A Season For Slaughter Part 10

FOREMAN: The President controls her own mind, I'm sure. She has a number of advisers. To the best of my knowledge, she listens carefully to all of them, then she makes her own decisions.

KOBISON: But she comes to you for something extra, doesn't she? Something she calls censensus building, something you call contextual transformations-isn't that correct?

FOREMAN: I'm flattered, John. It sounds like you've actually done your research, for a change.

ROBISON: I read your book, Domains and Discoveries, when I was in college.

Don't flatter yourself, it was required. You took 875 pages to say that the att.i.tude of an organization determines the results it'll produce. Create the appropriate context, and the intended results are inevitable.

FOREMAN: You should have read past chapter one, John. What I actually said was that the creation of context is like an act of magic. It looks like you're working a spell; it doesn't look like it's going to produce any immediate results; and when it's complete, the only thing that has s.h.i.+fted is the perception of the partic.i.p.ants. But that's the whole purpose of contextual creation, to s.h.i.+ft the perception of the partic.i.p.ants from can't to can.

ROBISON: And isn't that what you're attempting to do to the United States government? Work some of your mumbo jumbo voodoo on it?

FOREMAN: Actually, no. We're not attempting to do anything to the United States government. Or any other inst.i.tutional authority. A government is only a tool.

What I'm interested in is the transformation of the people who use the tool.

ROBISON: So you are involved in the mind control of our elected officials?

FOREMAN: I want to s.h.i.+ft the context in which the entire human race is currently operating, from one of futility and ineffectiveness to one of responsibility and empowerment. I fail to see anything subversive in wanting success for the entire human community.

ROBISON: Ah, now I understand. You're not trying to take over the United States. You're trying to take over the world. You know, a lot of other people have tried the same thing and failed. Hitler, for one. What makes you so different-?

FOREMAN: Don't be an a.s.s. If I was trying to take over the world, do you honestly think I'd sit here on this show with you and let you play stupid word games with me? This isn't a political or a religious movement, John. In fact, it isn't even a movement. It's a contextual s.h.i.+ft. We're letting people know that the world isn't flat.

It's round. That's a contextual s.h.i.+ft. s.h.i.+ft the philosophical foundation of a group-any size group-and you transform the results produced...

Shamblers are usually not dangerous as individuals. Only immature shamblers travel alone, and only until they are able to link up with a herd.

Whenever shamblers gather in herds, extreme caution is advised, as herds are usually host to a wide variety of tenant-swarms, most of whom are capable of voracious feeding behavior. This partners.h.i.+p benefits both the tree and the tenant.

The herd provides a safe domain for the tenants, and the tenants provide waste and refuse for the shamblers to feed upon.

The only way to stop a shambler is to burn it or topple it. Few shamblers are able to right themselves. However, toppled shamblers will usually break apart and sp.a.w.n lots of little shamblers; the tenant-swarms will also split up to inhabit the new herd.

If adequate protection against the tenantswarms is present, toppled shamblers should be torched immediately. Otherwise, shamblers should be avoided.

-The Red Book, (Release 22.19A)

Chapter 10.

Cybers.p.a.ce "The worst kind of party to attend is the one where you are the only person in the room who understands all the in-jokes you've been telling all night."

-SOLOMON SHORT.

On and on the prowler coeurled.

Up the slope, around the sides, we circled restlessly through the red viney underbrush, sliding in and out of the shadows and the stippled ocher daylight, often pausing, listening, and sniffing the air. We approached the grove of shamblers circuitously and cautiously.

The prowler wasn't just curious. It was obsessive. Chemical sensors tasted the flavors in the dry Mexican wind sixty times a second. Multiple video arrays scanned and memorized the colors and shapes of every object in the prowler's environment, storing them in a four-dimensional, time-sensitive matrix. Aural sensors measured the sounds of whispering insects and creaking trees. Summary correlations .were made first in the prowler's LI engine, then squirted back to the van for additional processing, and ultimate uploading to the red network where eventually the industrial LIs would chew over the material all over againsometimes even referring back to the raw-data records for confirmation.

