Hero! (16 page)

Vaun can guess what the answer was.

Tham’s smile dissolves into darkness. “They said it was Commodore Prior of Ultian Command, attached to the high admiral’s personal staff.”

Still Vaun says nothing. He had just seen another of his brothers, obviously. Dying.

Tham crosses his legs and leans back without taking his eyes off his prisoner. “And I knew that, of all the spacers on Ult, only four had been born on other worlds—Q ship crews usually go onward with their ships or settle down in landlubber jobs, but there are four who have joined Ultian Command at one time or another, in the last century or so. One of those four was Commodore Prior, who came from Avalon in
Green Pastures
. But that could hardly be him. Even if the intercept was old history being rebroadcast, that could not be him, because he was only a kid when he left Avalon…not to mention that the boy in the clip obviously died. Yet DataCen said it was him!”

“So the ComOff came to me,” the Yather boy growls, “and we started to do some checking on Commodore Prior. In secret.”

Vaun clasps his hands on his lap and stares hard at them. Sweat trickles coldly down his ribs.

“We found him doing some very curious things for a Patrol officer,” Tham says gently. “And when we went around to the places he’d been visiting, some very curious patterns began to emerge.”

Silence falls.
He put the babies out to good homes to foster?

Vaun looks up inquiringly, but this time Tham does not speak. Yather does not speak. The silence and the staring grow to screaming point.

After about four days of this, Vaun’s own voice grates in his ears and his chin trembles. “Like what, sir?”

Tham nods approvingly, triumph starting to glitter in his eyes. “Like rape, Vaun. Do you know what rape is?”

Feeling sick, Vaun nods.

“The law doesn’t care whether a boy uses his cock or a bit of pipe, Vaun. And morally it doesn’t matter, either, I don’t think. Do you think that matters?”

Vaun shakes his head.
She was all right until that one night?

Tham pulls a face. “Even if you didn’t know before, you can work it out now, Vaun. A human ovum is very small, barely visible. A couple of dozen in a special packet to keep them frozen would be easy to hide. He embarked on the Q ship as a Patrol cadet. The rest of the crew and passengers were legit. He was the only one of…of his kind…on the ship. Obviously we would have been curious about a gang of identical boys, so he came all alone. We don’t think he had any accomplices among the normals, either. That clip I just showed you, of the battle; that suggests that Prior’s kind is not universally popular on Avalon, doesn’t it?”

Vaun nods. Raj had spoken of a hive once or twice, here on Ult. But he hadn’t said where, and it had sounded like nothing more than a hiding place. Remote.

“So Prior smuggled the package on board with him, and it’s easy for a crewboy to keep something hidden on a Q ship. He brought the frozen ova from Avalon, and you were one of them. He smuggled them down to Ult on the shuttle. But he couldn’t smuggle in money, because different planets—even different countries—have different sorts of money. He might have tried jewels or gold, but those would have led to questions. So he had very little money, probably just enough to rent a freezer to store you and your brothers.”

Vaun shudders. Tham waits for him to speak, and then goes on when he doesn’t.

“He made money, though, very quickly. He’s an extremely clever boy. I know that from his career, although all of his medical files seem to have disappeared. And as soon as he could afford to travel around a bit, Vaun…Mechanical gestation is expensive; there would be questions, and records. He did it the cheap way, the secret way. Rape, Vaun! Women molested at night, Vaun. He implanted those ova in human incubators.”

Yather says, “
Cuckoos!
” nastily.

“We have more evidence!” Tham stretches—he is a very restless person. “We have pictures of some of them, taken before they suddenly left home. Suddenly, like you did. I won’t bother to show you—only the clothes differ, and the haircuts. I don’t suppose all the implants thrived, but we know of several. You and—”

“That’s enough, Tham!” Yather barks, and then winces.

Again Tham pays no attention to him. “And we noticed that about three years ago Commodore Prior took to traveling in much larger vehicles than the one-boy torch he had used till then. Four days ago, he took off for Cashalix. He had no official reason to come here, so Yath and I followed him. He parked, and went to have lunch, and we put a tail on him. Then we thought we’d check out his torch…”

“And I walked in on you,” Vaun mutters, forgetting his vow.

