The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Then what do you want?" he repeated, his eyes darting to the other two figures, one a huge, steadfast hulk, the other slight and fidgety. All three, like Dalt, wore the baggy coversuits with matching peaked skullcaps currently in fashion in this end of the human part of the galaxy. "I keep my money in a bank, so–”

  "Yes, I know," the seated man interrupted. "I know which bank and I know exactly how much. And I also have a list of all the other accounts you have spread among the planets of this sector."

  "How in the name of–”

  The stranger held up his free hand and smiled. "None of us has been properly introduced. What shall we call you, sir? Which of your many aliases do you prefer?"

  Dalt hesitated, then said, "Dalt," grudgingly.

  "Excellent! Now, Mr. Dalt, allow me to introduce Mr. Hinter" – indicating the hulk – "and Mr. Giff" – the fidget. "I am Aaron Kanlos and up until two standard years ago I was a mere president of an Interstellar Brotherhood of Computer Technicians local on Ragna. Then one of our troubleshooters working for the Tellalung Banking. Combine came to me with an interesting anomaly and my life changed. I became a man with a mission: to find you."

  As Dalt sat in silence, denying Kanlos the satisfaction of being told to go on, Pard said, ("I don’t like the way he said that.")

  "I was told," Kanlos finally went on, "that a man named Marten Quet had deposited a check from Interstellar Business Advisers in an account he had just opened. The IBA check cleared but the man didn’t." Again he looked to Dalt for a reaction. Finding a blank stare, he continued:

  "The computer, it seems, was insisting that this Mr. Quet was really a certain Mr. Galdemar and duly filed an anomaly slip which one of our technicians picked up. These matters are routine on a planet such as Ragna, which is a center for intrigue in the interstellar business community; keeping a number of accounts under different names is the rule rather than the exception in those circles. So, the usual override code was fed in, but the machine still would not accept the anomaly. After running a negative check for malfunction, the technician ordered a full printout on the two accounts." Kanlos smiled at this. "That’s illegal, of course, but his curiosity was piqued. The pique became astonishment when he read the listings, and so naturally he brought the problem to his superior."

  ("I’m sure he did!") Pard interjected, ("Some of these computer union bosses have a tidy little blackmail business on the side.")

  Be quiet! Dalt hissed mentally.

  "There were amazing similarities," Kanlos was saying. "Even in the handwriting, although one was right-handed and the other obviously left-handed. Secondly, their fingerprints were very much alike, one being merely a distortion of the other. Both were very crude methods of deception. Nothing unusual there. The retinal prints were, of course, identical; that was why the computer had filed an anomaly. So why was the technician so excited? And why had the computer ignored the override code? As I said, multiple accounts are hardly unusual." Kanlos paused for dramatic effect, then: "The answer was to be found in the opening dates of the accounts. Mr. Quet’s account was only a few days old… Mr. Galdemar’s had been opened two hundred years ago!

  "I was skeptical at first, at least until I did some research on retinal prints and found that two identical sets cannot exist. Even clones have variations in the vessels of the eyegrounds. So, I was faced with two possibilities: either two men generations apart possessed identical retinal patterns, or one man has been alive much longer than any man should be. The former would be a mere scientific curiosity; the latter would be of monumental importance."

  Dalt shrugged. "The former possibility is certainly more likely than the latter."

  "Playing coy, eh?" Kanlos smiled. "Well, let me finish my tale so you’ll fully appreciate the efforts that brought me to your home. Oh, it wasn’t easy, my friend, but I knew there was a man roaming this galaxy who was well over two hundred years old and I was determined to find him. I sent out copies of the Quet/Galdemar retinal prints to all the other locals in our union, asking them to see if they could find accounts with matching patterns. It took time, but then the reports began to trickle back – different accounts on different planets with different names and fingerprints, but always the same retinal pattern. There was also a huge trust fund – a truly staggering amount of credits – on the planet Myrna in the name of Cilo Storgen, who also happens to have the Quet/Galdemar pattern.