The display in the VR helmet was much more detailed than the ones usually found in home entertainment systems. Looking down, I could see a bank of controls and readouts that corresponded to the actual keyboards in front of me. Looking ahead, the view through the prowler's eyes could be projected as a photo graphic representation, as a symbolized terrain of simplified objects, as a military-coded tactical display, or as any interrelated combination of views.

Sonically, I was in a large open s.p.a.ce. Sound stimuli came from all around me.

Those that seemed to occur inside my head were cues about the operation of the prowler. The voices of my crew seemed to come from inside a small quiet room just behind me, such a distinctly different sonic environment that there could be no mistaking the point of origin.

I let the prowler move through its entire repertoire of search routines without interference. It circled in toward the center of the shambler grove, then started circling outward again. Its LI programming was current; it knew what to look for, it would spot and recognize any variance from the main sequence of known Chtorran behaviors, and it would correlate detectable differences against previously charted patterns. Where correlations occurred, warnings and appropriate predictions would be offered.

"Tenants," said Siegel. There was no emotion in his voice.

"A swarm?" I widened the prowler's scans.

"No," Siegel reported. "Just a few scouts."

"I got 'em. You're right." The screens showed bright speckles of light flickering around the machine, alighting and bouncing off. Candlebugs.

"Why aren't they swarming?" asked Willig.

"They're not drawing blood. Blood triggers the feeding pheromones. It's not cost-effective for a swarm of tenants to attack everything that moves, so the scouts go down and see if it's worth it for the rest to follow."

"You didn't tell that to Bellus."

"He didn't ask," I grunted.

Ahead, the shambler grove was a gloomy arena described by more than a dozen towering nightmares; they surrounded and enclosed the s.p.a.ce like a huddling together of leaf-encrusted giants. From the prowler's perspective, the shamblers were the great leafy columns of a demonic cathedral. Almost-solid beams of afternoon sunlight slanted downward through the leaves like yellow prisms.

We moved slowly into the center of the grove. The dusty air seemed to echo with a malevolent s.h.i.+mmer; it glowed with dappled patterns of darkness and light, and everything here took on a mordant magical quality. Maybe it was cybers.p.a.ce, maybe it was my subjective fantasy, but here the Chtorran colors were even more startling.

Although the primary hue of the alien vegetation was an iridescent scarlet, it was offset by patches of neon purple, dazzling orange, and velvet black. And all around, everything seemed outlined with haloes of nascent pink, probably another effect of the prowler's sensory spectrum.

Overhead, the trees were shrouded with decaying fronds. I was grateful that I couldn't smell the reek of them, some of these lank and cloying fragrances were maddeningly hallucinogenic. The vines and veils hung in thick gauzy curtains. We could hear insect-like noises and bird-like chirps; but the sounds weren't friendly.

They were small and vicious.

Now the prowler picked its way gently through the s.h.a.ggy undergrowth, a sheltering kudzu so dark it was more ebony than crimson, so thick it was both a carpet and a blanket. The sleek machine threaded its way through the fat waxy leaves like a metallic python, coeurling as it went. It moved liquidly, sliding in and out of shadow, under and over the sprawling vines and twisted roots, pausing, peering, sniffing, and listening.

Closer to the trees, the shambler roots became knottier and more difficult to traverse. They were a gnarled fibrous mat of clawing fingers, like something scrabbling for a foothold. They grabbed great fistfuls of the earth and held on in a death grip.

Upward, the wrists of the roots grew thicker and more columnar, and then, from there, the bones of the tree leapt upward again in strengthening groups, clumping together to form the cl.u.s.tered black pillars of each of the shambler trunks. They rose and rose into the overhanging gloom.

High above, I could see how a.s.semblieg of branches leaned gently away from the main bulk of the towers, spreading outward and linking up with the outstretched arms of the other trees to form a tall sheltering dome. The covering spans of the canopy were clothed in ragged webwork, draped with arterial vines, and veiled in misty curtains. Only the faintest orange tinge of light filtered through the fibrous ceiling.

