The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  Dalt nodded to the face on the screen and switched off the set. What do they want? he wondered. If it was a return of The Healer, they were out of luck. Without Pard he had no special psionic powers; he was just another man, and a strange-looking one at that.

  It really didn’t matter what they wanted. Dalt, strangely enough, wanted some company. For three days he had sulked in the windowless study, and an unaccustomed yearning for sunlight, fresh air, and other human beings had grown within him.

  The door to the study opened and Lenda entered with Petrical following. Wonder and awe were evident on the former’s face as he remembered the last time he’d been in this room. He had sat across the desk from another man then – at least it had seemed like another man. Now, a thousand-year legend sat before him. The white patch of hair atop his head and the golden hand – only the flamestone was missing – accentuated an image known to every being in Occupied Space. Petrical seemed less impressed but his manner was reserved.

  "Nice to see you two gentlemen again," Dalt said with pointed cordiality, fixing his eyes on Lenda. "Please sit down."

  They did so with the awkward movements of outlanders in a strange temple. Neither spoke.

  "Well?" Dalt said finally. Four or more days ago he would have waited indefinitely, enjoying their discomfiture at the long silence. Now he was possessed of a sense of urgency. Minutes were precious again.

  Petrical gained his voice first but fumbled with titles. "Mr. Mordirak… Healer…”

  "Dalt will do nicely."

  "Mr. Dalt, then." Petrical smiled with relief. "There’s one question I must ask you, for my own sake if not for humanity’s: Are you really The Healer?"

  Dalt paused, considering his answer. Then, "Does it really matter?"

  Furrows appeared on Petrical’s brow but Lenda straightened in his chair with sudden comprehension.

  "No, it doesn’t." He glanced at Petrical. "At least not for practical purposes. By now most of Occupied Space considers him The Healer and that’s all that matters. Look what happened: A lone man, outnumbered fifty to one, turns back a murderous assault on helpless bathers. And that man happens to look exactly like The Healer. The incident has proven more than enough for the Children of The Healer and I believe it is quite enough for me."

  "But how could you be The–” Petrical blurted, but Dalt stopped him with an upraised hand.

  "That is not open for discussion."

  Petrical shrugged. "All right. We’ll accept it as our basic premise and work from there."

  "To where?"

  "That will be entirely up to you, Mr. Dalt," Lenda said.

  "Yes. Entirely." Petrical nodded, taking the lead. "You may or may not be aware of what has been taking place during the last three standard days. Federation Central has been bombarded with requests for information on the Clutch incident from all corners of Occupied Space. The isolated slaughters which until three days ago had been of interest only to the victim planets – and even in those cases of only passing interest – are fast becoming a major concern. Why? Because the Children of The Healer, a group that has previously been of mere sociological interest because of its origin and its sheer size – and long thought defunct – has undergone a tremendous resurgence and is applying political pressure for the first time in its history."

  Dalt frowned. "I never knew they were still around in any number."

  "Apparently the group never died out; it just became less visible. But they’ve been among us all along, keeping to themselves, growing and passing along the article of faith that The Healer would one day return in time of crisis and they should be ready to aid him by whatever means necessary."

  "I’m gratified," Dalt said quickly, "but please get to the point."

  "That is the point," Lenda said. "People in and around Fed Central have recognized these assaults as the first harbinger of interstellar barbarism. They see a real threat to our civilization but have been powerless to do anything about it – as you well know. They could no longer find a common thread among the planets. But the thread was there all along: your followers. The Children of The Healer form an infrastructure that cuts across all boundaries. All that was needed was some sort of incident – ‘sign,’ if you will – to activate them, and you provided it down there on the beach. You, as The Healer, took a stand against the butchery of these assaults, and that suddenly makes opposition to them a cause for your followers."

  "They’re working themselves up to a frenzy," Petrical added, "but totally lack direction. I sent representatives from the Federation Defense Force with offers of cooperation, but they were uniformly rebuffed."

  "That leaves me, I suppose," Dalt said.

  Petrical sighed. "Yes. Just say the word and we can turn a rabble into a devoted, multicentric defense force."

  "Blasterfodder, you mean."

  "Not at all. The civilians have been blasterfodder for these assaults to date. They’re the ones being slaughtered and they’re the ones we want to protect."

  "Why don’t they just protect themselves?" Dalt asked.

  "First off, they’re not set up for it. Secondly, the assaults take place in such a limited area when they hit that there’s a prevailing attitude of ‘it can’t happen here.’ That will eventually change if the number of assaults continues to rise at its present rate, but by then it may be too late. The biggest obstacle to organizing resistance remains our inability to name the enemy."

  "Weren’t there any clues left down on the beach?"

  Petrical shook his head. "Nothing. The bodies were completely incinerated All we know about the marauders is that they’re carbon-cycle beings and either human or markedly humanoid. The weapons they carried had a lot of alien features about them, but that could be intentional." He grunted. "A bizarre transport system, strange weapons, and bodies that self-destruct… someone’s trying awfully hard to make this look like the work of some new alien race. But I don’t buy it. Not yet."

  Dalt shifted in his chair. "And what do you expect me to do about all this?"

