CHILDREN OF THE THUNDER

by John Brunner

“Sorry about that. But—well, you remember I had a sort of association-fit the other day at the Comet office? I had something on the tip of my tongue and it wouldn’t come out?”

  Claudia gave a cautious nod.

  “Remembering Dr. Grant was only half of what was on my mind. Bernie just added the missing bit of the puzzle.”

  “Did I?”—from the hacker. “What? I don’t know.”

  “Too many kids!” Peter was chuckling with excitement by now. “You see… No, I’d better start at the beginning.”

  “You do that,” Claudia instructed, and he drew a deep breath before continuing.

  “It was this way. Most of the other donors at the clinic were medical or dental students like me, as I’ve already explained. But there was one who was a complete exception. He was older than we were, for one thing—must have been in his thirties, at least—and very un-English: tall, slim, elegant, dark-haired, olive-skinned with a neat black moustache at a time when they were out of fashion… I suppose if someone had asked I’d have guessed him to be Turkish, but in fact he was Armenian. Parker wasn’t his original name, but I forget what—No, I don’t, for someone told me! Parikian! Lord, it’s coming back as though it were last week, and I swear I haven’t thought about the guy in ten years!”

  “Point!” said Bernie firmly.

  “Point? Oh! Yes, I’m afraid I’m not making myself terribly clear, am I? Well, you see, when the partnership between Dr. Chinn and Dr. Wilkinson broke up, rumor had it that among the reasons was the fact that Dr. Wilkinson had allowed this guy to donate umpteen times. It was said that Louis was always broke, in spite of always being smartly dressed, or maybe because, so he’d charmed Dr. Wilkinson into letting him father more than his official ration, at five pounds a time or possibly more. It was also hinted that they were having an affair.”

  He leaned back in his chair, looking smug. “Well, there you have it.”

  “A suspicion,” Claudia said after a pause.

  “Yes, but— Grief, doesn’t it fit? Bernie, you talked about these physical characteristics, right? Among the kids, I mean. Dark hair?”

  “Yes, and darkish skin, or at any rate sallow. It does sound rather promising.”

  “Well, there you are!”—triumphantly. “Don’t you realize the implications? If I’m right, there’s one man out there who could have fathered all these children who can do terrible things and get away with them, and now I’ve hung a name on him!”

  Soberly, Claudia ventured, “Peter, that goes without saying. But on the one hand you may be grasping at straws, and on the other—”

  “A straw is better than nothing, isn’t it?” Peter cut in. And, mastering his annoyance with an effort, added, “Sorry. Finish what you were going to say.”

  “Well… Well, what exactly are you expecting?”

  “Grief, isn’t it obvious?”

  “Peter! Shut up!” Abruptly she was on her feet. “All right, I grant you this much—I have been talking as if there might be a common father for these kids I’m trying to investigate, and you think you’ve spotted the ideal candidate. As a result you’re forcing me to confront the implications. First of all, assuming you’re right about this Louis Parker, what do we do when we catch up with him? Compel him to undergo a gene-test? Interrogate him about the number of times he donated semen? If he was doing it through the Chinn-Wilkinson clinic, he presumably had no idea who the recipients were. We’ve satisfied ourselves that their records are shellbacked.”

  “Of course, of course, but…” Peter drew a deep breath. “Look, the point is—”

  “The point,” Bernie interjected unexpectedly, “is that this may be the first piece of concrete evidence we’ve acquired except via the PNC tap.”

  “Precisely!”

  “Okay, I’ll follow it up in the morning. Tonight I’m too tired. How can I trace this growser? Anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “He was in computers,” Peter said slowly. “It’s coming back to me, more and more. In fact that must have been how he met Dr. Wilkinson. It was his company that she called in for a quote about computerizing the clinic, and Dr. Chinn took such a dogmatic stand against the idea that…” The words tailed away.

  “That everyone assumed it was because he suspected she wanted to let the contract to her lover?” Claudia’s tone was harsh.

  “More or less.”

