Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by J F Bone

  Wolverton looked at me, sighed and shrugged his lean shoulders. “I wonder if you’re worth it,” he speculated audibly. “Possibly it’d be better to wait until you’ve married and try again with your children.” He rose to his feet. “But I can’t take the chance,” he said. “Already it’s getting too late—in another generation there might be no opportunity to salvage the race. Can’t work with material like your society. There has to be some balance—and the old civilizations are going downhill. There just doesn’t seem to be anything now but nut cults and decadence. There’s no middle ground except for a few places—and those are damn near Maximum Survival Density.” He capitalized the last three words verbally.

  I don’t think he was really conscious of my presence at the moment, which was oddly annoying. For an instant he was miles away in a world of his own—a world which I did not understand. And for an equally brief instant I wished I could.

  He walked out—leaving me alone with the Halsite.

  “Take me outside,” I said.

  “Boss say no.”

  “Boss didn’t say no—he just told you to watch me, You can watch me just as well outside as in here.”

  “Boss say keep you in house,” the Halsite repeated, grinning cheerfully as he talked, exposing his long, yellow canines.

  “Are you afraid of me?” I asked with mild incredulity.

  “E’Komo afraid of no man,” the Halsite said. “Men weak—poor hunters—poor fighters—but Boss say inside.” His mouth closed like a trap and he looked sullen.

  “You are afraid,” I said, putting as much contempt into the words as I dared. “Afraid.”

  “E’Komo not afraid of any human.”

  “Of the Boss?” I asked insinuatingly.

  “Even Boss—but he my chief. I put my hands in his and gave promise to be his man. Halsite no break word.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, “you’ll never convince me with all your talk that you’re not afraid of Wolverton.” I looked up at his broad, brutal face. He wasn’t smart—and he was proud. For the past two weeks I had been feeling him but while my leg was rapidly mending under the doctor’s expert care. I despised her, but she knew far more of medicine than did our best. At home, it would be a month away before I would be able to walk, but here I was almost well again. But it would do me no good as long as I was inside the house. Outside, the electronic field that blanked my strength might be weaker—and maybe if I could get far enough away I could escape. If I could once get away from Wolverton’s influence he’d never catch me. I could return and tell the Bearers—

  Just what could I tell them? The thought jerked my plans for escape to a dead halt.

  What had I learned about our enemy? What were his weaknesses? How could he be attacked and destroyed? Sure, I knew his strength—but other ones than I had learned of that. And here I was in the very heart of Evil’s power and I had learned exactly nothing that would help the Word prevail.

  I could have kicked myself for being so stupid—for not leading Wolverton on. Surely Zard must think me a weak reed—a coward—or at best a fool. One cannot fight Evil by ignoring it. The Word came to me, “Smite Evil hip and thigh. Fight fire with fire—oppose craft to craft—strike down the evil doer with his own spear that the Word may triumph. For in my Kingdom honor waits for those who spread the Word—that the light of the spirit may be passed to other minds and the heathen rescued from the Pit.” What a fool I was to apply the “Canticles of the Young” to Wolverton. It should have been the “Missionary Creed.” Against Wolverton, passive resistance could not win. It would take a sharp mind and resolute spirit to combat him. And it was time I displayed both.

  Immersed in my thoughts I did not at first realize where the Halsite was taking me until a brilliant blaze of light struck my eyes. We were outside and the big fellow was pushing me rapidly down a smooth walk between rows of flowering shrubs.

  “See—not afraid,” he said as he came to a branch in the walk. “I take you outside. Now we go back.”

  I felt for him and he was all there—and with calculated force I struck! He crumpled, eyes rolling in their sockets, powerless to harm me as I stepped from the chair, limping a little from the weight of the brace on my leg. I looked down at the helpless Halsite for a long second, assimilating what I learned from him, and then I went over the fence and into the darkness of the forest beyond the grounds.