  "Say a few words to the leaders of the planetary Healer sects," Petrical replied. "We can bring them here or to Fed Central or wherever you’d like. All we have to tell them is they’ll see The Healer in person and they’ll come running."

  "And what’s in all this for you?"

  "Unity. We can perhaps go a step further beyond a coordinated defense. Perhaps we can bind the planets together again, start a little harmony amid the discord."

  "And inject a little life into the Federation again," Lenda added.

  Dalt turned on him, a touch of the old cynicism in his voice. "That would make you the man of the hour, wouldn’t it?"

  Lenda reddened. "If you harbor any doubts about my motives which might prevent you from acting, I will withdraw myself completely from the picture."

  Dalt was beginning to see Josif Lenda in a new light. Perhaps this errant politician had the makings of a statesman. The two species were often confused, although the former traditionally far outnumbered the latter. He smiled grimly. "I don’t think that will be necessary."

  Lenda looked relieved but Petrical frowned. "Somehow I don’t find your tone encouraging."

  Dalt hesitated. He didn’t want to turn them down too abruptly but he had no intention of allowing himself to become involved in another conflict like the Terro-Tarkan war, which this might well escalate to in the near future. He still had a number of good years left – in normal human terms – but to a man who had become accustomed to thinking in terms of centuries, it seemed a terribly short number. He knew that should the coming struggle last only half as long as the T-T war, any contribution he made, no matter how exalted the expectations of the two men before him, would be minuscule. And besides, he had things to do. Just what those things were he had yet to decide, but the remaining years belonged to him alone and he intended to be miserly with them, milking them for every drop of life they held.

  "I’ll think about it," he told them, "and give you my decision in
a few days."

  Lenda’s lips compressed but he said nothing. Petrical gave out a resigned sigh and rose. "I suppose we’ll just have to wait, then."

  "Right," Dalt said, rising. "One of the security men will show you out."

  As the dejected pair exited, Dalt was left alone to face a chaotic jumble of thoughts and emotions. He paced the room in oppressive solitude. He felt guilty and didn’t know why. It was his life, wasn’t it? He hadn’t wanted to be a messiah; it had been manufactured for him. He’d only wanted to perform a service. Why should he now be burdened with the past when the future seemed so incredibly short?

  His thoughts turned to Pard, as they had incessantly for the past three days. It was obvious now that their two minds had been in tandem far too long; the sudden severing of the bond was proving devastating. He did not feel whole without Pard – he was a gelding, an amputee.

  He felt anger now – inwardly at his own confusion, outwardly at… what? At whatever had killed Pard. Someone or something had taken a part of him down on that beach. The mind with which he had shared twelve hundred years of existence, shared like no other two minds had ever shared, had been snuffed out. The anger felt good. He fueled it: Whoever or whatever it was that had killed Pard would have to pay; such an act could not be allowed to pass without retribution.

  He leaped to the vidcom and pressed the code for the guard station. "Have those two men left the property yet?"

  The security chief informed him that they were at the gate now.

  "Send them back."

  "THE PATTERN OF THESE ATTACKS is either inapparent at this time," Petrical was saying, "or there simply is no pattern." He was in his element now, briefing the leaders of the planetary sects of the Children of The Healer.

  Dalt watched the meeting on a vid panel in the quarters that had been set up for him on Fed Central. As The Healer, he had appeared before the group a few minutes ago, speaking briefly into the awed silence that had filled the room upon his arrival. It continued to amaze him that no one questioned his identity. His resemblance to the millions and millions of holos of The Healer in homes throughout Occupied Space was, of course, perfect. But that could be achieved by anyone willing to sink some money into reconstructive work. No… more to it than appearance. They seemed to sense that he was the genuine article. More importantly, they wanted him to be The Healer. Their multigenerational vigil had been vindicated by his return.

  A few words from The Healer emphasizing the importance of organized resistance to the assaults and endorsing cooperation with the Federation had been sufficient. Petrical would take it from there.

  The plan was basically simple and would probably prove inadequate. But it was a start. The Children of The Healer would form a nucleus for planetary militia forces which would be on day-and-night standby. At the first sighting of a vortex, or as soon as it was known that there was an attack in progress, they were to be notified and would mobilize immediately. Unless a local or planetary government objected, representatives from the Federation Defense Force would be sent out to school them in tactics. The main thrust of this would be to teach the first group on the scene how to cut the invaders off from their passage until other groups could arrive and a full counteroffensive could be undertaken.

  The Children of The Healer would become minutemen, a concept of defense that had been lost in the days of interstellar conflict.

  The sect leaders would leave by the end of the day. After that it would be a waiting game.

  "I JUST GOT WORD that you were back," Petrical said as he entered Dalt’s quarters. His features showed a mixture of relief and annoyance at the sight of Dalt. "You’re free, of course, to come and go as you please, but I wish you’d let someone know before you disappear like that again. Nine days without a word… we were getting worried."

  "I had a few private sources of information to check out," Dalt said, "and I had to do it in person."

  "What did you learn?"

  Dalt threw himself into a lounger. "Nothing. No one even has a hint of who or what’s behind all this. Anything new at this end?"