  “I see. Well, there’s one step we can take right away. Let’s find out whether he’s on the phone.”

  “What? And ring him up?”

  “I don’t imagine he’d talk freely to strangers about his murky past, if it is murky.” She shifted from harsh to caustic. “But it’d be a start.”

  “Let me!” offered Ellen, and was hitting the phone-directory code on Peter’s computer keyboard before she had even sat down in the chair. Seconds later she reported, “No, there are lots of ‘Parker L’ but no entry for a ‘Parker Louis.’”

  “That’s okay,” Bernie grunted. “There are more efficient ways of tracing him—which I propose to do because if he’s in computers he could well be the growser who’s ahead of me at every step.”

  “If so,” Claudia said slowly, “That means he knows who he is. He knows about his—well—uniqueness.”

  They contemplated that dismaying possibility for several seconds. At length, shrugging, Bernie pushed himself to his feet, saying, “That’s for tomorrow. I’m worn out.”

  “Just a second!” Peter exclaimed.

  “Yes?”

  “Didn’t you have something else to tell us?”

  “Oh. Oh, so I did. I almost forgot. Assuming the kid in Italy that Claudia listed was in fact one of the cases we’ve been—ah—considering…”

  It finally seemed to dawn on him that Ellen had been listening to the whole of the recent conversation, and maybe she hadn’t been supposed to. His face was eloquent of anxiety.

  But, with instant tact, the girl exclaimed, “Don’t forget your coat! It should be dry by now!” And vanished.

  “I like that kid of yours,” Bernie murmured, sinking into his chair again. “Bright!”

  “Never mind her!” Peter said impatiently. “We want to hear the rest.”

  “Where was I…? Oh, of course. Yes, assuming the boy in Italy is one of the—your cases, then the association with the Chinn-Wilkinson clinic is virtually definite.”

  “How?”

  “During the relevant period the clinic had exactly one Italian client, and the match is excellent.”

  Claudia blinked. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because—” Bernie broke off, looking surprised at himself. “Grief, I keep thinking I’d already told you, and I haven’t, have I? Maybe being banged on the head sent my wits woolgathering.” He touched his nape gingerly. “I located the medical data-bank the Chinn-Wilkinson used to use—security wasn’t so tight when they were among its customers—and set a program to mouse around it on the assumption it’s the one Dr. Grant told you about. And it is.”

  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Peter exclaimed.

  “Peter, for pity’s sake!” Claudia reproached him. “The poor growser is still in shock! You ever been beaten up on the street?”

  “Ah—well, yes, once or twice,” Peter admitted, and subsided with what could have been meant for an apology.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Claudia declared, “That’s the best news we’ve had so far, and Bernie deserves our congratulations. Are you expecting any more revelations?”

  “I’ll do my best,” the hacker sighed. “Ellen mentioned my coat—?”

  She rushed back from the kitchen carrying it, still damp but otherwise spotless. Thanking her, he rose to put it on, and she turned to Peter.

  “Dad, I have to get up for school, you know. Do you need me for anything else?”

  Earlier she was eager to make herself scarce… Am I ever going to understand the female mind? Oh—sexist!

  “Goodness, of course not!” he exclaimed, embracing her. S
he turned politely to Bernie and shook his hand, saying it was nice to have met him, gave Claudia a peck on the cheek, and disappeared.

  As the door closed, Claudia said, “Bernie, want to share a cab?”

  “No thanks. It isn’t raining. I can walk.”

  “And risk another beating-up?”

  “I don’t expect them to attack me twice. That’s not Special Branch’s style.”

  “And if it wasn’t Special Branch that did it—? Come along. I’ll pay. Good night, Peter.”

  “Good night.”

  It took Peter a long time to get to sleep. When he eventually dropped off, he found his dreams haunted by a tall suave Armenian, offensively well dressed and reeking of expensive aftershave.

  Hello. Em David Shay. You’re Sheila Hubbard, aren’t you?

  Oh, featly! You know my name! But you don’t know who I am.