Tham’s eyes glint. “Yes, you did. I don’t think you’re really part of this plot at all, lad. I think you were sold a honeypotful of crap by some very smooth customers. Part of what those slickers said is true, I’m sure. But they didn’t tell you the whole truth, now, did they?”

“No, sir.”

“And you personally have done nothing wrong, have you?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

Suddenly Tham’s voice is no longer soft. “I know about your mother, Vaun. I can guess what happened that night seventeen years ago—she was assaulted, raped, and driven out of her wits. Prior did that, Vaun! It was an utterly disgusting, horrible act, and nothing can excuse it! Nothing! We know of others, but we’ll never know how many there were altogether. So there it is, and now I want your decision, Citizen Vaun. Are you going to cooperate with me and justice, or do I let Officer Yather take you off to the lab? Answer this now:
Whose side are you on?
”

Vaun shuts his eyes so the tears won’t show. Raj! Dice! It has been a wonderful dream. Now he will be sent back to the village, or to prison. Belonging…but belonging to what? If it started with rape, where was it supposed to end? What sort of person had his mother been before that night? And all the horrors of being a freak in the village all his life…Prior did that to him! What he suffered, and what happened to Glora…all Prior’s fault! All Prior’s doing.

He hears Tham sigh. “Okay, Yath. You can have him.”

Vaun opens his eyes quickly. “I’ll help all I can, sir.” He is ashamed of the tremor in his voice.

Tham smiles a long smile, and says, “Good boy!”

Yather grunts as if disappointed. “Now what?”

“Now,” Tham says, still smiling, “I think it’s time to go to Valhal and tell Roker.”

T
HE PARKING LOT at Valhal was a tree-wrapped glade, set far from the house to muffle the traffic noise. Even the storage garages were well hidden, to preserve the dignity of the forest.

It was great to be home! After spending most of a day and a night in the air, Vaun jumped down onto the tarmac feeling as if he had just tunneled out of a dungeon. He blinked at the hot sunshine…stretched, scratched, and inhaled great lungfuls of the unique Valhal air, an unmistakable blend of sea and blossom, woodland and mountain. Nowhere else on Ult ever smelled so good. He shot a loving glance at the towering majesty of Bandor.

Security imaged in beside him, but not in the public Jeevs mode he had seen at Forhil. This sim was neither male nor puny, and there was nothing wrong with its clothes, because it wore none. Security was telling him he could speak in confidence. Instead of the unpleasant twang of a Kailbran accent, it spoke in throaty, seductive tones well suited to its voluptuous appearance. “Welcome home, Admiral. Transportation?”

Vaun felt fusty and rumpled after the long flight. More sitting was exactly what he did not want. He flexed his damaged knee, and decided the injury was not fatal. “No, I need a run. Send that junk heap back to its home base. Has Citizen Feirn arrived yet?” He began jogging without waiting for an answer, and the sim ran at his side, improbably barefoot and bouncing deliciously. Its hair streamed in the breeze realistically.

“At the parking lot thirty-three minutes ago, sir, reaching the front terrace seventeen minutes ago. There are pepods on the cliff path. Estimated time to disperse them is eleven minutes.”

“I’ll take the jungle trail, then.” He left the parking lot, cutting into a narrow gap in the undergrowth, and the sim followed. The stiffness in his knee was fading. “Assign her the Pearlfish Suite.”

“I assumed that would be your choice, sir. And her escort?”

“
What?
” Vaun stopped dead. In a feat no material body could have achieved, the sim was instantly standing in front of him again, smiling seductively.

“An Ensign Blade of the Space Patrol, sir.”

“I don’t recall inviting him!” Vaun felt a rush of anger. That whippersnapper who had been at the party? What game was being played here?

Of course, a guest could always assume that an invitation included a sleeping partner also, but he had thought that Feirn had other intentions…“Why do you ask?”

“He has requested separate quarters, sir.”

