Alien Wars Page 13

  “No. It’s a gut feeling.”

  “I imagine it’s something more,” Niens said. “But we won’t worry about that for now. Hmm, do you think the Kresh don’t know about the singing god?”

  “No.”

  “What is the parasite’s goal?”

  “The Eich keeps referring to a ship. I think the parasite lost its ship. I don’t know how or why that happened, or how a parasite happens to own a ship. It wants to go home and heal, I think it told me.”

  “What ship?” Niens asked.

  “I have the feeling it’s in the outer asteroid belt.”

  “Chirr, Kresh, cyborgs, and humans,” Niens said as he rubbed his fingertips. “Now, it appears there is another alien race. This being is crafty and hidden, wielding grave mental powers.”

  “What are you implying?” Cyrus asked.

  “The Eich altered Klane, you said. It is more than possible it has been altering the primitive seekers, as well. I noted a few anomalies in Klane’s former seeker when I operated on him under Chengal Ras’s direction.”

  “Operated?”

  “A technical term,” Niens said. “I, uh, attempted to adjust the seeker’s mind. The Kresh have certain tools to, um, train stubborn brains.”

  “Does the Battle Fang carry such tools?”

  “No,” Niens said. “I looked. In any case, the things the Kresh do with tools and additional Bo Taw tampering, it appears the Eich can do with psionic power alone. Yet it would seem the being has critical weaknesses. Otherwise, why does he or it not rule the Fenris System?”

  “Maybe the parasite rules as much of it as he desires to,” Cyrus said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s a feeling I have. Maybe it’s a stray thought I picked up from the parasite.”

  “Can you describe these thoughts?”

  Cyrus shrugged.

  “No,” Niens said. “We are in desperate straits. If we continue for High Station 3, Dagon Dar will send drones after us. If we obey his orders, we will deliver ourselves into Kresh hands, or talons would be more accurate to say. For the moment, we are free. We must use everything we have in order to remain so.”

  “Okay, okay,” Cyrus said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Think,” Niens said. “Bend your thoughts to these conjectures. Why do you believe the Eich might rule Fenris?”

  Cyrus massaged his forehead. He’d had impressions really, not thoughts. But he was willing to think this through if he could, and if it would help save Jana. “Well, I feel as if the Eich might have tampered with the Chirr.”

  “This is interesting. Tampered how do you think?”

  “The Chirr have psionic creatures among them, right? They’ve also managed to collect psi-energy in almost physical balls.”

  “How do you know this to be true?” Niens asked.

  “Klane went there while he was mentally absent from his body,” Cyrus said.

  “Ah . . .” Niens said. “That is where his consciousness went. How could I have known?”

  “I have the feeling the Eich doesn’t like the Kresh. In fact, I believe it fears them.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Cyrus shook his head.

  “What does the ship do, the one just found?”

  “Don’t know,” Cyrus said.

  “Can you probe Klane’s memory to find out?” Niens asked.

  “I can ask him.”

  “It,” Niens corrected.

  “Excuse me?” Cyrus asked.

  “The memory is an ‘it,’ not a ‘he.’”

  “You’re wrong,” Cyrus said. “I talk to the memory all the time. It’s definitely a him.”

  Niens waved his hand. “It hardly matters. The point is the psi-parasite resides in your mind and yet you don’t seem to control it or it you. Perhaps as important, the something or someone altered your mind in those seconds or minutes as the Anointed One made the mind transfer. I suggest therein lies the problem—and the hopes of our salvation.”

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus asked, looking bewildered.

  “I’m guessing,” Niens said, “you have great powers. Do those powers come because your mind is different? Or do they come because Klane’s memories know how to tap the human mind better than anyone else has ever done?”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “I’m inclined to believe the altered mind is the key, although maybe Klane’s memories know how to use the alteration better than anyone else.”

  “Does it make any difference which way it is?” Cyrus asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Niens said. “I should think it would make considerable difference.”

  Cyrus waited for Niens to explain. Instead, the mentalist plucked at a button on his coat.

