The Silent Invaders

by Robert Silverberg

  His body relaxed. The tension-poisons leached out of him as the hours passed. The first solido ended, and a voice from the seatback in front of him let him know that he could have refreshments in his seat by putting coins into various slots. He ignored the opportunity.

  After a while, a second sollie began. This one was even more inane than the first, but Harris watched it interestedly enough, fascinated by the glowing vitality of the vivid images, which seemed real enough to touch. But as hour after hour slipped by, his calm reasserted itself, and the rational part of his mind became uppermost.

  You certainly bungled that one, he told himself in bitter contempt. Carver will know you tried to kill him, and he’ll come after you. Or ambush you when you dont expect it. You’ve muffed your chance.

  He expected to hear some chiding word from the mutant telepath. But there was only silence, as there had been since the moment in the alley when he had been warned that this was his best chance to kill. Since then, nothing—as though he was no longer considered worthy of contacting.

  Harris rose from his seat. Stony-faced, he walked out of the theater, into the night.

  It was past midnight now. The streets were fairly quiet. He made his way carefully up the street to the helitaxi ramp.

  “Spaceways Hotel,” he said.

  He settled back for the long trip. When he left the ramp at his destination and crossed into the hotel, he looked about warily in all directions.

  The communicator signal in his body had not rasped once since he had left Carver in the alleyway. That was suspicious. Why hadn’t Carver tried to contact him for an explanation, Harris wondered? Did he simply plan to close in and eliminate him without a word?

  Harris sealed his room door. No one would enter without his knowledge now.

  He took down his bottle of Darruui wine. It was nearly half empty, now. He had been too liberal with it the night before. Hand shaking a little, he measured out a small quantity, and sipped it as though it were the elixir of life itself.

  His communicator rasped.

  Tensely, he activated it. It was Carver.

  “Where did you go?” Carver demanded hotly. “What happened?”

  “I was frightened.”

  “Frightened? Is that a word for a Servant of the Spirit to use? Tell me what happened?”

  “You passed out,” Harris improvised. “The robot carried you to the alleyway. I thought you had been poisoned or something, that the Medlins were closing in. So I thought the best thing was for me to escape.”

  “And leave me there?”

  “It would have done Darruu no good for both of us to be captured or killed,” Harris pointed out. He was relaxing rapidly, now. Carver did not seem to suspect the real cause of his fainting spell. Unless, of course, he was simply playing a little game.

  “Where are you now?” Carver asked.

  “At my hotel room.”

  “Come to headquarters immediately.”

  “At this hour?” Harris asked.

  “Come to headquarters and stop grumbling,” Carver said. “Your behavior has been very strange, Major Harris. Very strange indeed.”

  “I’ve killed five Medlins tonight,” Harris said. “Can’t I have some rest?”

  “We’ll expect you within the hour,” Carver said, and broke the contact.

  Harris rested his head in his hands. He felt groggy. He had done too much in the past few days, covered too much ground. He simply wanted to rest… to rest…

  But there was no rest for him. Warily, he dragged himself to his feet. The thought of travelling far across the city to that weatherbeaten ancient building filled him with foreboding. There was the nagging feeling that he was going to his death, that he would perish in a dry, dusty room of some rotting building in a decayed part of the city.

  He rode downstairs, shambled out of the gravshaft like a walking corpse. It seemed to him that he had spent this entire week climbing in and out of helitaxis, jaunting off to one end of the city or another. Feeling frayed and edgy, he signalled to the concierge to get him a helitaxi.

  A figure came up out of nowhere and whispered softly, “You didn’t succeed, did you?”

  He whirled, half expecting an assassin’s blow.

  “Beth!”

  She smiled. She had changed her clothes again, into her more seductive garb, and she was the incredibly lovely creature he had seen on his first day on Earth. He looked at her now, and his eyes met hers, and he ran through some of her memories.

  Redness came to his cheeks. He was in possession of her personality, he knew the most intimate secrets of her soul. He could not bear to look her in the eye.

  “The gun was in your hand,” she said. “What happened then?”

  “I lost my nerve. I wasn’t ready.”

  “Perhaps we rushed you too fast.”

  “Perhaps.”

  A bellhop came up to him. “Helitaxi’s waiting for you at the ramp, Major.”

  Harris nodded and gave the boy a coin. Beth said, “Where are you going now?”

  “Out to see Carver. He’s sent for me.”

  “Where?”

  “Darruui headquarters. Way out in the slums.”

  “You’re armed?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’re going to try to kill you, Abner. They’ve come to suspect your loyalty. But first they have to get you by surprise. The subsonic in your hip protects you against an attack. No one can get closer than forty feet to you against your will. So they’re going to ambush you. I thought you’d like to know.”

  He nodded. “I figured as much.”

  “One more thing,” she said. “An important thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve intercepted a message. A dozen more Darruui agents are on their way to Earth. They’ll be arriving in staggered waves over the next two months.”

  “So?”

  “Our task becomes harder. We’ve got to catch them as they arrive—to root them out. We mustn’t let them take hold here. We can make a beginning tonight, though. If you will help us.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  She took his hand, held it for a moment, squeezed it. He gripped it tightly in return. It was no longer revolting for him to think that beneath the soft pink skin lay the pebbled rugosity of a Medlin pelt. He had seen through to the essential core of her, and he could no longer hate her.