  As the trees closed behind me I had a panicky feeling to fly and keep on flying until I was back home with my fellow Adepts in the cloister behind the great cathedral in Hosanna. I longed for the quiet and the comforting touches of my friends. Here I was alone in a savage land with the Father of Evil.

  The thought unnerved me. I was not used to Evil, and my cloistered days of study and practice as I mastered an Adept’s powers were poor experience to pit against such a one as Wolverton. And then I remembered my vow to Zard, and the Missionary Creed, and I knew I must go back and fight him on his own ground. I must appear weak and inept until I could find an opening through which to strike. Yet I must not appear too easy. Wolverton must be allowed to recapture me, but I must make an obvious effort to escape. A pure cleansing wave flowed through me and my spirit was eased and my soul comforted. Zard was with me, and I felt no fear. He was pointing out my course—the only one I could possibly take. Slowly I turned and moved deeper into the forest, using my Adept’s powers to confuse the trail.

  Wolverton found me as I knew he would. I was aware of him even before he saw me. It surprised me that he had located me so quickly—but that was the only unusual thing about it. His airboat came slanting down toward my hiding place, but I did not move. He stepped out and came toward me, but I did not fly though every muscle in my body screamed for flight. When he was close enough I reached for him, but my grip slipped harmlessly away. Still, this did not surprise me for I had not been able to touch him before—and was he not the Father of Evil? But when the glinting metal flashed violet in his hand and the stunning shock locked my muscles in rigid paralysis—I was afraid—but then it was too late—

  I was again lying upon the narrow white table while the doctor massaged my stiff body. Slowly a feeling that was agony came back to my numbed body and I stirred weakly. “Fool,” the doctor said. “Did you think to escape from him?” There was bitter acid in her voice, mixed with an odd note of admiration. “You had courage to try but you should have known you wouldn’t succeed.”

  “I nearly did,” I said, “and I would have if he had been slower to pursue. In the dark I could have avoided him.”

  “He would have found you though it had been as dark as the bottom of the Pit.”

  “I would have been gone.”

  She laughed. “You do not know him.”

  “I know he is the Father of Evil,” I said.

  “You are wrong—he is not that—he is merely different—older—wiser—but not evil.”

  It was my turn to laugh, and I did although it hurt my throat and made my chest ache. “It is you who are the fool,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It may be,” she agreed, “but you will learn that Wolverton is master here, and what he wants he keeps. Nor will you escape again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Try,” she said. “He has turned the field off.”

  I tried—and panic flooded me! I did not move—nor could I feel the slightest trace of the doctor although I tried to reach her with all my strength. Then I screamed! And my screams were echoed by her laughter.

  The spasm died quickly enough—for I am not a coward. It is the unknown which is frightening—the feeling of helplessness in the face of powers greater than one’s own. But then I realized I had chosen this course—that it was not forced upon me, and that Zard was guiding my faltering steps.

  “You are lying,” I said with forced calmness. “The field is still on.”

  She looked at me with pitying contempt, rose quietly into the air and floated over my head! “So it’s on, is it?” she asked.

  My m
outh dropped open in a gape of unmannerly surprise. “You’re an Adept!” I gasped.

  “I was. Now I’m a doctor.”

  “But why?—why haven’t you reported back to Hosanna? You are free. What keeps you here?”

  “I do not wish to leave,” the doctor said calmly.

  “You’re conditioned!”

  “You could call it that,” she agreed. “I prefer to think I have learned some sense, that I have forgotten the silly superstitions of my childhood when I came here to kill. Ten years ago I was like you, but now—”

  “Now,” I said bitterly, “you are a minion of Evil.”

  The doctor’s laugh was merry and unforced. “Every year they get worse!” she chuckled. “I see what Wolverton means when he says there’s no hope for this world.” She floated quietly back to the floor.

  I felt crushed and angry at the same time. Who was she to laugh at the Word? Once again I tried to rise. With all my strength I tried, but again I didn’t move. There was something warm encircling my neck. I raised a hand to it and touched smooth metal—a close fitting ring about my throat.

