The Boosted Man

by Tully Zetford

  `Have you ever seen a dynaman, Rafflans?'

  `Yes. The agency tried to persuade me to become one, once; but I told them later on, when my own legs give out. Why?'

  'Oh, nothing. I'm due early on the electronics bay tomorrow — that's today, already. You're on weapons, I take it?'

  `Well, of course!' Rafflans drank again. The Champagne Ollindai was good, no doubt of that. 'Weapons I know. I had a dinky little Krifarm energy-junior when I was nine. Could vapourise all the plastic cups you could throw up, snap, snap, snap! Guns and me, Alf, go together.'

  `And a Tonota Eighty?'

  Rafflans laughed. 'That rubbish! A Krifarm model twenty! That's what I'm turning out now, beauties. A Tonota Eighty's a kid's gun compared to them.'

  'Model twenties. That's interesting.' Hook was fumbling towards some line of thought whose origins he couldn't trace but whose outcome was all-important. 'I've always liked the Martian Mega.'

  'We-ell,' said Rafflans, pursing his lips, looking judicial, balancing his glass on his knee. 'A fine gun. Yes, a great gun. Y'know, Alf, we can neurally and electronically fix a little weapon to our wrists, and it'll come shooting out when we trigger, and do the job for us. But I like the feel of a big gun in my fist.'

  'I know.'

  'Martian Mega, eh? Very potent.'

  'And the Terran Pacifier?'

  'Well, we're talking about guns the ordinary man can buy, aren't we, Alf? I've never seen a Terran Pacifier.' He sounded most disgruntled about that.

  `Stick to the Krifarm jobs, Rafflans. They're fine.'

  `Who says they aren't?'

  Hook sighed. 'Time for bed, Rafflans. Work in the morning.'

  `Yes, yes, let me finish my drink. That opera you and Anthea saw — any good? I've never seen anything to beat the opera the Krifman Company put on — ' He rambled on about opera and ballet, while Hook sat trying vainly to remember what opera he and Anthea had seen, trying to bring back a fragment of melody, a strain of song, and failing. That was strange.

  This was all bound up with this obsession that he must get into Central Records. He wasn't in the least tired. Sex seldom fatigued him. He wasn't tired and he wanted to break into Central Records; but he had a shift in the morning and he ought to get his sleep ...

  Damned odd situation.

  When at last Rafflans left, nursing the last Ollindai in the bottle, Hook thoughtfully half-closed the door and stood, his head bowed, pondering.

  If only this fuzziness in his head would go away!

  It was difficult to think straight.

  Thoughts and concepts poured disjointedly into his brain. There was Anthea, golden and glowing and exciting, pirouetting enticingly before him beneath the roseate lights. There was the electronics bay with the robots busy and the harsh actinic-lights gleaming down on assemblies whose function he could only guess at — something to do with remote-control of interdiction of neural cell-endings and synapses so as to produce a desired effect. There was the yacht harbour and the lake beyond and the brilliant sails scudding across the blue water. There was the restaurant and the sumptuousness of food and drink and good conversation and dancing and music. Opera? Very funny he couldn't recall the opera, not a single snatch of a line.

  Well, if he was to get a decent night's sleep and be fit for work in the morning he'd have to go and see what was so important about Central Records.

  He didn't particularly want to go.

  But he knew dismally that if he didn't go he'd never sleep. Funny thing was, his hand dropped to his belt as, he went out, as though he carried a holstered gun.

  Now, who would need a weapon on so peaceful and friendly a planet as Locus?

  Chapter Seven

  Hook walked out of the hotel and into the star-shot night. Quietness breathed over the city. Lights scattered enough radiance for him to see the outlines of the buildings reaching into the cloud-wrapped confines of the dome. Outside the dome — hell! Why think about a place he would never see. The weather controllers would have to do something about that concentration of condensation up there soon. These artificial environments always insisted on acting by natural laws and forming clouds. If precipitation set in before a warning could be issued there'd be red faces at Weather and a few tart reminders of economic efficiency from the econorg bosses here.

