The Alien Trace [Cord 01] (2 page)

    He knew his target was inside.

    Cord paused at the entrance to damp down the exultant feeling coursing through him. Until he had caught and killed his elusive quarry, until a corpse lay at his feet, there would be no real triumph.

    He pushed through the sun-yellow portals of the Xavier Clinic. He calculated that he had allowed enough time for his quarry to have gone through whatever paperwork and payment arrangements might be necessary. Now the prospective patient would be in a room and anesthetized. These places were strictly assembly-line and, to his advantage, very private. The clinic had this one main entrance and at least four interior exits; a patient came in one way and went out another. Leaving here, once he was done, would be easy.

    The receptionist, a blue-smocked man wearing a name badge rose to greet him. "Do you have an appointment, sir!?'' he inquired, reaching for a medical questionnaire.

    "No " said Cord, drawing his ray wand from his boot in one fluid motion. It resembled a wizard's magic wand, hence the name. It was not quite as long as Cord's forearm; it was slender, crystalline, the pale purple of the base shading to mauve and pink. He pointed it at med-tech Nin's stomach.

    "Someone arrived here recently. I am here to see that one."

    The med-tech's face sheened over with sweat, though the room was cool.

    "Sir, information about our clients is confidential. The Xavier Clinic prides itself on ethical behavior and on protecting the pri-"

    "Objection noted. However, my argument seems decisive." Cord nodded gently toward the wand, which was firmly pointed at Nin's middle.

    "Whatever quarrel you may have with this person should not be pursued here. This is a medical facility."

    Cord gave the man full credit for courage. "Med-tech Nin, if you do not do as I ask, I will regretfully perform an impromptu operation on your internal organs. A hospital is the place for that, is it not?"

    The med-tech acknowledged Cord's request. "Which-which one of our patients did you wish to see?"

    Cord smiled. "How many have come in today who appeared to need no surgery?"

    The med-tech forgot his situation and laughed. "Half a dozen since lunch, sir." At the reminder of the ray wand, his grin vanished abruptly.

    "The one I'm looking for carries Voskian papers."

    "Oh, yes. Of course. You want room A-6."

    "You will lead me there," Cord ordered.

    "Ah, certainly. If I may turn on the autoreceptionist?"

    Cord gestured permission. Now that the man had gone through the motions of resistance, he would be cooperative; Cord could tell.

    Moving very carefully, the med-tech switched on the system. Now, if someone came in, he or she would be asked by a Pleasant but disembodied voice to please be seated and wait.

    Cord let the med-tech lead him out of the reception area, past a heavy door. The understated luxury of the outer office turned to stark simplicity. Doors opened off the dim hall on both sides. Cord noted four discreet exit signs as they went down the deserted corridor. There seemed to be no one in the building but the two of them and the sedated patients behind closed doors. Good; so far everything was going as planned. From now on, the med-tech would be a liability.

    As they passed a door marked "Supplies," Cord's free hand stole into his belt pouch and withdrew a small capsule with a tiny, almost invisible needle at one end. With one quick movement, Cord slapped it against his prisoner's neck and squeezed the bulb.

    The man jerked once and swayed. Cord caught him before he collapsed and carried him to the supply room, using the mid-tech's now flaccid hand to open the door's palm lock. Cord dragged him inside and lay the unconscious med-tech behind a row of shelves. The drug would keep him quiet for hours, and he would eventually wake up on his own, unless some prospective customer, bored by the autoreceptionist, called for a guard.

    He slipped out of the storeroom, carefully closing the door behind him, and went looking for room A-6. He found it almost at the end of the passage.

    Its door was closed, like all the rest. A lighted panel in the door proclaimed "In Use," a superfluity, since the door, when shut, was automatically locked against intrusion, accidental or otherwise. Cord knew from previous research what lay behind.

    Each surgical suite in a reputable clinic had to be self-contained, with robo-med units in constant attendance, a bathroom, meal dispenser, computerm, and molded bed, where the patient could recuperate before showing the world a new face or figure.