  “Yes,” the doctor said, answering my unspoken question. “That is what restrains you. And it will stay on until he removes it. Nothing can cut that ring.” She smiled ruefully. “I wore one once—for nearly five years—”

  She kept on talking, something about taking time for the electronics section to develop a wave form that would cancel my powers—which was why I had lived under the field—and why I had a chance to try to escape, but I didn’t really hear her. I hadn’t figured on this development. It shocked me into utter numbness.

  It was two days later before I could rise. The braces were gone from my leg and I was whole again. Whole, but helpless.

  Unmolested, I walked through Wolverton’s stronghold. I passed the Halsite whom I had struck down. He looked at me and grinned. There was no malice in him.

  “You fool me,” he said cheerfully. “I not very smart—but next time you try I run you down—bring you back. You no do that thing twice.”

  “If you can catch me,” I answered.

  “I catch, all right. You wear ring now. You no get away.”

  I sighed. He was right.

  Later that day I saw Leslie—the Adept who tried to reach Wolverton last year. I waved to him, but he did not notice me. He was reading a book, and the glass wall that separated us prevented me from speaking to him. A silver ring gleamed around his neck—he too was a prisoner, and from the looks of it he, too, was learning forbidden things. I wondered at the unholy spell of Wolverton. What was the devilish power he had over the minds of men that made even an Adept ignore Zard’s teachings? There was a tense earnestness to Leslie’s bent figure, a driving air of concentration he had never shown when learning the writings of Zard. He was absorbed—fascinated—and looking at him I again felt the icy hand of terror grip my mind.

  I shrugged it off. So far there had been no invasion of my thoughts. My beliefs were still mine, and although my body was trapped, my spirit was free. And if I could not reach him with my mind, there was always a weapon to rely upon—something that would fit my hand—something blunt to smash—something sharp to drive through skin and flesh into his blackened heart.

  But despite my freedom I was watched by seen and unseen eyes. No weapon I could find remained long in my hand. It was the ultimate frustration. And finally I gave it up. I would have to mark the location of weapons and bide my time until Wolverton was close enough to one which I could seize and slay him before his minions could prevent me. Slowly I learned cunning—to dissemble—to hide my intent—to wait.

  And while I waited Wolverton talked to me, and I listened, fascinated by the evil of the man. For not only did he mock the Word, he despised It, calling It a superstition-tainted mass of primitive Mumbo Jumbo—whatever that might be. But except for this flouting of the Word, Wolverton was not so evil as I thought. There was a gentleness about him that was strange. My own people had little of this. After all, Promised Land was not an easy world to tame, and our rise to greatness had been the product of unending struggle against an unfriendly if not inimical environment. But in the end, the Word and those who believed in It, were triumphant. Did we not tame and rule three-quarters of this world? Were we not the Chosen? Often I had to go back to basics after a talk with Wolverton. He disarmed me with his friendly voice and with his logic. It was getting harder to resist him—and I understood now how the others had fallen. Wolverton, if he tried, could charm the birds from the trees, make black look white, evil virtuous, and righteousness unrighteous. He was truly a terrible man and I looked forward to his daily visits with mingled dread and anticipation. There was something toward which he was leading me and I dreaded the revelation even while I enjoyed the trip.

  We—or rather Wolverton—talked of philosophy—of science—of history—of distant worlds which he had visited with such disarming charm that I learned despite my obstinacy. Soon I began to know them—Earth—green Earth, the home-world of the race with her impossible blue skies and seas, gray clouds, white snows, fierce arid deserts, tall mountains and greenly verdant valleys. From her vast forests to her broad plains and great cities, Earth was a thing of loveliness. I could feel Wolverton’s passion when he spoke of it—nor was I surprised when he at last confessed that he was born there.

  And I learned of Mars—rust red and rugged—harsh and cold—where men lived under domes and husbanded the scanty air and water with miser’s care.

  And Proxima—first star colony of Earth—a gentle world of soft pastels and grays—a barren world which men reclaimed and made beautiful, drawing from their skill and science to mold the primitive life forms into things of beauty and utility.