  He walked firmly for he had a purpose, however uncongenial such a purpose might be. Only a few people were about. The time was nearly an hour past midnight when the shifts changed. Well, if anyone tried to get in his way and stop him, he'd — he'd — why, he'd just have a friendly chat and no doubt they'd offer him a drink and they'd have a guzzle and a yarn and then, when the man had gone, he could proceed with finding a way into Central Records.

  Strange how, for a moment there, as he'd thought of someone accosting him, his hands had bunched up into fists as if by habit.

  Fists were never used on Locus. No need. Everyone was always friendly and pally and everyone was always having a good time.

  He saw a drunk lying in the angle of wall and pedway and, smiling, Hook shifted him into a more comfortable position. The man wasn't very heavy; but Hook knew that he possessed incredible strength, luckily enough, and so he made no comment.

  `Thanks, pal,' said the man in a husky voice.

  The bottle at his side lay empty.

  `Sleep it off, friend. You'll have a head in the morning if you don't take a kill-'em pill.'

  `Certainly — will do.'

  The drunk's voice slurred and he slumped, completely out. Hook walked on, chuckling.

  Central Records bulked above him and for a moment he considered turning back. But this silly nagging doubt drove him on. Something had been programmed inside his skull to make him do a certain thing and until that course of action had been completed, Ryder Hook knew well enough he'd get no rest.

  His thoughts were of Anthea and the smooth golden curve of flesh between hip and waist as she lay on her side, her arms reaching for him, voluptuous, demanding, always coming back for more. Central Records — what on earth had got into his head to make him do a mad thing like this, going in where no one else ever bothered to go? Anthea — that's where he should be going. She'd be ready for him again before they went on shift. The thought braced him. He just had to get in here somehow — three or four of the enormous entrance doors were open — and find out if this itch in his head would go away. Then he would be free to go to Anthea.

  He walked up the marble stairs. The doorway he had selected was the middle of the three. Its doors were of bronze, with golden bolt-heads worked into fantastical designs. Fluoros cast green and orange lights down, mingling and reflecting from the marble floor. His footsteps were loud and ringing in the foyer.

  To one side a bank of elevator doors with their antigrav shafts indicated access to the higher storeys. To the other side extended the long counter where enquiries into records might be made. Only a cleaning robot was in view, chugging around with vacuum and mop, squeaking, spraying, taking no notice of him.

  Well, now he was in. So what? But the itch still wouldn't go away.

  It was all IQ so far. Yes, and very strange that he should be standing here, one foot half-raised like a loon, and still be absolutely unsure why he had come here, what had made him, what the hell he did next.

  A light flashed on the centre elevator indicator. It clicked downwards, running speedily from floor fifty to floor thirty. It stopped there. Hook scuffed his foot on the gleaming marble floor and looked around uneasily, and watched as the light flickered on down past floor twenty.

  He still couldn't work out what he was doing here.

  The answer hit him so that he almost vomited all over that beautiful marble floor — only the floor was not marble. It was dull stained concrete, cracked and undulating, and the cleaning robot made no impression on it at all, old and worn-out and inefficient as it was. The grayshaft light winked down to the foyer level, and Ryder Hook understood as the tingling thrilling surged all along his bones again an
d trilled in his nerves and sent the blood dancing through his veins, he knew that a Boosted Man was coming down in that elevator.

  He knew where he was, what he was and why he was here.

  When he'd seen the Boosted Man disappear into Central Records and known he could not follow then, he'd implanted a signal in his mind, an imperative that would not let him rest until he had gone once more to Central Records.

  All that old pals' act! The drunk he had seen outside was a man, dying alone and exhausted, shattered by the labour forced on him by the Novamen, and debauched by the hallucinatory pleasures that kept him in line and rendered this unspeakable life possible.

  The elevator grille slid aside and light spilled across the concrete. Hook made himself scarce in the shadows.

  `And remember, Welson,' the man in black was saying in a high hectoring voice as he stepped out. 'Your production curve is flattening again. If you can't handle the quotas I can find someone who can.'