  “Be careful,” she murmured. “We’re counting on you. When it’s all over, come to our headquarters. We’ll be waiting for you there.”

  “Beth…”

  But it was too late. She had slipped away, as quickly as she had come. He felt a sudden fierce throbbing beneath his breastbone. The Medlins had not given up on him, he thought. They were not disgusted by his act of cowardice, by his failure to kill Carver when he had had the chance. They understood—Beth understood, at least—that such conversions as his did not happen in a moment, that he had to grope and feel his way toward the light in a twisting, zigzag course.

  He stepped outside, and into the helitaxi. He gave the driver the address.

  He sat back, and waited as the cab soared through the night.

  At this hour, the neighborhood was even more deserted than ever. No one, no one at all was in sight. Harris approached the shabby building circuitously, watching constantly for an ambush. His heart raced. It was not normal to fear his own people; he was not accustomed to the idea of coming to grief at the hands of Servants of the Spirit, he thought.

  There was a cluttering sound in an alleyway, Harris, startled, clapped his hand to his hip, started to press down on the subsonic’s activator. A small furry creature slithered out of the alleyway and glowered up at him, and made a tiny miauling sound.

  Harris smiled in relief. That was a close one for you, friend cat. Another moment and you’d have been extinguished.

  He knelt for a moment, scratched the animal’s mangy fur, then kept going. The sound of his own footfalls echoed weirdly through the empty streets. Earth�
�s moon, high overhead, glimmered brightly, its pockmarked face bizarre and subtly disgusting. Harris moved on.

  Now he was only a block from the Aragon Boulevard headquarters. Still no ambush. He took one step at a time, kept his hand close to his hip, and advanced across the wide street, then into the building.

  Upstairs.

  The gravshaft creaked out its protest as it lifted his mass a hundred feet in ten seconds.

  Tension mounted in his brain, his respiratory system, his belly. He could feel pores closing, feel sweat rolling down his synthetic skin. Pain drilled into him back of his eyeballs.

  The gravshaft halted. He stepped out, ready to slam the subsonic into activation the moment anything menacing appeared. But the hall was empty. It was dark, too, but his Darruui eyes, accustomed to sight on a world where direct sunlight was a rarity, cut easily through the darkness as he headed toward the rooms occupied by the Darruui conspirators.

  Just before he reached them, a figure detached itself from the shadows and called his name.

  “Harris!”

  It was Reynolds, the pudgy surgeon. His pale face was shiny with sweat. Harris scanned him for weapons, saw nothing in his hands.

  “Hello, Reynolds.” He eyed the pudgy man uncertainly. “What are you doing in the hall?”

  “I came out for a drink. I hear your mission was a success.”

  “Five of them dead. A pity you and the others couldn’t wait around.”

  “A pity,” Reynolds said. “Well, if you’ll step inside with me, we’ll get that subsonic out of your leg—”

  “Oh, you’re going to remove it?”

  “Of course. You don’t want to walk around with a thing like that in you, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s dangerous. It can get activated so easily. Someone jostles against you…”

  “I’m shielded,” Harris said. “If it’s all right, I think I’ll keep it. It’s a handy little gadget. I don’t understand why all agents aren’t equipped with them right from the start.”

  Reynolds looked at him perplexedly. “You won’t let me remove it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The fat man’s soft lips moved soundlessly for an instant. Then, panicking, Reynolds turned and dashed through the doorway, slamming it behind him.

  Harris hesitated, not caring to follow on into a possible cul-de-sac. He smiled at Reynolds’ fear. The ruse hadn’t worked, and Reynolds had been smitten with sudden terror.

  A Servant of the Spirit, Harris thought derisively. The noblest creature of the universe.

  “Harris?”

  It was Carver’s voice, sounding hollow and indistinct from behind the closed door.

  “Harris, do you hear me?”

  “I hear you. What is it? Why don’t you let me in, Carver?”

  “Reynolds says you refuse to let him remove the subsonic.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Subsonics are not part of an agent’s standard equipment. It was installed on you for a specific purpose that has now been fulfilled. It must be removed at once, do you understand?”

  “The Medlins aren’t all dead yet,” Harris said. “Five out of a hundred…”

  “The subsonic must be removed. That’s an order, Harris… Aar Khülom! If you defy that order you are defying the Spirit Itself.”

  “All right,” Harris said in a light, mocking voice. “Send Reynolds out here with his tools and he can remove the subsonic.”

  There was a long pause. Harris fancied he could hear whispering behind the door. No doubt the five of them were barricaded beyond the forty-foot range of the subsonic, and Reynolds was now refusing to go within its reach. The argument continued for a moment more, and at one point Harris heard Carver’s voice spitting angry curses.

  Then Carver called out, “Remove the subsonic yourself. We can’t risk a man.”

  “I’m no surgeon.”

  “All you have to do is open the thigh-plate and detach the subsonic. Reynolds can finish the job once you’ve done that much.”