“He has?” That was very strange, but Vaun would not argue. “Then put him in one of the Bay Cabins.” He began running again, chuckling—how broad a hint would be needed to convince Ensign Blade he was not wanted? Hints did not come much broader than the Bay Cabins.

The sim was still ahead of him, voluptuous hips jiggling, twisting its head to look back. “There is an incoming call, sir. From Planetary Command. High Admiral Roker.”

“Inform the caller that I shall return his com as soon as possible.”
After I’ve told the world how he has failed to defend it!

The sim vanished at last, the trail steepened abruptly, and Vaun windmilled his arms to keep his balance. The thick woods around him were a gala of bright-colored flowers, framing glimpses of the turquoise ocean far below, where sunlight glinted on snowy surf and multicolored blotches of seablossoms. As he went bounding recklessly down the slope, he realized with surprise that there were only three human beings on the island at the moment. It was rare for Valhal to be so sparsely inhabited. Except when Vaun himself was away on a speaking tour, a hundred houseguests was about average. Today only two—and tonight one, for Ensign Blade would certainly be leaving before dark, even if Vaun had to send him to Doggoth to borrow a corkscrew.

As for Roker…Whether he was home at Danquer, or tending to business at Hiport, he was half a world away, and should be allowed to enjoy the beauty sleep he so badly needed. “Service!”

The sim reappeared in front of him, running and looking over its smooth, round shoulder. “Admiral?”

“Any change in the Q ship forecasts?”

“No, sir.”

Well, Vaun would return Roker’s call after he had gone public with the story—and also after he had viewed Tham’s mysterious Memorabilia file.

“How long is it?” he asked, puffing hard now, “since I approved that projection design you are using?”

“Seventeen years and thirty-nine days.”

That long? Vaun was startled; he almost stumbled. “Modify it. The hair is too carroty. Make it match Citizen Feirn’s.”

“Like this, sir?”

“Much better. And more freckles. Now go away. I’m busy.”

His insubstantial companion disappeared again, just as he rounded a sharp corner, where the path was banked the wrong way and coated with slippery pea gravel. A misjudgment could bring a painful wrench to an ankle, or even a fall into strategically placed daggerthorns. The jungle trail had been designed by some devious trickster centuries before Vaun’s time, but successive owners had maintained it. It meandered up and down over half the island, missing few points of interest. To run the whole circuit in one day was a feat, and a challenge no boy worth his booster could resist; but few completed it unscathed on a first attempt.

Soon he was down to shore level, limping along the rocks. The tide was coming in, but the spray had not yet made the path slippery. The violet Iskanthia seablossoms were past their best now, but the yellow ones were glorious…Those were relative newcomers to Valhal; he must find out their name. Then came the long, killer slope they called Heartbreak Hill. Feirn was waiting—he pushed himself to his limit. Flocks of scarlet shrills panicked into the air as he emerged from forest at the start of a narrow suspension bridge. He trotted high above the Dragon Gorge without pausing to look for game. Valhal was stocked with the best hunting beasts on Ult, most of them imported, a few natural Ultian species, some artificial.

Artificial like him.

Memory:
You mean that wasn’t just a sim, sir?

The first time Vaun had ever come to Valhal, Tham had smuggled him along this same path on his way to meet Roker, and their cart had almost run into a behemoth.

“Y
OU MEAN THAT
wasn’t just a sim, sir?
”

Vaun stares back wide-eyed, listening to crashing sounds from the woods.

Tham chuckles. “No. And there are worse things around than that. Don’t worry, they’re kept pretty much under control.”

“By who, sir?” Vaun peers around at the soggy darkness of the jungle—more trees than he has ever imagined.

“By Security.”

“But what can a sim do about a beast that size…sir?”

“The sims are just the visible part, lad. Security on an estate like this is a huge network, with all sorts of aggressive capabilities. It could put a ballistic lance into anything—or anyone—anywhere, in less than a second. And it would, too! Unless you were hunting, of course. Then the system allows a fair match and you’re on your own! Roker loses a guest now and again. Makes it more interesting!”