  "Some good news, some not so good," Petrical replied, finding himself a seat. "We’ve had reports of four assaults in the past eight days. The first two occurred on planets which had not yet set up battle-ready militia units. The third" – his face broke into a smile – "occurred in a recreational area on Flint!"

  Dalt began to laugh. "Oh, I’d have given anything to be there! What happened?"

  Flint was an independent planet, a former splinter world on which virtually every inhabitant was armed and ready to do battle.

  "Well, we don’t have much hard information – you know how the Flinters are about snoopers – but all reports indicate that the assault force was completely wiped out." He shook his head in grudging admiration. "You know, I’ve always thought that everyone on Flint was a little crazy, but I’ll bet it’s quite some time before they’re bothered with one of these assaults again."

  "What about the minutemen?" Dalt asked. "Have they seen any action?"

  Petrical nodded. "Yesterday, on Aladdin. A vortex was reported only a hundred kilometers away from a fledgling unit. They didn’t do too well. They forgot all their tactical training. Granted, it wasn’t much, but they might as well have had none at all for the way they conducted the counterattack. They forgot all about cutting off the escape route; just charged in like crazy men. A lot of them were killed, but they did manage to abort the attack."

  "First blood," Dalt said. "It’s a start."

  "Yes, it is," Petrical agreed. He glanced up as Lenda hurried into the room but kept on speaking. "And as the militia groups proliferate I think we can contain these attacks and eventually render them ineffective. When that happens, we’ll just have to wait and see what response our unknown assailants make to our counter-measures."

  "They’ve already made it," Lenda said in a breathless voice. "Neeka was just hit simultaneously in four different areas! The militia groups didn’t know which way to go. The attacks were all in greater force than previous ones and the carnage is reported as incredible." He paused for reaction and found it in the grim, silent visages of the two men facing him. "There was an unusual incident, however," he continued. "One of the minutemen drove a lorry flitter into the vortex."

  Dalt shook his head sadly. "I guess our side has its suicidal elements, too."

  "Why do you say that?" Lenda asked.

  "Because the passage obviously has either low or no pressure on the other side of the opening. It appears to be a vortex because the pressure differential sucks in atmosphere wherever it opens. The attackers don’t wear jetpacks and vacsuits just to hide their identity. I’m sure they must wear them to survive transit through the passage."

  Petrical nodded in agreement. "We’ve assumed that from the beginning, and have told the men to keep their distance from the vortex. That fool’s bodily fluids probably started to boil as soon as he crossed the threshold."

  "But it’s indicative of the dedication of these groups that they all want to try the same stunt now," Lenda said. "They want to carry the battle to the enemy."

  "A counterattack on the enemy’s home position would be the answer to many problems," Petrical mused, "but where is their home? Until we find out, we’re just going to have to use the forces we’ve got to play a holding game." He glanced across the room. "Any ideas, Mr. Dalt?"

  "Yes. A couple of obvious ones, and one perhaps not so obvious. First, we must definitely discourage the minutemen from entering the passage. Next, we’ve got to expand the militia groups. These attacks are escalating rapidly. Rather than random incidents, they’re now occurring with a murderous regularity that worries me. This whole affair could be bigger and more sinister than anyone – and that includes the two of you – has yet appreciated."

  "I’m ahead of you on that last point," Petrical said with a satisfied air. "Before coming in here I issued another call for an emergency session of the General Council, and this time I think the r
esponse will be different. Your followers have been agitating for action on all the planets and have generated real concern. As a result, the Federation has received a steady stream of applications for reinstatement. In fact, there are loads of fresh new representatives on their way to Fed Central right now."

  This was not news to Lenda, who kept his eyes on Dalt. "What’s your ‘not so obvious’ idea?"

  "Drone flitters equipped with reconnaissance and signal gear," he replied. "They’ve given us a tunnel right to their jump-off point. Why don’t we use it against them? The flitters can send out a continual subspace beam and we can set up an all-points directional watch to see where they end up."

  Petrical jumped to his feet. "Of course! We can place a drone with each militia group and it can send it through during a counterattack. We’ll keep sending them through until we’ve pinpointed their position. And when we know where to find them…” He paused. "Well, they’ve got a lot of lives to answer for."

  "Why can’t we just send an attack force through?" Lenda asked.

  "Because we wouldn’t know where we’d be sending them," Petrical replied. "We don’t know a thing about this vortical passage. We assume it to be a subspace tunnel, but we don’t know. If it is, then we’re dealing with a technology that dwarfs anything we have. Any man who got through to the other end – and that’s a big ‘if’ in itself – would probably be killed before he had a chance to look around. No. Unmanned craft first."

  Lenda persisted. "How about sending a planetary bomb through?"

  "Those have been outlawed by convention, haven’t they?" Dalt said.

  Petrical gazed at the floor. "A few still exist." He glanced up. "They’re in deep-space hidey holes, of course. But a planetary bomb is out of the question. We’d have to manufacture a lot more of them, one for every planet involved, and they’d have to be armed and trundled to the assault scene by inexperienced personnel. A tragedy of ghastly proportions would be inevitable. We’ll stick with Mr. Dalt’s idea."