  At least I know what you’ve done. And I can guess a little about how you feel.

  Featlier and featlier! All right, put it in one word.

  Haunted?

  You—you bocky… How the hell—? Cancel that! I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in hauntings, I don’t believe in life beyond the grave! I’m a good agnostic, like I was brought up to be.

  In which case, what makes you react so violently?

  None of your bocky business!

  Nonetheless what I suspect is this. Your victim was, after all, a highly trained professional killer, a Marine Commando. You disposed of him with absolutely no trouble. Ever since, it’s been as though some element of him has entered into your subconscious—not in any physical sense, but purely because after what you did the temptation to repeat your achievement has sometimes become more than you could bear—

  Stop it! STOP IT! Or I’ll—I’ll—

  You can’t, Sheila. Not to me. Haven’t you realized yet?

  I… Oh, this is ridiculous!

  Don’t try and run away when you hear the truth. It won’t work. You’ve got to face it sooner or later. How many times have you given in?

  What?

  I said: how many times have you given in? To the temptation. I know you have.

  If you’re so sure, why ask?

  As I said, you’ve got to face the truth instead of running away. You thought keeping it a secret would suffice. But it isn’t a secret.

  Yes it is!

  You can say that now I’m here, talking to you?

  I… I suppose not. But how the hell did you find me?

  Like finds like, one way or another. I’ll explain later—that is, if you decide to be frank.

  If I don’t?

  Look inside yourself for the answer. You know what becomes of those who oppose us.

  … Us?

  Precisely. Now will you tell me?

  All—all right. After the first one, the one everybody heard about, I was terrified. I mean, I couldn’t tell anybody, because obviously they would think I was insane, but I knew what I’d done, and… and I simply couldn’t believe it. So I started to suspect myself of being crazy. In the end…

  In the end, the only way of proving that you weren’t was to use the power again?

  Yes. Yes, exactly.

  On—?

  He was a reporter. A nasty, greedy, foul-mouthed slob of a reporter, working for the local paper, dreaming of making it into the big time, television maybe. He’d made up his mind that I’d murdered the—the one you know about. I think he was married to the growser’s cousin—something like that. Anyway he felt he had a personal stake in the affair. What’s more he hated my school and everything it stood for. He’d have liked to see it burned down and all the kids and teachers.

  A ribbon on his coat?

  Oh, yes! Soon as everybody else took to wearing them!

  So—?

  In the end it just got too much. I filched a bottle of gin and got a message to him to meet me—made him think he was going to get the inside track at last, the lowdown on the scandal of the school—and…

  Persuaded?

  Good word. Persuaded him to drink the lot and then drive home as fast as possible.

  What did he hit?

  Nothing. Ran his car off at a bend in the road beside the river, flat out, and sank in ten feet of water.

  How did you feel after that?

  I’d be lying if I said anything but “better!”

  And how long was it before the next time?

  What makes you so sure there was one?

  You still didn’t have anyone to tell.

  No, that’s true… All right. The next one was a missionary. Female type. She’d convinced herself that I must be a vessel of evil. And you know something? By that stage I was coming to the same conclusion. It was either that, or insanity, or—

  Or?

  Or nothing. I didn’t mean to say that. I meant to say that actually at first I welcomed her arrival in my life. If I could find—well—sanctuary from my fears about myself by converting to a religion, adopting some system of belief that would make sense of what I was and what I’d done, I felt I’d be all right again, able to face myself, able to cope… Do you understand?

  Perfectly. And I’m the only person you’ve ever met who might. She didn’t—the woman missionary.

  You don’t make that a question.

  No.

  You’re right anyway. I never met many religious people before, you know. Oh, for the sake of appearances there’s a chaplain at the school, but he only comes when sent for, to—heh!—we say “service” the kids whose families insist. There aren’t many of those… But this one was thick, know what I mean? She knew the answer—her mind was made up—and her entire goal in life was to make me swallow her preaching.

  You didn’t.

  How could I take her seriously after I discovered that she honestly thought the Bible was written in English?