“But…what was it?”

“I’ve no idea. Nothing native to Ult, but a lot of our plants and animals were brought by the settlers…evolved on other worlds or artificial, created in labs.”

Like me
. Vaun is trying not to think about that. He almost grew accustomed to the idea while he was with Raj and Dice, because they had so obviously accepted their origin. Now he is back with real people, and he feels more freakish than ever.

The little cart rocks and bounces down the track, which is obviously not intended for vehicles at all. Vaun is hot, and weary, and hungry. He has never talked as much in his life as he has on the flight from Cashalix. Now Yather has gone on ahead to report to Roker, whoever Roker is, but Tham told the sim at the parking lot that Vaun must not be seen by anyone else, which is what brought on this backbreaking backwoods drive. A third boy, Lieutenant Hariz, piloted the torch while Tham and Yather interrogated Vaun. When they arrived, Hariz was ordered to Hiport, and has left already.

At last Tham has stopped asking questions. Vaun feels as if he has been squeezed like a lemon. Even his pips have popped now; he has held back nothing. So he may have revenged himself on Prior, and avenged his mother, but what did Raj and Dice ever do to him to deserve such treachery?

“Look!” Tham points up a grassy valley as the cart whirs across it, picking up speed on a flat stretch. “See those ruins? They’re very old, preindustrial. Supposed to be the site of the first landing from Elgith. Some university types wanted to excavate it, and Roker threw them out on their ears.”

The cart crawls into more trees before Vaun can make out what he is supposed to be looking at. “Sir, who is Roker? And does he
own
all this?”

Again Tham makes his soft chuckling noise. He looks weary, but he is being friendly now. “Admiral Roker is my boss, one of the senior officers in the Patrol. When spacers win their pennants—that’s commodore rank—then they’re assigned estates. Those who go on to flag rank can choose another, grander one if they wish. It’s the main source of motivation in the Patrol. Roker was either smart or lucky, because Valhal’s acknowledged to be the best there is. High Admiral Frisde herself hasn’t got any better.”

Vaun does not follow all that. While he considers whether to ask more questions, the orderly sim appears alongside the cart, jogging smoothly. Trailing branches pass right through it. No real boy could trot so effortlessly in such a uniform.

“Sir, the admiral requests that you come to the Crimple Arbor as soon as possible.”

“Stop this fiendish contraption, then.” The cart wheezes to a halt, while Tham gives Vaun a mischievous smirk. “We can go faster on foot. I saw you give Yather a lesson in rioting. How are you at running?”

“All right,” Vaun says cautiously. He should be good, considering how much of his life he has spent being chased.

“Show me!” Tham’s teeth glint in a challenge.

“Can I take my shoes off?” Vaun was allowed a hasty wash before leaving Cashalix, and given better clothes, but shoes are a new experience, and an unpleasant one.

The spacer is amused at that. “Certainly. And make it an honest race, all right? No holding back just to please me.”

Vaun shrugs, and nods. Win or lose, he is probably going to lose in the end. He scrambles out of his shoes and out of the cart.

“We’ll proceed on foot, then,” Tham tells the sim as he also dismounts. “See that neither of us gets lost. Ready, lad? Go!”

Vaun is off up the track. He wonders vaguely about monsters, but he can hear the spacer behind him, and he doesn’t think that feeding him to some artificial alien horror is a likely prospect at the moment. Later, maybe. He won’t think about later, and a humiliating return to the village. Or prison camp.

He slows down for a patch of boulders, then speeds up when the track becomes softer, winding through high bushes laden with fleshy purple and white flowers. The scent is enough to make him giddy…a view of the sea, shining blue-green, more beautiful than he has ever imagined…floating hillocks of vegetation smothered in red and mauve flowers…craggy spikes of rock rising from the jungle. He can’t hear any pursuit now, and when he glances back, there is no one in sight. It’s probably some kind of elaborate joke, with Tham following in comfort in the cart and laughing his well-educated head off. Well, Vaun would rather run and be by himself.