  And golden Fanar—ripe and lovely with its humanoids and developing civilization that blossomed to full flower when men came and lent their skills and science to their cousins.

  And Kungtze—delicate fairyland of violet skies and soft rounded hills like virgin bosoms waiting to be kissed.

  And Samar—not the Samar I knew, but a land of seas and islands, tall ships and gracious living.

  And Halsey—harsh—forested and forbidding—a world that distrusted and did not welcome man—a world peopled by savage humanoids who united only in the face of danger.

  And more—many more.

  I learned of them all in the days of their youth—together with the struggles and pain that went into their taming. Wolverton’s words were wings that sent my spirit soaring. His tales—filled with courage and adventure, of blood and treachery, of honor and fair dealing, made me proud of my race. We were not perfect, we men—but there was within us the seed of greatness that would perhaps flower into the true bloom. It made me proud to learn the past glories of our race. Almost I could feel that Wolverton was a brother in the great brotherhood of man.

  And then he killed the dream—brought it crashing to the ground in a brutal series of horridly frank solidograph projections. These were real people that bled and died and performed unspeakable brutalities upon each other and upon the worlds where they lived.

  “On the average,” Wolverton said bitterly, “it takes five to six thousand years, but we have been in space longer than that, and some societies last longer than others, but the end is always inevitable.”

  He showed me all—a solid month of it.

  Earth: A world of legalized cannibalism where men were bred for food—a world of wrecked glory swiftly returning to jungle and desert.

  Mars: Redying in slow bitter agony as technology failed under the pressure of excessive population, with legal infanticide, eugenics laws, and tyranny.

  Proxima: Bloody and torn—waging suicidal war whose ultimate end would be virtual annihilation of all life.

  Fanar: Dead and radioactive.

  Kungtze: A huge, monolithic state that owned and controlled everything down to the last living unit, where the population swarmed and jostled in huge collectives that were neither cities nor farms, but something of
both—where everything was used even down to the dead bodies of those too old to work, slain by the state to make room for others.

  Samar: A matriarchate ruled by the few—filled by the many, where women outnumbered men twenty to one, and the men ruled by the sly and subtle tyranny of sex, and where—despite the disparity of sexes—people swarmed and teemed, and struggled for possession of a place to live and the partial possession of a man.

  Halsey: Harsh, forested, and forbidding—a world that distrusted and did not welcome man—a world peopled by savage humanoids who united only in the face of danger. They were united now—armed and ready to resist invasion.

  And there were more.

  I was sick—sick at the folly of man, who threw away so much for so little. “Whose fault?” I asked. “Why did these things happen?”

  “It was no one’s fault,” Wolverton said, sadly. “It was everyone’s. In opening new worlds, people are needed, so they have large families. The tradition becomes established and when at last the world is comfortably filled—instead of stopping—holding the line and consolidating what they have won—people go right on the same old way, producing more and more of their kind until finally the world grows too small. Then they quarrel, fight, and die until they are so reduced that they can start the vicious cycle over again—and in the process civilization becomes barbarism and culture becomes chaos. If the world is lucky, it survives to rise again as Earth will do. If it is unlucky it ends like Fanar.

  “And that is where you come in. You and the others like you, but you in particular. For you possess in a tremendous degree the ability to convince. I could feel it in you despite my shields. It influenced E’Komo despite his loyalty. It made Doctor Sara waver despite her dedication. I have watched and waited for you for generations—for over two thousand years. For here in this enclave I knew you must some day arrive. Your origin, frankly spiritual and mystic—your development so ruthlessly selective starting with ritual sacrifice of excess—and less desirable—maidens at puberty—your insistence upon developing the spiritual rather than the mechanistic side of culture—all these were bound to develop psi factors. And they have! It is here, I think, where man’s salvation lies. Here is the brake on rising population—a person who can convince—who can inculcate into the very soul of men that three children are enough—or that two are enough—or whatever number is needed to stabilize the population of a planet.”