Showers of ancillary vegetation dripped from everything. Above were clumps of something long, horribly twisted, and black. And there were bright red veils, lined with white spidery strands. I saw free-swinging vines with ominous-looking bulges here and there along their lengths. Fiery pustule-like growths cl.u.s.tered high on the tree trunks. The riot of vegetation blurred, became a chaotic wall. This dark alien jungle seemed an impenetrable ma.s.s.

The prowler moved through it dispa.s.sionately. Sher Khan's enhanced perspective made it possible to look up into the crimson-stippled blackness and see the underlying structure of the trees with incredible clarity. The ficus-like columns were actually constructions of many smaller bundles-as if there were really no tree here at all, merely a convention of fibers, vines, and roots. Like the pipes of some vast organ, they grew upward in vertical cl.u.s.ters of tubes. They rose in Gothic splendor, leaving great s.p.a.ces described between slender black b.u.t.tresses.

I pointed the prowler forward and set it to explore the twisted s.p.a.ces where the naked roots began curling up into the trunks. They looked like folds of a hard black curtain. There was room within these columns for a man to walk, to thread his way among the narrowing pillars. There were avenues here big enough to park a car-and I was suddenly overcome with awe and wonder at the audacity of the shambler's size and construction. If the grove was a cathedral, then these tall looming recesses around the sides were the corridors and arcades where pilgrims walked their silent meditations, where hooded monks flickered quietly about their business-or, if in a darker frame of mind, these shadowed nooks and crannies could equally have been hideouts for a.s.sa.s.sins bent on other unholy businesses.

We moved forward again.

Beams of yellow Mexican sunlight lay across the s.p.a.ce in angular slices. The air was filled with dancing fairy dust; it gleamed with golden highlights. A wondrous image came unbidden to my mind. These weren't shamblers; this was a stand of world-trees. Here stood the pillars that held the throne of G.o.d high above the sky.

Through these towering columns would ring the single profound voice of truth. The echoes would resonate across the universe. Here would sing the eternal choir. A grand ethereal voice would s.h.i.+mmer downward through the sparkling air, the notes as gossamer as light, transfixing all who stood here, awestruck in exultation at the sight and sound and glory of the presence of the Crimson G.o.d. I could almost hear the song Abruptly, the prowler chirruped. And stopped.

I shook my head to clear it. What?

Just ahead, at the very center of the myriad pipes and columns of the shambler trunk, a deep gap opened up in the ground-a darkne~s that plunged downward without apparent bottom. Just as the slender towers above me described a great narrow s.p.a.ce in the air, so did the roots beneath carve out an avenue leading steeply down into the soft black earth.

For a moment, I thought I had stumbled onto the opening of a vine shaft-an industrial site that had been seized and overgrown by the Chtorran infestation; but no, this was clearly the work of shamblers. Their relentless prying tendrils had pried the Earth open in a shocking act of rape. Once again, the planet lay naked and violated before the Chtorran invasion.

The prowler inched forward cautiously. Entering the shaft, the shambler roots became thicker and redder. They looked like a torrent of heavy cables-or veins.

They curled over and descended into the gaping well, all twisted one upon the other.

How deep did this hole go?

Was it just a sinkhole only a few meters down? Or maybe an access to an underground well? Or did it go all the way down to the bedrock, where it opened into a great subterranean abyss? What was at the bottom?

Inside my head, all the alarm bells were ringing. Despite the caution signs flas.h.i.+ng at the bottom of the VR display, I already knew the answer. This was no accident.

This hole was supposed to be here.

"Bingo," I whispered.

Around me, a chorus of quick sound cues chimed, as Siegel and Willig and Marano all plugged in via their own VR helmets. The flurry of their reactions temporarily filled the sound s.p.a.ce. "Uh-oh-"

"What the h.e.l.l!"

"Oh, my G.o.d-?"