He comes to a branching of the path, and the sim is standing there, pointing to the right. It vanishes as he races by.

The exercise is welcome after four days in a cell. Booster is a poor substitute for the real thing. Then a steeper slope, his breath is coming hard, his shirt and shorts sticking to him…and he has arrived. He stumbles to a halt before a strange cagelike building in a clearing, a floor and roof and almost no walls, only pillars. It has a fine view of the bay and a silvery waterfall, but why should anyone need a building just to look at a view? Inside it, Security Officer Yather and another boy are lounging in chairs and eating off a stone table. A larger table behind them is loaded with enough food to feed the whole village. They stare at him—Yather with surly dislike, the other with openmouthed astonishment.

Winded, panting, Vaun points back the way he has come.

“He’s just…”

“Yes, we know,” says the one who must be Admiral Roker. “Security told us.” Vaun realizes that Roker is even heftier than Yather, and therefore very beefy indeed. It shows because he is wearing only bright-colored trunks with a towel draped over his shoulders. He is as hairy as any boy in the village, and his hair is even fairer, but he is no delta mudslug. His face is the wrong shape, with a prominent nose and a very long upper lip, and village boys are never fed enough to grow muscles like those anyway. Yet he has a look of Olmin about him, somehow, mean enough to enjoy hurting. His eyes are a startling blue.

Not having been told to take one of the empty chairs, Vaun just stands and pants and dribbles sweat. He could use a drink.

Roker recovers from his surprise. Without taking his attention off Vaun, he shovels up something on a silver fork and pops it in his mouth.

“Astonishing!”
Chew
. “Alike as two pepods. This one’s younger, of course.”
Chew
. “Well, maybe there is something to this yarn of yours, SecOff.” He curls his upper lip in a sort of sneer, showing his teeth like a horse. His voice has a strange nasal twang. Vaun doesn’t like him.

Yather smiles grimly, but without concealing relief. Evidently Vaun’s appearance has made the conversation friendlier.

“This war on Avalon? There was a ship in from Avalon not long ago.”

“
Carina
, sir. Last year.”

The blond boy tears a hunk from a roll and speaks with his mouth full. “Don’t recall any war talk.”

Yather looks uneasy again. “Fourteen and a half years, sir. Actually, I think
Carina
took nearer fifteen. The fighting may not have started when she left. People forget, too, in that time span, and they might not expect us to care about—”

Roker is glaring. “That’s why we have interrogations, SecOff! Have you reviewed the
Carina
records?”

“Not in detail, sir. There was mention of unrest, of course. There always is. And there was mention of illicit biological experimentation, but no one knew any details, as usual. That should have been followed up, I agree, and we can track down the immigrants and work them over again…”

The admiral grunts disapprovingly.

“Only three of us, sir! Internal investigations are always sensitive—didn’t want word to leak back to the suspect. No case number to assign extra machine time…”

“That will change,” Roker mutters. It is a sign of forgiveness, and Yather’s heavy frame seems to relax again. He fingers his swollen jaw as if it hurts.

The admiral works another load into his mouth and lays down his fork. He leans back and scratches his hairy belly, studying Vaun. Mumble: “Take off your shirt.”

Vaun obeys uneasily. Busily chewing, Roker gestures for him to drop his pants also.

“Mm. Looks human enough. Prior has no hairs on his chest either. Wonder why not?”

Because chest hair is an unnecessary frill
, Vaun thinks, but he suspects that it would be unwise to say so in front of Roker.

“But he does have tits!” Roker curls his lip at Vaun again. “Why have you got tits, lad?”

“I don’t know sir. Why have you?”

The blue eyes narrow warningly. “Because I’m a product of evolution. Evolution progresses by trial and error, not by intent, right, Yather?”

“Right, sir. It does the best it can with what it’s got to work with. No shortcuts.”

“But if this…boy? It? Him? I suppose we call him human? If this lad was brewed up in a bottle, then whoever designed him could have omitted unnecessary things like tits. Right?”

“I would assume so, sir.”