  “Sorry, but the answer is no, Carver.”

  “You will not defy the Spirit!”

  “I will not commit suicide,” Harris retorted. He knew what would happen once he had the subsonic detached. They’d fry his brains with their disruptors ten seconds later.

  “I order you!” Carver thundred.

  “I can’t obey that order,” Harris replied. “And now I’m coming in. We can finish this conversation face to face.”

  “Stay out. We are armed!”

  “I imagine you are,” Harris said.

  He started for the door. They had disruptors, he knew, but the range of a disruptor was only twenty to twenty-five feet. He could reach them and stun them before they could get to him. Probably they had stunguns as well, but those lost most of their impact after a dozen yards.

  He threw open the door.

  He caught sight of the five of them, madly scrambling backward into one of the inner offices. He started for them, but a moment later there was a burst of flame and a splash of molten metal against the doorframe inches from his head.

  Projectile guns!

  Bullets!

  It seemed laughable, in a way. To fall back on crude projectiles in a crisis was a pathetic way of doing business. But yet he had to admit that bullets had their advantage. They could travel great distances without losing force. They could do great damage, too.

  He dropped to the floor as a second bullet thudded into the wall above him. Sighting along the floor, he measured the distance. This room was a good thirty feet long. They were in the room beyond it, which was even bigger. They had plenty of room to move around in before he would be in range. And, if they had bullet guns, they could pick him off before he could succeed in stunning them with the subsonic.

  He edged forward, slithering along the floor. Another explosion sounded, another bullet slashed through the air and buried itself in the floor near him, tunnelling deep and picking up a cloud of splinters.

  “This is blasphemy, Harris!” Carver called. “I order you to stop.”

  Harris bit down on his lip. One wild charge, he thought. That would do the trick. If he could avoid getting shot as he raced toward them…

  “I order you in the name of the Spirit, Harris! By all you hold holy! Get away from us! Remove that subsonic! Aar Khülom, you are destroying your own soul! You are withering the roots of your birth-tree! Do you hear me, Aar Khülom!”

  “I hear you,” Harris answered.

  “Obey us!”

  “I can’t,” he replied evenly. He paused a moment, gathering strength.

  Then he scrambled to his feet and rushed forward in a blind, mad dash.

  TWELVE

  He expected to get a bullet in the face at every step. Two more shots crashed out, both of them going wild, as he raced toward the other room. He could see the five of them, now, huddled behind desks as though that could shield them from the subsonic. Patterson was the man with the gun. As Harris reached the threshold of the room, Patterson stood up and squeezed off a shot. And scored a hit.

  The bullet ripped into Harris’ shoulder an inch from the cradle of bone that supported his head. He felt a shattering pain, felt bone splitting, and his head lurched wildly to the side. His left arm dangled limply, and pulsing waves of pain radiated through him. He stumbled, nearly fell.

  Patterson was taking aim again.

  Harris dropped to his knees. He scrabbled forward across the floor.

  Reaching across his body in an awkward way, he jabbed down on the neural nexus at his hip, and activated the subsonic. In the same moment, Patterson fired, but he was falling and losing consciousness as he fell, and the shot went completely wild, flying off to the left and embedding itself in the walls.

  Harris jammed hard and tingled with the kickback of the subsonic waves, and watched them fall.

  Patterson, Reynolds, Tompkins, McDermott, Carver. They slipped to the floor and lay there in huddled hea
ps. Harris got to his feet, slowly and in great pain. He looked down at himself, saw the blood seeping its way through his torn tunic, saw the gobbets of flesh and the lances of shattered bone. If the bullet had been three inches further to the right, it would have split his chest open and ripped his heart apart.

  He looked at the five unconscious men. Five Darruui wearing the skins of Earthmen. Five Servants of the Spirit.

  He drew the disruptor.

  It lay in his hand for a moment. Once before this evening, he had held the power of life and death over a fellow Darruui. Then it had been Carver alone, and he had been unable to fire the fatal blast. Now he had a second chance, and not only Carver but the other four as well.

  He waited. He wanted a word of encouragement from the unseen, unborn mutant whom he knew was monitoring his actions. But no word came.

  He was completely on his own now.

  The pain half-blinded him. He looked down at the disruptor, so tiny, so deadly. Thoughtfully he released the safety guard, pointed the snout of the instrument at Carver, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. A bolt of bluish energy flared out, bathing Carver. The man gave a convulsive quiver and was still.

  It was a great deal easier than he had thought.

  He turned to Reynolds next, aimed the disruptor at the man’s corpulent belly, squeezed.

  Then Tompkins.

  McDermott.

  Patterson.

  Five of them. Five Darruui, five Servants of the Spirit.

  All dead, dead by his hand.

  The pain in his shoulder suddenly became impossible to bear. He turned away from the five corpses, dropped the disruptor back in his pocket, and lurched desperately for the door. He fell on his face in five steps, and lay there, thinking that it was ridiculous not to be able to get up, absurd to lie here bleeding to death in the presence of his five victims.

  But at least he had done what he had come here to do, without cowardice, without hesitation.

  Well done, said the voice in his mind, breaking the silence of hours. We were not deceived in you after all, it seems.