    His quarry would be lying on the surgical table surrounded by the metal shell of the robo-med, unable to resist, unaware of his approach. Satisfaction rose in him. He paused a moment before the door, savoring the feel of heightened senses, the excitement of anticipation. Then he aimed the wand at the lock and pressed, vaporizing the lock mechanism. Cord jerked the sliding panel open, at the same time sinking into a crouch and bringing the wand to bear on the robo-med-

    -which hung over the table, unengaged. The table was empty. If his quarry was not safely inside the robo-med, then-

    Cord dove for the floor as the first of many projectiles cratered the doorjamb, showering him with splinters and blood…

    

    

    Cord was still a youth when the Terrans came to Mehira.

    It seemed like a dream, a made-up story from some fanciful book, especially when the aliens were kept in isolation, as though they had some dread disease. Rumors spread instantly-not surprisingly, given Mehiran mental abilities. Some said the Terrans were misshapen monsters. Others said the Terrans were far too uncivilized and grotesque to mingle with real people.

    Within a week, though, a televised meeting, heavy with Mehiran tradition, was shown throughout the planet. The Terrans, or "humans," as they called their breed, were not unlike the Mehirans, at least superficially. They had a head in the right place, two arms, two legs, and an interesting variety of skin, hair, and eye colors-although in a different spectrum. These humans wore identical silvery uniforms and wide smiles: they were friendly, eager, and not unattractive in their way. But they did lack tails, so their sex lives were clearly deficient.

    That one news program was the only time Mehirans were allowed to view the aliens, who remained confined in the hastily built enclosure erected on the spot where they first made planetfall. Only a chosen few-the ruling Council and some scientists-made contact with the Terrans. And in the days that followed the aliens' arrival, Cord wondered if he and his parents would ever see the humans in the flesh.

    Then one of his father's lovers came to visit unexpectedly, not long after the aliens' arrival. She was a small, delicate woman, with topaz skin and blue eyes. She favored the short multicolored shifts that were now in vogue and preferred to weave stones through her hair. She was also a woman with some political connections; one of her other love-friends was a Council member.

    "I can't stay long," Finola said, when they offered her refreshments. Her excitement was palpable, and she was clearly delighted about something. After a pause for dramatic effect, Finola announced:

    "I've met the aliens."

    Cord's father, Fyrrell, sat down beside her on the soft couch and placed a muscular arm about her shoulders; his anticipation level rose. His wife, Neteel, leaned forward in her seat, her finely shaped ears swiveling toward Finola to catch every word. Cord hung back, and took a pillow seat off to one side; he sat silently, trying to control himself, until her next words:

    "And I can arrange it so you meet them too."

    Cord's sudden emotional leap of pleasure bounced off the mingled glad surprise of his parents, making the room nearly reverberate under the onslaught of feelings. Finola flushed with satisfaction at the reaction to her news.

    "The aliens have come to trade with us. Even though they are technologically more advanced than we, Mehira still has things the Terrans will accept in exchange for information and material goods. I can get you the sole license to trade crime-detection information with the aliens."

    Another emotional spike of surprise filled the room. Cord's family, and the few others in the area who were Catchers, were tolerated for their usefulness, but they were not admired. They were not even welcomed, unless they were needed. As a child, Cord was acutely aware of this isolation and ostracism, but he was also aware that nothing would be done about it. He would be a Catcher, as his parents were, and like them, he would be shunned by most Mehirans.

    His gentle mother, Neteel, an engineer, seldom saw her relatives because she could not bear their feelings of pity for her marriage to a tainted inferior and for her poverty. If it had not been for the moral support-and the more tangible aid given Cord's parents by their lovers-Cord did not know how they would have lived. Yet his parents were successful in their work. Although Mehirans were nonviolent and law-abiding, there were always some deviants and criminals. The Catchers existed to track them down. And Cord's parents were most efficient about it.