  Noticing the scrutiny, Niens said, “The mind is a labyrinth. Because of your descriptions, an old article I read some time ago has resurfaced in my own thoughts.”

  “What descriptions?”

  “The nature of your mind battle with the Eich,” Niens said. “You saw Milan again and other realms. There, you battled one another as if in a real world with real-world parameters. Except, at times, you could materialize weapons and boots. The paper I just spoke about theorized such a situation. It called the mind battles ‘conceptual authenticity engagements.’”

  “What the heck is that psychobabble?” Cyrus asked.

  “To find and defeat the Eich, I believe you must delve into your mind. You must go to the altered areas. There, I suggest, the parasite resides. If you can defeat it there, you might submerge the alien’s thoughts into your stream of consciousness and subconsciousness.”

  “Do you hear what you’re saying?” Cyrus asked.

  “The man who wrote the paper was brilliant,” Niens said. “The Kresh did not believe his thesis, however. They destroyed him as hopelessly insane.”

  “You mean they killed him?” Cyrus asked.

  “That is what I said, yes.”

  “If he was insane, why kill him?”

  “Obviously, because he had become useless,” Niens said. “He served no more purpose.”

  “He was a man.”

  “Yes,” Niens said, “to us. To the Kresh, he was simply a mad beast. Here is my belief. The Kresh will destroy us soon. To save us, you must become the Anointed One in deed as well as in name.”

  “Who said I’m him in name?”

  “No one else can hold the title,” Niens said. “You hold the memory of Klane. Someone has altered your mind. For some reason, the Eich seems to desire that Fenris humanity have a chance in the game of aliens. Perhaps you should trust the parasite.”

  Cyrus laughed.

  “If you do not,” Niens said, “soon, the Kresh will burn us down.”

  Cyrus stepped closer to Niens, jabbing a finger against the man’s skinny chest. He jabbed once, twice, thrice, knocking the mentalist backward each time.

  “Do you want an alien to run my mind?” Cyrus shouted.

  Niens shook his head.

  Fighting for self-control, Cyrus said, “The Earth authorities once put an inhibitor in my mind. I did everything in my power to get rid of it. I know what it’s like having a leash. Never again, Niens! I’m Cyrus Gant or I’m dead. There are no other options.”

  “Even to save the life of the woman you love?” Niens asked.

  There might have been a second’s hesitation. Then Cyrus blurted, “No! I’m not willing to sell my soul for anyone, and that’s final.”

  “I see, I see,” Niens said. “You have convinced me. I will not suggest such a course of action again.”

  Cyrus stepped away. He could feel the anger struggling to rerelease. Why could no one understand how horrible mental domination was? Breathing deeply, he began to pace.

  “Ma
y I suggest a different course of action?” Niens asked in a soft voice.

  Cyrus threw a hand into the air that could have meant anything.

  “As I said a few moments ago, you must delve into your mind. You must return to the conceptual authenticity engagements.”

  “Go onto the Eich’s turf, eh, and hunt him down?” Cyrus asked.

  “That is colloquially spoken, but succinct nevertheless.”

  “Do you think I can win?”

  “It’s not really a question of winning,” Niens said. “We have no other options. Either you become the Anointed One or we will perish by drone or by claw on Jassac.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to believe you. So, I go into his world—his mind turf—and I beat the knowledge out of the Eich on how to heal Jana.”

  “And how to produce a ship-wide null so we can escape Kresh detection,” Niens added. “Yet I wouldn’t think of it as beating knowledge out of him. You must subdue the alien, make his knowledge part of your regular memories.”

  Cyrus stared at Niens. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”

  “I believe I do, yes.”

  “You want me to understand the Eich. With its knowledge . . .” Who could stop me then?

  Cyrus frowned. Was that his thought, or had the psi-parasite slipped it in just now? The alien entity was crafty. A grin spread into place. He liked the idea of chasing down the Eich. The thing had screwed with him. It had stolen his woman. Now it was time for Cyrus Gant to track it down and make the alien pay.

