Mute (63 page)

They determined by amplified distance clairvoyance that Piebald did have a lobo wife, that she resided in another villa on Planet Macho, and that her name was Hulda. That was as much detail as they could get with the preliminary setup, and probably a good deal more than would have been possible to other psis, since clairvoyance across galactic distances was a phenomenal effort. Psi-holo projection at this range—about fifteen thousand light years—was virtually unheard of. But with the resources of a planetful of unregistered psi mutants to draw from, unusual efforts became possible.

Knot appeared—he could not call it materialization, since he had no material reality here—at the edge of a lake. The villa sat just beyond a pretty deep-gold beach: old-fashioned stucco with a roof of large red tiles, flowers blooming beneath its windows, and spreading trees shading it. A pleasant place, surely the habitat of someone who had esthetic sensitivity.

He approached. His body seemed real even to him; he could see his arms and legs, and they moved properly as he walked. He came to the door, marveling that there were no guards here. Perhaps there were devices set to detect physical intrusions—or maybe this place was so well hidden that there was no fear of intrusion. Piebald had said that his wife knew nothing of his activities. Still, if the chicken-psi could find it, CC could have found it. What prevented such disclosure? That was the mystery he had come to investigate. Among other things.

He stepped up to the door and knocked. That didn’t work; his hand passed through the panel without impact. So he walked on through it, as a ghost might. Perhaps he
was
a ghost. Who could say how much of the great supernatural heritage of mankind derived from unrecognized psi? But he had speculated on this before, and no doubt would again; now was not the time.

He heard sounds, and moved toward them. This was a complete projection, sonic as well as visual. Several chickens had had to be coordinated for it. He had no physical ears to receive sound, or eyes to see, yet through psi could function as though he did. Not only could he perceive sounds, he could make them. Not by knocking on doors here, but by making sounds with his real body, on Chicken Itza, which sounds would be projected here.

He found a handsome woman doing her laundry. She was of middle age, but well preserved and possessed of a certain sex appeal. Her dark hair was swept into a bun and covered by a tasteful kerchief. She wore slacks and a flower-print blouse and open sandals. She was reclining by the washing robot, her fingers resting on its handheld control unit.

“You are Piebald’s wife?” Knot inquired.

“And you are the anonymous min-mute who has caused so much trouble, visiting in astral projection,” she responded.

Knot was taken aback, “You know of me?” Silly question. “Piebald said you knew nothing of his activities.”

“Spare yourself that hope. My husband is acting under my instructions. You will not influence him through me.”

Knot, off balance, reacting by attacking—as he was prone to do. “You are aware that he has been torturing psi-mutes? Lobotomizing innocent people? Perverting the Coordination Computer’s program?”

“I am aware that he has been performing essential experiments, trying to unriddle the secrets of psi, and now will turn the big machine to that vital research. The ignorant might term that torture and perversion.” She changed a setting, and the robot went into a new cycle of washing.

No ameliorative influence here! Piebald had lied not about having a wife, but about her connection to his machinations. “You know that his last subject was a very pretty woman, younger than you, and that the subject of sex came up?” A half truth.

“That phobia-psi-mute? He might have raped her as an object lesson, but he would never develop any personal interest in her. Not until she became a lobo herself. You are attached to her? You are aware she is married?”

This was one tough woman! He could not provoke her at all; she merely responded with disquieting information about himself and his associates. If the lobos knew about Finesse’s husband, they could abduct him any time, thereby putting very painful pressure on Finesse. They would surely do it—when they thought it would be effective. Unless CC had hidden him where they could not find him—and of course now they could find him through CC itself. All Knot could do now was try a direct question; Hulda just might contemptuously answer it. “What is the secret of the power?”

She smiled. “You don’t expect me to answer, but I shall surprise you, min-mute. The secret is lopsi. Lobo-psionic power—a force neither you nor CC can combat, because it is intangible.”

“Lobo-psi? But lobos, by definition, have no psi!”