    "Meet the aliens," Fyrrell mused. "Why us? What do we, lowly Catchers that we are, have to offer these powerful starfarers? There's something you aren't telling us," he admonished.

    "We'll take it," Neteel interrupted, her topknot swinging in emphasis. "Finola wouldn't have offered it if she didn't think it was to our advantage." She and Finola smiled at each other in perfect agreement.

    When Fyrrell continued to glower at them both, his disapproval evident, Finola sighed.

    "All right, I'll explain. First, you'll receive instructional materials from the Council and be placed under formal oath."

    "We've kept many secrets in our work," Fyrrell pointed out. "You know that, Finola."

    Finola nodded. "But this is a secret that must be kept not only from other Mehirans but from the aliens themselves."

    Neteel raised an eyebrow at this remark. Cord sat up straighter, tail twitching.

    "The aliens," she continued, "are under permanent quarantine by order of the Council. They keep to their compound because we won't let them out, and the aliens are still unsure of our power to keep them in. Besides, they say their primary reason for traveling between the stars is to gain knowledge. They've come to trade!"

    "And the Council…?" prompted Neteel.

    "The Council is allowing trade with authorized persons only, as few of them as possible. Neteel, Fyr, it's going to be very lucrative for those chosen few!"

    "But why aren't the Terrans allowed to travel freely-and why us?" Cord finally spoke up, and all heads turned toward him.

    "I was coming to that point," said Finola. "When the aliens first communicated with us, it was quite a shock. Not the appearance of another sentient race-but the terrible diffferences between us and the Terrans."

    "There
were
rumors," said Fyrrell.

    "It's not their physical appearance. Our scientists have discovered that they can't 'feel' us. They have the other basic senses, but they are not empaths. They're hardly better than beasts in some ways," she added frankly, "but they are technologically superior, and therefore stronger."

    "I'm stronger than most of my neighbors," said Fyrrell logically, "but they have nothing to fear from me."

    Finola squeezed a muscular thigh in appreciation. "I know it, and among our people that would be a reasonable argument. But there's more I haven't told you."

    They all felt her reluctance and embarrassment quite clearly.

    "We're peaceful because it's too painful to live around those who are in pain, or dying, or even terribly unhappy. The more a mind can feel anguish, the worse it is for everyone. Over thousands of years, we have been forced to evolve a society governed by strict laws as well as etiquette. We 'listen' for others' feelings, so as to avoid causing them anguish or embarrassment. And we let them feel our emotions for the same reason. The only time it's permissible to mask emotion or to refuse to receive it is when the sender is in terrible distress. Even then, it's not possible to block it out completely. Our being able to feel the suffering of others makes us unwilling to cause unhappiness. We have had peace on Mehira for generations. We've had to. But have you ever thought how things would have turned out if we hadn't been empaths?"

    She gently disengaged Fyrrell's arm and stood up. She paced in front of the pillowed couch, her tail jerking spasmodically in agitation.

    "If we had never been empaths…" Neteel began. Her emotional signal wavered doubtfully. "Then we might not have evolved away from aggressive behavior."

    They read Finola's answer in her feelings. "Let's not use euphemisms," she said at last. "For 'aggressive behavior,' we should say 'violence.' The aliens are violent. And they are strong. They know we are weaker technologically-but that's all they know. Right now they are not in a position for conquest; there are too few of them and they are too far from their home worlds. Perhaps it's not even politically or materially expedient for them to expand their empire right now; we don't know. But if they learned the true extent of our abilities, not only would they become our masters, but we could become their slaves, their pawns in other interstellar wars."

    Her words were as stunning as any blow made by a fist. Cord's parents were deep in thought over the ramifications; they did not notice his reaction of near-lust, a craving for excitement such as often came unbidden during a hunt, which he damped down quickly. Finola did not appear to notice either, though she had paused in her tirade to eye his father speculatively.