  “Okay,” Cyrus said. “I’m ready. What do I do?”

  “One word of caution,” Niens said. “What you’re attempting sounds dangerous. It is more than possible the alien parasite has set up the situation to lure you onto his home ground.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “By being shrewder than you realize,” Niens said. “He may have studied you and learned your weaknesses. If he can subdue you in his territory, he might gain full control of your mind: in essence, taking over.”

  Cyrus squinted. “You think that’s possible?”

  “Very much so,” Niens said. “I must caution you once more. This isn’t a lark. This is incredibly dangerous.”

  “And if I don’t go?”

  “Then you may never learn to control the full extent of your new psionic powers. You will be the last hope of humanity in theory, but never in practice.”

  Rubbing his jaw, Cyrus studied Jana. He could hang back, and everything would be lost. He could risk his soul to win his woman and possibly save humanity from the Chirr, the cyborgs, the Kresh, and this Eich parasite.

  Maybe this is why I came to New Eden. Cyrus Gant was born to roll the dice for the biggest prize anyone ever chased.

  “Let’s do this,” Cyrus said. “I want to hunt me down an alien psi-bugger.”

  20

  The Battle Fang drifted at its present velocity for High Station 3. Under Skar’s piloting, they attempted to move as deftly as possible.

  Other Battle Fangs, Attack Talons, and two hammer-ships accelerated for Jassac. The Pulsar gravitational system burned bright with hot engines. For a time, this Battle Fang might slip unnoticed for the habitat. Soon, though, Dagon Dar would learn about the disobedient warship. Then questions would fly, and possibly fast-accelerating drones.

  Cyrus lay down on a pallet in medical. Jana lay beside him on another couch. Mentalist Niens made preparations. Yang stood guard. The old chieftain stood in a corner with his arms crossed, one fist gripping a Vomag hatchet, the other a pistol.

  “Are you ready?” Niens asked Cyrus.

  Cyrus licked his lips. He’d been listening for some time to Niens’s explanations of how to do this. He figured he knew the procedure, at least in theory.

  “Let’s get it done,” Cyrus said.

  “Then relax,” Niens said. “Listen to my voice and concentrate.”

  “Relax and concentrate?”

  “I’ve already explained that. If you can’t do it—”

  “It’s nutty,” Cyrus said, “but I’m game. Start talking.”

  Mentalist Niens did, softly, bent down beside Cyrus.

  He closed his eyes with Niens’s hot breath tickling his left ear. Cyrus turned his telepathy inward. Slowly, his consciousness sank, sank, sank . . . His eyelids grew heavy. It felt as if he were falling. With his mind, he twisted around, spying a dark land. It had to have been part of the altered area of his mind. He had to go down there and find the Eich. It didn’t sound easy.

  He continued down, and his conscious mind receded into the background.

  Deep within Cyrus’s mind, a ghostly red wheel rotated in the otherwise dark sky. What made it worse was that the wheel remained in the same spot. After a time, its crimson light became like a burning eye, watching every slip of Cyrus’s foot or silently mocking his need for knowledge.

  Fortunately, through his Klane-taught psionics, Cyrus gripped a thin baton. It tugged toward the Eich, and in that direction he went.

  In his mind, Cyrus scrambled over brittle crusts and rocks that crumbled like dirt clods. Later, he climbed tall blue crystals and slid down their sides. He had no idea what that represented in his thoughts. He doubted Niens would know either.

  In the dim light of the spinning orb, he often saw his reflection. Twice, rain left him soaked. Each time, he tilted his mouth toward the cool drops and drank until his belly stretched. Lacking a canteen, he’d returned to the primitive expedient of bloating himself. The rain from the second squall had a bitter, metallic taste.

  As he huddled under a crystal outcropping with rainwater trickling past his boots, Cyrus wondered if the Battle Fang could slip unnoticed to High Station 3. As he waited, he noticed the wear to his boots. When he moved his toes, he saw how thin the leather had become, how he could make out each individual digit. What did that mean?

  It’s all symbols, right?