  `They'll swing up again, novir, that I promise. We have a new intake of workers due —'

  `Just see to it. I'm not interested in excuses.'

  `Yes, novir.'

  Hook grimaced, a most unlovely sight in the shadow. A novir was of high rank among the Novamen. He'd have to take this beauty fast. He was now, in proximity to a Boosted Man, perfectly capable of walking across the floor and taking Welson's neck in his fists and dealing with the overseer. Welson would never see or know what hit him. Boosted Men moved fast when they wished.

  But this novir could see, just as Hook, when in Boosted condition, could see him moving at the fantastic velocities of the Boosted Men.

  Now the novir walked at slow speed out through the open doorway. Hook had to follow, this time, or lose again this evil power he craved for and loathed. And yet — and yet this overseer Welson was not affected by the general hypnosis. The guards did not see and hear the phantom sights and sounds that kept the workers in dazed euphoria.

  There had to be a scientific answer.

  The novir was outside the door. Hook reared up and at fast speed whipped across the concrete. At this enhanced speed Welson remained in the act of turning to re-enter the elevator. Hook checked, studied the man. Ah! There — in his left ear. Hook inserted fingers that were not at all gentle and pulled out the plug. It was a tiny artefact, no bigger than a ladybird; but it would be packed with sophisticated electronics. Hook stuck it inside his left ear. He could still hear perfectly well.

  Mind you — the guards would be controlled, also. They were not Boosted Men. They would have a control device incorporated that would keep them mercilessly in line.

  The power of the crystal-resonances from the Boosted Man flowed through Hook. As always, he felt wonderful. He knew the drug-like power conferred on Boosted Men, why they intended to hold on to their power and increase it in the galaxy no matter who was smashed in the process. But that very interflow of power gave him now the opportunity of working in speed time. He whipped the little ladybird plug out and went to work on it. All the time Welson's foot slowly let down towards the entrance to the grilled elevator opening.

  Those famous black boots of Hook's he'd been allowed to keep — how could the overseers know what he had hoarded in there? — yielded up micro-tools for the job. In speed time his fingers worked with a fluidity of motion that gave him exquisite pleasure. He opened up the plug bypassing the booby trap, working so fast the fuse had no time to fire, being careful, though, and read all there was to be known, recognised what a devilish little gadget this was, ripped out the circuit that channelled incoming signals into the wearer's ear, re-assembled and stuffed the plug back.

  He ran for the door not quite fast enough to set his clothes on fire, and Welson had scarcely stirred.

  Welson was moving in normal time. Every reflex animating Ryder Hook operated in speed time.

  The novir in the fancy black tunic and breeches walked slowly towards the flier park.

  His Boosted ears would pick up Hook's movements long before Hook could charge him and he'd switch into fast time instinctively. A gun would appear — and exit Ryder Hook.

  He had to use his super-efficient brainpower to work a way out of this fix, for he was just completely incapable of letting well alone and slinking off to leave the Boosted Man untouched. When you couldn't fight your way out, you had to trick your way out. The old flung stone wouldn't fool the Novaman.

  Then Hook smiled. Use the weapons of the Boosted Men's hypnosis against them!

  Lovely!

  He stepped jauntily out on to the street, moving in normal time, stuck his hands into his trousers' pockets, started up an unmelodious song, and staggered off down the street.

  He was just another poor doomed worker of Locus, living in an artificial paradise.

  He knew the hypnosis was a projection, and not drug-induced. In connection with its programme a command had been incorporated that said the workers would never see a Boosted Man as he walked among them. Only a Boosted Man's own powers could overcome that quality of mind control.

  Hook rolled on, singing, reeling about, not acting the drunk; but acting an exhausted worker imagining himself to be drunk.

  There might be spy eyes everywhere. He could be under observation right now. He tended to doubt it. The flier park was out of the general area where workers congregated, and, of course, that was a suspicious fact in itself.

  The Boosted Man half turned; but Hook resolutely ignored him and rolled on, warbling away about Sultry Susy Shorthouse and her Sirian Sexy Sextet. It was a good old space-song.