  Mm-hm.

  Doesn’t that surprise you?

  Not at all. I’ve run across lots of similar cases, particularly in the States.

  Don’t be so bocky patronizing!

  I’m not going to apologize for having had a more varied and interesting life than you so far. What did you do to the missionary?

  Oh… In the end I—I persuaded her to put the love of God to the test. Wasn’t hard.

  And—?

  They found her hanging in the old stables behind the school.

  After which you felt better again?

  No!

  Explain why not.

  I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I mean, I never met you before.

  You do know why. You knew from the moment I entered the room.

  Yes. Yes, I suppose I did, really. Just didn’t want to—well, like you said, face the truth. I still don’t want to.

  But you’re going to.

  … Yes.

  So explain why this time you didn’t feel better.

  Because… Because of the responsibility.

  What sort of responsibility?

  If you don’t know, who does? Didn’t you see the TV news today? This crazy kid who shot the archbishop? You couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but it wasn’t hard to read it off his lips.

  “I’m a fucking Christian, aren’t I? And I’m sick of you making out that wogs and niggers are as good as me!”

  You did watch.

  Of course.

  And was yesterday’s news any better, or the day before’s? Do you expect anything better tomorrow?

  This is what you mean when you talk about responsibility?

  What else?

  “The time is out of joint. Oh curséd spite—”

  “That ever I was born to put it right.” Yes. Of course the idea’s completely crazy. Yet I can’t escape from it. I seem to have some sort of—of power, and everybody says I’m more intelligent than average, and… Well, what the hell else am I to do with my life? Now tell me I’m off my rocker. Tell me I’m a megalomaniac.

  Not at all.

  Stop messing about. I can’t
put the world to rights on my bocky tod.

  True. But you aren’t on your tod. Not any more. Coming?

  Wait a moment! What about Ingrid—my mother? What’ll Joe say? He pays my fees here. Douglas, come to that. He’ll raise hell!

  It’s all taken care of.

  No, I don’t believe it. You can’t possibly want to be lumbered with me! I mean, I’ve told you—God knows why, but I suppose you’ve been pulling the trick on me that I can work on other people, and you knew enough to track me down during my period when it doesn’t function properly—I’ve told you what I’ve done! I’ve killed three people, don’t you understand?

  I’ve killed, too. And I think it won’t have been the only time. Now come along. There’s a car waiting.

  Where are you taking me?

  The only place in all the world where you can stop pretending.

  You’re watching TV Plus. Time for Newsframe.

  Once again a computer-driven crash on the world’s major stock exchanges has led to a record number of bankruptcies. Recently the commonest cause of them in Britain has been inability to meet mortgage repayments following redundancy; however, last month private bankruptcies were exceeded by commercial ones, which averaged fourteen per working day.

  Returning from his triumphal world tour, General Sir Hampton Thrower told a cheering crowd at Heathrow, quote: “Since an Englishman’s home is his castle, he needs a home, and any system that doesn’t guarantee him one but hands out cheap accommodation to lazy, irresponsible aliens…”

  Food shortages this winter, particularly in view of the potato blight, were certain to be even worse than last year, but the government-approved news on radio, BBC-TV and ITV disguised the truth according to orders. Only TV Plus was still making a pretense of objectivity. The first deaths from starvation had followed an unseasonable cold snap, but although the Comet risked describing them for what they were, the rest of the media concentrated on the usual pabulum. Jake, Peter felt, was doing his best, even though he resorted more and more often to the bottle, while his backers were among the few people who still cared about the once-vaunted freedom of the press, being prepared to lavish money on defending their correspondents from prosecutions ordered by the government. How long, though, could they hold out? It had become an offense, as of the present parliamentary session, to publish “anti-patriotic” news. When Peter rang TV Plus to ask why he wasn’t receiving any more assignments, he was told apologetically that they no longer dared to hire him. However, if he had any leads their own staff could follow up, they would guarantee a finder’s fee, if he didn’t mind being paid in cash…