched his arms and raised them high, and his voice boomed out at them. “What do you want here? Why do you disturb the sleep of the Prophet Lassama?” Powerful-honest-sincere Father speaking of Truth and Mercy. “Lay down your weapons and I will let you go in peace. I would be your friend.” The strength and warmth of the vibrations filled the room.

  “Cut the crap, Lassama. Where is Leah?” Friendly’s sharp voice cut into the psychic aura and popped it like an overheated balloon.

  “You think I hold your woman, Addison Friendly.”

  “I—” Friendly froze, his face cocked like that of a bear scenting a new breeze. “I know so,” he said slowly. “Two floors down in a large room with several other prisoners.” He absently thrust his guide away from him, and the man hit the far wall and slid into a sitting position on the floor. “Where is the elevator?”

  “So you’re another one!” Lassama said, his voice taking on a-shrill overtone. “I hate you—all of you! Think you’re so clever. Think you know it all! Well, I’ve got five of you in my cellar, and you do what I tell you to do. No prying around in my mind.”

  “You’re one yourself,” Friendly told him. “What do you think that ‘aura’ you project is? But mostly you’re a nut, and I don’t have time for you now.” He leveled his ancient pistol at Lassama’s stomach. “Go over to that door and put your palm on the sensor; I want that elevator up here.”

  Lassama dropped his arms and the blood-red cloak settled around his shoulders like some giant enveloping moth. “And what if I don’t?”

&n
bsp; “I’ll drag your corpse over and use it.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “One—”

  “You’re a hasty man,” Lassama said. “Don’t rush me!” He strode over to the door and slapped at its plate. Fifteen seconds later it slid open, humming and waiting.

  “You first,” Friendly said, gesturing with the gun.

  Lassama rallied his courage. “Can that ancient thing shoot?” he asked scornfully.

  “Exquisitely,” Friendly assured him. “And it’s dreadfully accurate. At this range I could eliminate your navel. Move!”

  The prophet entered the small elevator with Friendly right behind. Robert paused to lock the door and tie the sib’s arms behind him with the sash from his robe before joining them. There were two buttons in the elevator, and they pressed the lower. The machine descended.

  “I hope this won’t cause ill feeling between us,” Lassama said. Robert choked. Friendly glared.

  The elevator opened directly onto a large, featureless room with sterile white tile walls and refulgent fluorescent panels set into a high ceiling. The rough cement floor sloped away from the door, making the far end of the room considerably lower than the near. Broken or unfinished pipework and wiring protruded through the wall with no apparent pattern. The whole looked like a cross between an unfinished operating theater and a drained indoor pool.

  There was a small wooden table near one wall and, on the floor, a number of lumpy, gray mattresses. Five of the mattresses were occupied: four women and a man lay in drugged stupor. A second man sat in a chair by the table. He jumped up, dropped his book, and looked confused as the procession emerged from the elevator. “Just sit back down!” Friendly suggested. The man dropped back into his chair.

  Robert saw a thin slit appear in the side of the near wall as they left the elevator. It widened and, before he could yell a warning, a hand holding a thin rod appeared in the slit and the rod was brought whistling down, to crack savagely across Friendly’s wrist, sending his pistol spinning to the floor.

  The slit opened into a door, and a small man with an automatic pistol and too many teeth came through and leaned against the wall. “What the fuck would you do without me, Lassama?” he asked. “Pick up his gun.”

  “I warn you!” Friendly said sharply, holding his injured wrist before his face with his other hand, the gemstone on his finger glinting green in the actinic light. “I cannot allow that!” His voice carried complete mastery of the situation.

  “Bah!” Lassama said, some of the richness coming back into his voice. “Antique weapons and obsolete psychological tricks!” He strode over to the cap-and-ball pistol on the floor.

  Friendly squeezed his fist. A pencil-beam of violet light drilled for one missed blink between the crystal on his ring and the forehead of the man in the doorway. For what seemed much longer than the brief second it was the man remained frozen, then his muscles went into spasm and he jerk-fired a bullet which ricocheted off the floor, convulsively threw the gun across the room, and jerked his spine into a reverse arch as his legs kicked out from under him. There was a snapping sound, and the man lay, rigid, on the floor.

  “I’m not moving!” Lassama yelled, waving his hands above his head. “Not moving! There’s your girl over there. She’s fine. You have no sense of humor, Addison Friendly, none at all!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  They called in a Navy transport helicopter to take out the dreamers and the resident Sibs, who were bound to be wards of the state for a while.

  Six hours later Leah opened her eyes to find Friendly staring down at her. “I’ve had the silliest dream,” she said. “Hello, love. Where am I?”

  “In the hotel room,” Friendly told her. “The doctor said there was no reason to keep you in the hospital, you’d be fine when the drug wore off and you woke up. You’re awake. I think you’re very fine. How do you feel?”

  “Hospital?”

  “What do you remember?”

  Leah was silent for a minute, staring at the light orange wall. “Oh,” she said then. She pursed her lips and focused on Friendly’s nose. “It wasn’t a dream,” she said. “Not all of it.”