  Hunger gnawed at his belly, and his limbs were limp with fatigue. He wasn’t able to make food or new boots, and he wasn’t sure why. Did he need to be in mortal danger to make that part of his powers work?

  A mournful wind blew through the crystals, interrupting his thoughts. Cyrus listened until he shivered. Without a fire, he might catch a cold or fever. He drove himself to his feet. The wind, his wet clothes—he walked, letting the motion warm him. Now that the rain had stopped, walking helped dry his garments.

  Time passed as the tug toward the Eich increased. Thoroughly exhausted and with his stomach a grinding knot, Cyrus slumped against a twisted girder, which sprouted from the soil like an obscene tree. The beam had spaced holes. There were similar struts and the shells of blasted dwellings, as if long ago some atomic detonation had shattered the area.

  Yawning, he lay down and slept.

  Upon waking and still very much in his mind, Cyrus grabbed his baton and continued his lonely trek through the bleak land.

  In time, he climbed and shoved past spiky leafless bushes, the tallest reaching to his chest. Red globs like teardrops hung from some spikes. Smiling, he noticed ants. It was good to see Earth creatures in the alien landscape. The outsized ants climbed into a teardrop glob and out again, each carrying a tiny piece of fruit down the spike bush.

  Feeling ravenous, Cyrus picked a red teardrop and popped it into his mouth. It was sour and left a bitter aftertaste. Yet he could swallow it. Crouching beside the spike bush, he waited fifteen minutes or so. He felt no ill effects. So he proceeded to pick handfuls, shoveling the teardrops into his mouth like berries. After stripping all he could find, with his stomach still demanding more, inspiration struck. He plucked ants from the ground and ate them. It was tedious work, and he grimaced at the squiggling legs against his tongue, but he was famished.

  I wonder why I’m so hungry. Does it mean something? Probably.

  Later, with his stomach comfortably full and
after a nap, he climbed up and down progressively higher hills. Then he trudged up the steepest hill and blinked in astonishment at the top. The hill gave way to a deep valley. There were lights like lanterns in the vale, and there was movement. Across the gorge, a city glowed with an eerie blue radiance. It was beautiful, and yet the glow struck Cyrus as poisonous in a way he didn’t understand. He studied the city and soon perceived it was ruined. Vast twisted girders, shells of fantastically tall buildings, crystal rubble, and other glowing debris united to give the ruins its powerful radiance.

  Cyrus rubbed his cheek. Some of the valley lights moved upward toward the ruins. They moved in a long procession.

  Cyrus expanded his chest. His baton tugged toward the ruins. That’s what he’d been trekking toward, huh? It was clearly an alien city.

  If you fight the Eich and lose, you could become his mind slave. This isn’t a game, Cyrus.

  Hardening his resolve, he began to work his way down the spike bush–covered hill.

  As Cyrus climbed downward, he was able to see more within the valley. A river meandered through the narrow bottom. Occasionally, golden motes flashed within the water. Whether the flashes were fish or something else, Cyrus was too far away to tell. Rocks or crystals lined the shores, except for a sparkling sandy area. There, exceptionally tall tents rose like exotic trees. Chimes tinkled faintly whenever the wind blew.

  A cold feeling bloomed along the front of Cyrus’s body. He stopped. The coldness intensified and he became acutely aware of someone studying him. It unnerved Cyrus. He darted behind a boulder-sized crystal. His neck tightened. So did his grip around the baton. Cautiously, he peered over the crystal. The cold feeling pressed against his face.

  Cyrus scowled. He was tired of acting like a mouse in his own mind—his altered mind. Surely, these were some of the worst changes.

  In any case, spike bushes crackled below him. The noise came just beyond a shelf of stone that concealed whoever made the sounds. Cyrus’s mouth dried out as he hunkered behind a different crystal and peered around it. More crackling sounds focused his gaze.

  A hand appeared on the stony shelf. Several of the fingers were crooked. A grunt heralded a harsh bearded face with wild eyes. Another grunt brought a naked reddish man into view. Was he supposed to be a Jassac primitive?