  "You may be interested to know that the earliest record found was that of a man known simply as ‘Dalt,’ who had funds transferred from an account on Tolive to a bank on Neeka about two and a quarter centuries ago. Unfortunately, we have no local on Tolive, so we couldn’t backtrack from there. The most recent record was, of course, the one on Ragna belonging to Mr. Galdemar. He left the planet and disappeared, it seems. However, shortly after his disappearance, a Mr. Cheserak – who had the same retinal prints as Mr. Galdemar and all of the others, I might add – opened an account here on Meltrin. According to the bank, Mr. Cheserak lives here… alone." Kanlos’s smile took on a malicious twist. "Care to comment on this, Mr. Dalt?"

  Dalt was outwardly silent but an internal dispute was rapidly coming to a boil.

  Congratulations, mastermind!

  ("Don’t go putting the blame on me!") Pard countered. ("If you’ll just think back, you’ll remember that I told you–”)

  You told me – guaranteed me, in fact – that nobody’d ever connect all those accounts. As it turns out, you might as well have left a trail of interstellar beacons!

  ("Well, I just didn’t think it was necessary to go to the trouble of changing our retinal print. Not that it would have been difficult – neovascularization of the retina is no problem – but I thought changing names and fingerprints would be enough. Multiple accounts are necessary due to shifting economic situations, and I contend that no one would have caught on if you hadn’t insisted on opening that account on Ragna. I warned you that we already had an account there, but you ignored me.")

  Dalt gave a mental snort. I ignored you only because you’re usually so overcautious. I was under the mistaken impression that you could handle a simple little deception, but –

  The sound of Kanlos’s voice brought the argument to a halt. "I’m waiting for a reply, Mr. Dalt. My research shows that you’ve been around for two and a half centuries. Any comment?"

  "Yes." Dalt sighed. "Your research is inaccurate."

  "Oh, really?" Kanlos’s eyebrows lifted. "Please point out my error, if you can."

  Dalt spat out the words with reluctant regret. "I’m twice that age."

  Kanlos half started out of his chair. "Then it’s true!" His voice was hoarse. "Five centuries… incredible!"

  Dalt shrugged with annoyance. "So what?"

  "What do you mean, ‘so what?’ You’ve found the secret of immortality, trite as that phrase may be, and I’ve found you. You appear to be about thirty-five years old, so I assume that’s when you began using whatever it is you use. I’m forty now and don’t intend to get any older. Am I getting through to you, Mr. Dalt?"

  Dalt nodded. "Loud and clear." To Pard: Okay, what do I tell him?

  ("How about the truth? That’ll be just about as useful to him as any fantastic tale we can concoct on the spur of the moment.")

  Good idea. Dalt cleared his throat. "If one wishes to become immortal, Mr. Kanlos, one need only take a trip to the planet Kwashi and enter a cave there. Before long, a sluglike creature will drop off the cave ceiling onto your head; cells from the slug will invade your brain and set up an autonomous symbiotic mind with consciousness down to the cellular level. In its own self-interest, this mind will keep you from aging or even getting sick. There is a slight drawback, however: Legend on the planet Kwashi has it that only one in a thousand will survive the ordeal. I happen to be one who did."

  "I don’t consider this a joking matter," Kanlos said with an angry frown.

  "Neither do I!" Dalt replied, his eyes cold as he rose to his feet. "Now I think I’ve waste
d just about enough time with this charade. Put your blaster away and get out of my house! I keep no money here and no elixirs of immortality or whatever it is you hope to find. So take your two–”

  "That will be enough, Mr. Dalt!" Kanlos shouted. He gestured to Hinter. "Put the cuff on him!"

  The big man lumbered forward carrying a sack in his right hand. From it he withdrew a metal globe with a shiny cobalt surface that was interrupted only by an oval aperture. Dalt’s hands were inserted there as Giff came forward with a key. The aperture tightened around Dalt’s wrists as the key was turned and the sphere suddenly became stationary in space. Dalt tried to pull it toward him but it wouldn’t budge, nor could he push it away. It moved freely, however, along a vertical axis.

  ("A gravity cuff,") Pard remarked. ("I’ve read about them but never expected to be locked into one.")