As the inspection seems to be over, Vaun begins to dress. He shivers at the clammy touch of wet cloth. There is an unpleasant odor around, but it doesn’t seem to be him. He thinks it comes from the trees.

“’Sthat hair or dirt on your chin?” Again Rather directs his questions at Vaun. The poor folk of the delta would offer a visitor a drink and a seat, but a peasant must stand before spacers.

“Hair, sir.”

“Beards have no real function either, have they, Yather?”

“Only as a secondary sexual characteristic, sir, I think.”

“What sex life has an artificial construct got? Do they screw test tubes? Why even balls?”

“Hard to say, sir, as their reproduction must be agamic.”

Roker shoots a nasty glance at Yather, who flushes.

“Sorry. Asexual, that is. IVe been reading up on this, picking up jargon. Testicles are needed to make hormones, I suspect.”

Roker grunts. “Prior has a pretty impressive reputation.”

“That could be stiffener, sir.”

“Mm.” Roker continues eating for a moment, scowling at Vaun. “We can check his intake. So it’s camouflage? Nipples and beard…male chin and shoulders. Not purely functional—they’re designed so they can pass as human?”

“We think so, sir.”

The long, rubbery upper lip curls again in a sneer. “And what does this tell us about their intentions, mm?”

A scrabbling of boots on dirt, and Tham comes lumbering up the trail. He is scarlet-faced and gasping. He flashes Vaun a congratulatory smile, then comes to attention and salutes the half-naked admiral. The beefy boy shows his teeth in welcome.

“Come in, ComOff, sit down. Here, you look like you need a drink. Built for speed, is he?”

Tham swallows eagerly, then wipes his mouth. “Built for just about everything, I think, sir.”

“Like Prior. Remember that night we all got into an arm wrestling match? You were there?”

“I think so, sir. The evening is blurry, but I remember my elbow the next morning.”

“You were overall champion, sir,” Yather says quickly. “You wiped the floor with us.”

Muscleboy nods, scowling. “But Prior let me beat him—I could see it in his eyes.” He looks Vaun over again thoughtfully, as if about to issue a challenge.

Then he seems to change his mind. “Well, this is a fine piece of work you’ve done, Tham. Well beyond the normal call of your duties.”

“Thank you, sir. Security Officer Yather—”

“Of course.” Roker waves his fork at the food table. “Help yourself to whatever you fancy. So we have cuckoos in our nest. What do you suppose Prior’s planning, mm? Going to build a baby factory? What did you call it—a hive?” He stuffs a wad of meat in his mouth, and Vaun’s stomach issues a loud rumble.

Tham rises and goes to the large table at the rear. “We tend to think not, sir. Yath?”

The normally surly Yather boy becomes almost exuberant. “The way we look at it, sir, the technology isn’t available here. It’s completely forbidden for humans, and even the animal work is rare nowadays. The Stravakians are doing a little of it, but as far as we know, that’s all.”

“There’s a black market in baby improvement back in Kilbra. That I do know.”

“Oh, you find gene stitching being done everywhere, sir, and a lot of it is just kitchen charlatanism. We haven’t called on DataCen at all, yet, but so far as Hariz and I have been able to establish on our own, sir, the know-how to produce anything like this—” He waves a thumb toward Vaun. “—has never existed on Ult, or any of the founder worlds, even. Artificial animals, certainly—gnu-steeds, and yimyaks, and angorazebs—but no one ever managed to produce a workable human brain before. Moronic cripples was all.”

Roker curls up his lip, chewing and speaking at the same time.

“He may have brought the know-how with him.”

Yather becomes diffident, as if contradicting the admiral is a touchy business. “Possible, sir, of course…but again doubtful. Even our best miniaturization could not reduce such a volume of data to invisibility, and those settlers were inspected closely. He did very well even to bring in the ova…and that is only one problem. He had four grown cuckoos that we know of, and maybe more still lost in the woods, but none of them are molecular biologists. Even if they were, they would have to acquire the equipment and the materials, and a safe location. It’s certainly possible, of course, but if that’s what he plans, then why become a spacer? Why spend seventeen years in the Patrol?”