"All right, put a cork in it," I interrupted. "I'm going down and I don't want any distractions." I leaned my head forward, and the prowler responded to the movement cue by sliding easily ahead. It paused at the entrance to the hole, sniffed the air, listened a moment, and readjusted its visual sensors for the darkness below.

It looked as if the opening ahead had suddenly become illuminated.

The prowler ticked thoughtfully to itself, a.n.a.lyzing and considering; it tested its steps carefully. The rubbery tangle of roots had a pallid, sinewy quality. The footing was uneasy.

But at last the prowler was satisfied. It coeurled once, and then slid forward, descending effortlessly into the gloom.

Depending on the terrain, some shambler tenants are capable of releasing a wide variety of smells.

In areas of heavy infestation, the shambler colony will exude smells that are attractive to Chtorran life forms, many of which are unpleasant to human beings; but in areas of minimal infestation, a shambler colony will release odors that are surprisingly pleasant and attractive to lure the unwary.

A sweet pine-like smell is one of the most common scents that the shambler colonies have demonstrated. This may or may not be an adaptation to attract Earth animals; the evidence is inconclusive.

-The Red Book, (Release 22.19A)

Chapter 11.

The Hole "If it were easy, it would have been done already."

-SOLOMON SHORT.

It wasn't a normal worm hole. That was already obvious.

The tunnel walls were lined with a soft pink skin. It shuddered like flesh. It was thickly threaded with heavy twisting roots and thinner, parasitic creeper-vines.

Everything was wet and rubbery looking. The cable-like strands twisted away into darkness. They looked like a writhe of braided anguish.

As it moved down the shaft, the prowler had to pick its way carefully. Very quickly, it began using its pincers to secure itself, clutching at the root and wall surfaces for footholds. It chirruped to itself warningly, but it kept on going.

As we descended deeper and deeper, the differences between this hole and every other worm nest we'd ever mapped became so obvious and so immediately apparent that for a long terrifying moment, I was afraid that we were about to discover a totally new species of Chtorran worm-or perhaps something even worse than that; maybe something that used the worms like the worms used the bunnydogs and the other creatures that shared their nests with them. My imagination offered up feverish pictures of a great bloated ma.s.s of s...o...b..ring malodorous flesh, pocked with gaping mouths, clas.h.i.+ng mandibles, protruding rubbery tentacles, and drunkenly weaving eyestalks-then it gave up altogether and retired from the field in disgrace. Whatever I might imagine, what was actually waiting at the bottom of this nest was inevitably going to be worse.

Deeper now, the walls began showing other bizarre forms of Chtorran life; great bulbous cysts, and dripping sacs of brackish goo. The prowler reported that the globular purple ones that looked like rotting plums gave off smells every bit as ghastly as their appearance suggested.

The thickest of the cables branched abruptly, and the shaft branched with them.

One channel led ahead, a smaller tunnel arced off at a tangent. We continued following the main channel down. A little deeper and the shaft began narrowing; at the same time, it became visibly smoother. The sinewy vines we followed disappeared into the substance of the shuddery red walls. The shaft was now a fleshy, all-enclosing tube. We had found our way inside the tree-maze.

The few twisting vessels still visible within the channel walls traced their way unevenly, eventually branching and threading off like giant blood vessels. It was as if we were inside the body of some enormous beast, brave microscopic intruders creeping tentatively through its circulatory system.

"Hold it-" I said. I sat back in my chair. The prowler obediently halted. I moved a display pointer to one of the arterial vines along the wall. "Did that just move?"

"Where?" asked Willig. "What?"

"There-" I highlighted a blubbery loop of twisted cable. Siegel's voice. "Stand by.

We'll take a look at the replay-woops, there it goes again."

I was right. The root had pulsed. As we watched, a gentle swelling of viscosity seemed to move slowly along its length.

"Galoop. Galoop. Galoop," said Willig. "It's filled with mola.s.ses."

Fifteen seconds later, another glop of whatever galooped slowly through the vein slid wetly down the channel.

"It's got a heartbeat," I said. "It's got a f.u.c.king heartbeat!"