  What does it do?

  ("Keeps you in one spot. It’s favored by many law-enforcement agencies. When activated, it locks onto an axis through the planet’s center of gravity. Motion along that axis is unrestricted, but that’s it; you can’t go anywhere else. This seems to be an old unit. The newer ones are supposedly much smaller.")

  In other words, we’re stuck.

  ("Right.")

  “…and so that ought to keep you safe and sound while we search the premises," Kanlos was saying, his veneer of civility restored. "But just to make sure that nothing happens to you," he smiled, "Mr. Giff will stay with you."

  "You won’t find anything," Dalt said doggedly, "because there isn’t anything to find."

  Kanlos eyed him shrewdly. "Oh, we’ll find something, all right. And don’t think I was taken in by your claim of being five hundred years old. You’re two hundred and fifty and that’s about it – but that’s longer than any man should live. I traced you back to Tolive, which happens to be the main research center of the Interstellar Medical Corps. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the trail ends there. Something was done to you there and I intend to find out what."

  "I tell you, nothing was–”

  Kanlos held up a hand. "Enough! The matter is too important to bandy words about. I’ve spent two years and a lot of money looking for you and I intend to make that investment pay off. Your secret is worth untold wealth and hundreds of years of life to the man who controls it. If we find no evidence of what we’re looking for on the premises, we’ll come back to you, Mr. Dalt. I deplore physical violence and shall refrain from using it until I have no other choice. Mr. Hinter here does not share my repugnance for violence. If our search of the lower levels is fruitless, he will deal with you." So saying, he turned and led Hinter below.

  Giff watched them go, then strode quickly to Dalt’s side. He made a hurried check of the gravcuff, seemed satisfied, then stole off to one of the darker corners of the room. Seating himself on the floor, he reached into his pocket and removed a silvery disk; with his left hand he pushed back his skullcap and parted the hair atop his head. The disk was attached here as Giff leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Soon, a vague smile began to play around his lips.

  ("A button-head!") Pard exclaimed.

  Looks that way. This is a real high-class crew we’re mixed up with. Look at him! Must be one of those sexual recordings.

  Giff had begun to writhe on the floor, his legs twisting, flexing, and extending with pleasure.

  ("I’m surprised you don’t blame yourself for it.")

  I do, in a way –

  ("Knew it!")

  – even if it is a perversion of the circuitry we devised for electronic learning.

  ("Not quite true. If you remember, Tyrrell’s motives for modifying the circuits from cognitive to sensory were quite noble. He–”)

  I know all about it, Pard… .

  The learning circuit and its sensory variation both had noble beginnings. The original, on which Dalt’s patent had only recently expired, had been intended for use by scientists, physicians, and technicians to help them keep abreast of the developments in their sub- or sub-sub-specialties. With the vast amount of research and experimentation taking place across the human sector of the galaxy it was not humanly possible to keep up to date and still find time to put your knowledge to practical use. Dalt’s (and Pard’s) circuitry supplied the major breakthrough in transmitting information to the cognitive centers of the brain at a rapid rate.

  Numerous variations and refinements followed, but Dr. Rico Tyrrell was the first to perfect the sensory mode of transmission. He used it in a drug rehabilitation program to duplicate the sensory effects of addictive drugs, thus weaning his patients psychologically off drugs after their physiological dependence was gone. The idea was quickly pirated, of course, and recordings were soon available with sensory tracks of fantastic sexual experiences of all varieties.

  Giff was whimpering now and flopping around on the floor.

  ("He’s got to be a far-gone button-head to have to tune in at a time like this… and right in front of a stranger, at that.")

  I understand some of those recordings are as addictive as Zemmelar and chronic users become impotent in real sexual contexts.

  ("How come we’ve never tried one?")

  Dalt gave a mental sniff. I’ve never felt the need. And when the time comes that I need my head wired so I can get a little –

  There was a groan in the corner: Giff had reached the peak of the recording. His body was arched so that only his palms, his heels, and the back of his skull were in contact with the floor. His teeth were clamped on his lower lip to keep him from crying out. Suddenly he slumped to the floor, limp and panting.