  Friendly leaned over and kissed her. “Our young lieutenant is also worried about you,” he said. “Shall I wake him?”

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  Friendly pointed and Leah leaned over to look. Robert was sleeping on the floor with a cushion under his head and an open book on his chin. “No stamina,” Friendly said, shaking his head sadly. “Something is sadly lacking in the modern youth. Only up for three days or so and he collapses. Now when I was a youth—”

  “Tell me about the Great War, Poppa,” Leah said, leaning back and smiling.

  “How does it feel, being a telepath?” Friendly asked gently.

  “What? How did you—”

  Hello, my love.

  “Hello.” Hello! You? But—all this time—

  Let’s take it slowly. You rest now.

  Yes. “Migod, no!” She sat up. “Then it wasn’t a dream! I remember now.”

  “It was all too real,” Friendly agreed. “No need to talk about it now.”

  “No—I mean, not that. After, when I was drugged. I thought I was dreaming, but I wasn’t. . . . Listen, are there any undersea bases around here? I mean, did you find them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have to stop them. Right away, now!”

  “I’ve set the wheels in motion already,” Friendly told her. “They’ll be stopped in plenty of time. How did you know about it?”

  “I was mind sharing, I guess you’d call it.”

  “Mind sharing? With one of those John Paul Jones people?”

  “No. With a telepath. A drugged telepath. The Chinese are using drugged telepaths, just as we thought. I was in one of their heads. Around here somewhere. We have to stop them!”

  “Slow down,” Friendly said. “Whose head were you in and why do we have to stop them?”

  “Yes. Let me think for a moment.” Leah lay back and relaxed against the pillows, but her dark eyes were wide and intent. “What happened. After the Prophet attempted to have his way with me; very Victorian, that. Don’t jump, his attempt was clouded by a persistent inability to make his point. Anyway, after the dramatic moment, he had me drugged until he could figure out what to do with me. By the way, did I tell you I’m glad to see you? Anyhow, I dreamed I was in a room—a great room, like an old-fashioned theater—and somehow at sea at the same time. After a while I realized it wasn’t a dream, I was sharing the experience of a girl who was drugged like I was—had been for years, it seemed—and was tied down on this bed in this theater. She had no other way out, so she was projecting. I’m pretty sure it was all subconscious; she didn’t know she was doing it.”

  “I know something about that,” Friendly said. “Could you communicate with her?”

  “That’s right, you’re one too; one of us. That’s nice. Nice. No, I couldn’t; she couldn’t tell I was there. She was broadcasting like mad, but couldn’t receive.”

  Robert’s head lifted into view above the foot of the bed. “Leah, you’re awake,” he said, struggling to his feet.

  “So are you,” she said. “It was good of you to sit by me until I woke up, even if you did fall asleep.”

  “First sleep I’ve had in days,” Robert said, checking his watch. “And I wake up after two hours. How do you feel?”

  “Rested. Very well. Happy.”

  “Good,” Robert said. “Glad to hear that. I, ah, care about you. Very much. Guess I’ll go to my room and get some sleep.”

  “Sleep quickly,” Friendly suggested. “I may have to come in and wake you again soon.”

  “Don’t tell me about it,” Robert pleaded, retreating out the door.

  “Now, what’s this about the Chinese?” Friendly dragged an armchair over to the side of the bed and settled into it.

  “The same gentleman who grabbed us as we left the Jagged Yang. He’s in charge
. They’re trying to get some specific information from the girl—and I think there are three or four more telepaths being held prisoner there—so they show underwater scenes on this big screen and repeat set phrases over and over again through headphones. They record everything she says, and the drug makes her talk all the time.”

  “It’s probably making her project, too,” Friendly said.

  “Could be, I wouldn’t know. Anyway, this conditioning pushes her toward getting certain types of information. So one of the first things she picked up was one of them thinking about why they wanted the information.”

  “There’s a certain sort of twisted logic in that,” Friendly said. “I like that.”

  “You won’t What they’re after is the secret launch code that will trigger the undersea bases into launching their missiles.”

  “The launch code?”

  “Yes. And the frequency.”

  “What are they going to do, jam it? Do they think they can?”

  “No, they’re going to set it off.”

  “You mean launch the missiles?”

  “Yes. They want to cause an international incident. They think that only one or two of the bases will fall for the phoney launch signal, and they can handle that many incoming missiles. The cities are being evacuated just in case. They think this is the best way of revealing the secret intentions of the United States and triggering U.N. retaliation.”

  “The cities are—they’re insane. They don’t know what they’re doing. If the missiles from two bases—any two—are launched there won’t be enough left of the Chinese mainland to stand on to hold the wake. The only difference will be to the United States. With only two bases launching, enough of the Chinese missile complex might survive to return the compliment. The resulting radioactivity would leave every land mass north of the equator to the cockroaches within ten years.”

  “They don’t seem to think so,” Leah said.

  “They’re wrong. Do you have any idea of where this Chinese gentleman is hiding his telepaths?”

  “No. The effect doesn’t seem to be directional. Can we defuse the missile warheads, or something?”