  He came abreast of the novir.

  He sped into fast time, saw the incredulous incomprehension on the Boosted Man's face, reacted to the immediate and devastating Boosted reaction, got his knee into the man's groin, chopped him hard, kicked him in the face as he went down, stomped his head in as he lay there. Hook knew Boosted Men. They were extraordinarily hard to kill. Even then the novir got a hand to Hook's foot and almost wrenched it off. And the grey brain cells and bright blood spatted across the concrete.

  Hook had no time to lean back, sagging, gulping for breath.

  A Boosted Man's skull had sufficient metallic elements organically welded into it to make it into an armour-plated ball. Hook's filthy orange coverall was twisted and ripped and from the condition of the clothes of the people here it was quite clear the Novamen wasted nothing on replacements. They in general let their workers keep their own footwear if they were tough enough to save supplying a more tricky item of apparel. Hook's famous old black boots had done their trick. But for them he'd be struggling with this novir still.

  Hook was well aware that a good few thousands of years ago the cult of the Black Boot had arisen, with deep psychological symbols attached thereto — it was a similar occurrence to the cult of the Denim Windcheater — but that was all in the past. Here and now his black boots were worn for severely practical purposes having nothing to do with sadism and slavery —although, come to think of it, smashing in the head of a Novaman would be considered sadism by another Novaman. By any normal standards of the galaxy it was like nipping a louse between finger and thumb.

  As Hook had said to Ed Malcom, that time: 'You don't like killing and neither do I. But I don't have your noble willpower, Ed, your honourable spirit of integrity. I'm at base a weakling when it comes to having my head shot off. If someone tries to kill me, Ed, I'll stop him, and if he gets himself killed in the process, then that's his fault. You can go on and be the noble sacrifice for principles' sake. If I can I'll drop a few flowers on your grave in between having a good time.'

  And Ed Malcom had laughed and said: 'You don't understand the half of it.'

  And Hook had replied: 'But the half I do understand is the half that matters.'

  Still and all — a Boosted Man was by his nature in a special position. Even poor old idealistic Ed Malcolm — whose ideas were absolutely right — might not have blinked too hard at the demise of a Novaman.

  That is — if he could have
known. For, of course, the Boosted Men kept very secret the plans they were working out for the galaxy.

  Hook's quick run with the Boosted Man into the shadows out of the actinic-lights of the pedway ended and he dumped the Novir down. In death the Boosted Man took his own personal super-powers with him, and, too, he took the resonance of those powers away from Ryder Hook. He could feel the shimmering change as his body relaxed into an ordinary mortal's half-existence. As always, Hook shuddered with the evil desire to hold on to those dark powers, to let them take over his central core of will, to dominate him as they dominated the Boosted Men.

  The Boosted power fell away from Ryder Hook and he was a man once more.

  He slid the novir's gun out. It was a Tonota Eighty. That gun seemed to be the workhorse of this sector of the galaxy. No doubt Rafflans had been trying to arrange deals for Krifarm. Business was business in this man's galaxy.

  Hook shot the Boosted Man into whiffed nothingness.

  That disposed of the corpus delicti; but he couldn't go parading around with a gun in his belt. Hook hated to abandon any weapon. It was against ingrained nature.

  He ran swiftly back to the steps of Central Records. He was in slow time now — ordinary time — yet his hundred metre dash would have placed him comfortably in interstellar class in any system. That was thanks to the Powerman Project. During fast-time, of course, his clothes would smoulder and burst into flame unless they were protected, and so he had had to be careful back there when dealing with Welson, as careful as he'd been opening the little ladybird plug in his ear. Now he was a normal man he could look back and whistle at the speed of his reactions then, at the way he'd opened the thing and disconnected the booby-trap and re-circuited the guts of the nasty little enforcer. How he craved Boosted status!

  But being fully Boosted all the time brought megalomaniac dreams and desires and an insatiable hunger for more and more power. Being just an ordinary man might be dull; it was safe.