  That must be quite a recording!

  ("Most likely one of those new numbers that combines simultaneous male and female orgasms – the ultimate in sexual sensation.")

  And that’s all it is: sensation. There’s no emotion involved.

  ("Right. Superonanism.") Pard paused as they watched their sated guard. ("Do you see what’s hanging from his neck?")

  Yeah. A flamestone. So?

  ("So it looks exactly like yours – a cheap imitation, no doubt, but the resemblance is remarkable. Ask him about it.")

  Dalt shrugged with disinterest, then noticed Giff stirring. "Are you quite finished?"

  The man groggily lifted his slight frame into a sitting position. "I disgust you, don’t I," he stated with a low voice, keeping his eyes averted to the floor as he disconnected the cassette from his scalp.

  "Not really," Dalt replied, and sincerity was evident in his voice.

  A few centuries ago he would have been shocked, but he had learned in the interim to view humanity from a more aloof vantage point – a frame of mind he had consciously striven for since his days as The Healer. It had been difficult to maintain at first, but as the years slid by, that frame of mind had become a natural and necessary component of his psyche.

  He didn’t despise Giff, nor did he pity him. Giff was merely one expression of the myriad possibilities open to human existence.

  Dalt moved the gravcuffs downward and seated himself crosslegged on the floor while Giff stowed the cassette in a sealed compartment in his overalls.

  Dalt said, "That’s quite a gem you have tied around your neck. Where’d you steal it?"

  The fidgety man’s eyes flashed uncharacteristically. "It’s mine! It may not be real but it’s mine. My father gave one to all his children, just as his own mother gave one to him." He held out the stone and gazed at its inner glow.

  "Hm!" Dalt grunted. "Looks just like mine."

  Giff rose to his feet and approached Dalt. "So you’re a Son of The Healer, too?"

  "Wha’?"

  "The stone… it’s a replica of the one The Healer wore centuries ago. All Children of The Healer wear one." He was standing over Dalt now and as he reached for the cord around his neck, Dalt idly considered ramming the gravcuff upward into Giff’s face.

  ("That won’t work,") Pard warned. ("Even if you did manage to knock him unconscious, what good would it do us?
Just play along; I want to hear more about these Children of The Healer.")

  So Dalt allowed Giff to inspect his flamestone as he sat motionless. "I’m no Son of The Healer. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t aware that The Healer ever had children."

  Giff let go of Dalt’s gem and let it dangle from its cord again. "Just a figure of speech. We call ourselves his children – great-great-great-grandchildren would be more accurate – because none of us would have been born if it hadn’t been for him."

  Dalt gave him a blank stare and Giff replied in an exasperated tone, "I’m a descendant of one of the people he cured a couple of hundred years ago. She was a victim of the horrors. And if The Healer hadn’t come along and straightened her out, she’d have been institutionalized for all her life; her two sons would never have been born, would never have had children of their own, and so on."

  ("And you wouldn’t be here standing guard over us, idiot!") Pard muttered.

  "The first generation of Children of The Healer," Giff went on, "was a social club of sorts, but the group soon became too large and too spread out. We have no organization now, just people who keep his name alive through their families and wear these imitation flamestones. The horrors still strikes everywhere and some say The Healer will return."

  "You believe that?" Dalt asked.

  Giff shrugged. "I’d like to." His eyes studied Dalt’s flamestone. "Yours is real, isn’t it?"

  Dalt hesitated for an instant, engaged in a lightning conference. Should I tell him?

  ("I think it’s our only chance. It certainly won’t worsen our situation.")

  Neither Pard nor Dalt was afraid of physical violence or torture. With Pard in control of all physical systems, Dalt would feel no pain and could at any time assume a deathlike state with a skin temperature cooled by intense vasoconstriction and cardiopulmonary activity slowed to minimal level.

  Yeah. And I’d much prefer getting out of these cuffs and turning a few tables to rolling over and playing dead.

  ("That would gall me, too. Okay – play it to the hilt.")