“Not in our bodies, no. I was a distance precog, condemned because I foresaw the mutiny against the existing order, and knew that it would be successful. But though my brain was cut, my power remains—for lopsi speaks through me. All the psi powers of all the lobos, cut off from its former moorings, seeking some avenue of expression, finding it through me. I direct all the lobos, and all obey me, because of the immense power I represent. Through that power I shall soon be empress of the galaxy.”

“A disembodied psi power?” Knot asked, bemused. “
That’s
what organizes the lobos?”

She seemed not to be aware of his skepticism. “Let me give you a capsule history lesson, min-mute. Many psi societies have existed before man, and many creatures before us have dominated the galaxy.
All
spacefaring species developed psi, because of the genetic radiation of deep space. All had a problem dealing with psi criminals and misfits. Most turned to ghettoization of unsuccessful phys-mutes and lobotomy of unsuccessful psi-mutes—and thereby destroyed themselves. For inevitably both the exiles and lobotomy punishment were turned to political purposes, and great numbers of non-criminals were exiled or lobed, and their psi was added to the reservoir. Psi, once evoked, cannot be suppressed; it can only be severed from its moorings. Gradually it builds into a pool that is greater than any other, and its force invades the so-called normals, and turns them against their society, and violence erupts and continues until those cultures are destroyed. Many, many have fallen unwittingly into this trap. But I—I know this, now, for lopsi has told me, has vouchsafed to me the secret of its nature, and so I am directing the campaign to salvage our kind and our species.”

She was of course deluded, perhaps insane. Obviously Piebald had ensconced her here in this pleasant retreat, where she could do no harm, and let her spin her fantasies unchecked. No wonder there were no guards; who would bother to attack Hulda? Probably Piebald visited her every so often, and gave her all the news, and let her interpret it as she wished, and agreed that he and the other lobos were doing it all for her, so that she could be Empress. He might love her, if he happened to be capable of that emotion, and not want to hurt her; hence his belief that Finesse would be more profoundly affected by knowledge of her own spouse than she was. This might be the best way to handle Hulda’s aberration.

But by the same token, Knot would not be able to gain much leverage on Piebald through Hulda.

“I, too, am trying to salvage our kind,” Knot said. “But my kind is not lobo; it is mute.”

“You oppose us; you represent the force of species destruction. You must be destroyed.”

Uh huh. The inability to tolerate dissent: another signal of unbalance. She had seemed quite balanced originally, but now was revealed at the opposite. “So you lobos are taking over the galaxy, closing down civilization?”

“Putting CC to better use than lobotomizing those who oppose it, yes.”

Her sentiment was so like his own that he was shaken. Had he been premature in judging her? Better to argue the case further, and see what developed. “But you bring anarchy!”

“We do. But it is better than total destruction.”

She seemed sincere, and he agreed. He had no special fear of anarchy, and would gladly risk it rather than suffer the curse of unrestrained mutancy to continue. But if she were actually sane, despite appearances, how was he to account for her embracement of the concept of this “lopsi,” the disembodied psi force? This was akin to belief in the supernatural. “How do you communicate with lopsi?”

“I don’t. It communicates with me. I study the signals of its will—the patterns of leaves floating upon the waters of the lake, the motes of dust in the slanting sunbeams, the configurations of the clouds in the sky, and I interpret the will of lopsi. I tell my husband, and he directs our kind to the necessary actions—and lopsi confirms their actions and punishes those who disobey.”

A pattern here—but how much was rationalization, how much delusion? “Punishes? How?”

“They die in accidents, in fighting, in explosions such as the one at headquarters. Only the chosen survive, the ones who remain in lopsi’s favor, such as my husband. He is an ugly man, but hideously smart. He listens to me, therefore he succeeds. If he did not listen, he too would perish.”

Knot decided he had it straight now. The blessed survived, the damned died—by retroactive definition. There was no way to refute such a philosophy; it was insulated from reality. Religions, in the past, had prospered on it.

The truth was that Piebald was indeed ugly, and indeed smart. He might listen to her, but his success had to do with his intelligence, not her advice. He would simply tell her he had done what she directed, regardless of the truth. “I thank you for the insight, Hulda. I shall relay it to my associates, but I doubt they’ll join your side.”

“Suit yourself. Our side will prevail. You may join it and survive, or oppose it and perish. I foresaw the outcome when I had my psi, and I am confirmed in that vision now as the realization is upon us. Join or die: that is the extent of your free will. Consider carefully.”

“I shall.” Knot faded out.

Back on Chicken Itza amidst his friends and the tired chickens, Knot made a full report. “Does she sound sane to you?” he asked.

“She’s a conniving woman,” Finesse said. “I know the type. She may be part-way crazy, but canny too. Piebald probably pays more attention to her than you think. And perhaps it does explain the unity of the lobos: they’re all a little bit crazy in the same way. Lobotomy must have some adverse effect on sanity; a prop the brain normally depends on has been removed, leaving at least a token imbalance, and need for compensation. A lobo is
not
a created normal; it’s a surgically corrected abnormal. The lobos could honor her as a prophetess, and so Piebald could indeed draw his authority from her, just as any cultist leader draws his authority from the god or demon he purports to serve. The lobos want to believe in this force she describes, this lopsi, and so they honor her, trying to make it true. Lopsi may be nonsense, as all the other oracular pronouncements and cults in human history have been, but to the right clientele, the one with inherent will-to-believe, that sort of thing can be extremely compelling. The lobos are tailor-made for exploitation by a salvation movement; they all want so desperately to recover what they have lost. If they don’t convince themselves there is hope, they have no reason to keep on living.”

“A salvation cult,” Knot echoed. “Of course! We have been looking for something rational. You’re right; some of the greatest movements in human history have been cultist, the ones that survived despite persecution, in fact seemed to thrive on it. Like mutation, most of those cults are non-survival, but the few that do endure can become great movements.”

It was as though his agreement caused her to reverse. “Still, the lobos have had remarkable success, and it’s hard to believe it can all be the product of fanaticism. CC has dealt with cultists before, and CC knows history better than anyone. If there really
were
a discorporate lobo psi, subtly making all lobos perform its will, or at least motivating them to accept its imperatives, that could account for a lot.”

“The supernatural can always account for a lot,” Knot said. “Let’s write this effort off as a wrong lead, and get on with our task.
We
are not blind fanatics.”

Finesse smiled, agreeing. “Not blind, anyway. Let’s just call this a lesson in the psychology of our opponent; maybe it will come in handy. To whatever extent the lobos believe in divine will, they won’t worry about our efforts, and that will help us.”

“Hulda will tell Piebald of my visit to her,” Knot said.

“So Piebald will know we have psi-projection. He’ll expect us to explore CCC that way first. He won’t be so alert for a physical visit.”

And a physical visit was necessary. Even if they could use the override code by psi-projection, it wouldn’t stick; Piebald would simply re-override. They had to go there and take out Piebald himself.

The problems of travel required some planning. “Even amplified psi won’t stop the CC detectors,” Finesse pointed out. “And we’ll have to sleep at some point, and that includes the amplifier-rooster. What happens to our cover then?”

What, indeed. It was a relatively short hop from Chicken Itza to CCC, but their mission had no time limit. In addition, the CC readouts were operating on this planet, as there was as yet no overt mutiny here, no power cutoff. That meant they could not sneak aboard any ship under assumed identities. Passengers’ baggage was routinely rayed to check for contraband; that would not do either. How, then, were they to board?

At last they found the way. They donned cold suits raided from little-used emergency supplies, fitted themselves with powdered oxygen capsules, and had themselves sealed into crates of chicken carcasses being shipped to CCC. There should be no machine inspection of this lot, since it was only routine meat.

There were interminable delays. Knot slept, and worried that he would have trouble reminding the others of their mission, after the effects of sleep and stasis made them forget. Then he reminded himself that they would remember the mission; it was only Knot they would forget. In the context they would discover themselves in, it would be easy enough to accept the reminder that he was part of the mission too. He was keenly aware of the loading process, as his crate got thumped into the hold by the conveyor system and other crates were piled on top. He was buried under frozen meat. Suppose something happened, and it couldn’t be unloaded? How long before the cold penetrated his suit and made him become what he claimed to be? He tried to shiver, but the stasis closed in, freezing him in another way.