Jim Baen's Universe

Serials - parts and parts.

Slan Hunter, Part 3

Written by A. E. van Vogt and Kevin J. Anderson

Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

[CHAPTER 29]

On the sheer edge of the red-stone balcony overlooking the glassed-over canyons of Mars, Jem Lorry stood with his old father. The head of the Tendrilless Authority had a calm smile on his face, as if content just to be next to his ambitious son before Jem's departure to meet with President Kier Gray. He was glad of his son's apparent change of heart. To an outside observer, it might have looked like a tender father-son moment.

Jem wanted to kill him.

Even with the urgent need to cement their victory on Earth, the old man did not seem inclined to hurry. Altus was calm and confident that everything would work out exactly as it should. Jem, however, understood that things worked out only when someone with drive and vision took charge of the reins of history.

"A beautiful view, is it not, my son?" Altus said. "Look at the white rocks, the rusty cliffs, the red dust. We tendrilless have been here in Cimmerium so long, I think the need to see red has supplanted my desire for lush greenery."

Jem had always wanted to see red. Blood red.

Even though the wide Martian canyon was covered over with a transparent roof, the enclosed space was vast enough that breezes wafted up from side canyons, air currents moving about from the exchangers, filters, and processing machinery. Far below lay a bone-dry riverbed from ancient days, a ribbon of broken rocks. It seemed a very long way to fall.

"I would be happy to let the humans have this place instead of us. Let Mars be their new Botany Bay. Since you don't want me to kill them all, that seems a perfect alternative. Exile the few surviving humans here and have them scrabble tooth-and-nail for an existence."

Mildly, the old man looked at his son. "Come now, Jem, when have you ever had to fight 'tooth-and-nail' to survive? You had a comfortable life. You don't fool me with your imagined hardships."

"Imagined? I know what those people are really like. Primitive, prejudiced, easily led by propaganda. They're a danger to themselves, and they deserve the punishment that we'll impose on them. I don't know what else Kier Gray expects."

Altus seemed troubled. "You are supposed to arrange a peace, negotiate acceptable terms."

"Negotiate? Father, they are broken and defeated. They have very little leverage. We should be able to get what we want, for the good of the tendrilless."

The older man heaved a long sigh. "Perhaps you aren't the best choice to go to this summit meeting after all, Jem. I'm afraid you may not approach the matter with the same goals as the Authority."

He felt a moment of panic. "No, Father, you can count on me. You know I have the bright future of our race in my heart. I will do what's best for all of us."

Altus considered. "Maybe we should wait until we hear from Joanna Hillory before we make any brash decisions. She'll have reached Earth by now. If she's found Cross, then the strategic balance has changed."

Jem tried to control his impatience and temper. "If you were going to kill Cross, I should have been the one to go there. In fact, I can make that my priority, after I've dealt with Kier Gray and his summit."

Altus scratched his beard, pursing his lips. "The more I think about it, maybe I should be the one to go talk with President Gray personally. He and I can resolve this war."

"The war is over, Father, even before our occupation ships arrive. Someday you'll recognize what I have accomplished and grant me the reward I deserve."

The old man patted him condescendingly on the shoulder. "Now, Jem, don't feel bad. Of course I am proud of you. You're my son. But right now I can do a better job. I'll suggest it to the Authority. I'm very sorry, son."

Jem lashed out. "If you had spent years on assignment there, cut off from your heritage, living in their squalor, you'd think differently about humans. You can't know what it was like to be among them."

The old man remained silent for a long moment. He clutched the decorative rail with his sinewy hands and leaned over the drop-off. Like a playful child, Altus worked up a mouthful of spit and let the droplet fall, watching it drift downward in the low gravity, bounced along in the air currents until finally it disappeared. Smiling, he turned back to his impatient son. "Actually, I can, Jem. You see, in my younger years I, too, served on Earth. I was part of the initial spy organization that helped set up and infiltrate the humans' Air Center."

Jem reeled backward. "You were on Earth? Impossible."

"Why is that impossible? You think me so incompetent?"

"I just didn't think you had ever set foot away from Mars. That you would—" He cut himself off before he finished his sentence. That you would ever leave your comfortable council chair and do anything active with your life.

"My experiences were not quite so horrific as you make yours out to be." Altus continued to gaze out at the stark cliffs, reminiscing. He actually had a smile on his wrinkled face. Jem wanted to strike him, to wipe off that beatific expression, but he held himself silent to hear what his father would say. "I worked among them, lived among them, talked to them. It was very difficult at first, pretending to be a mere human and knowing their unreasonable prejudices against the slans. I had to parrot their words so no one would suspect me."

"Of course you did, Father. We tendrilless hate the slans as well."

"The humans don't even know of the existence of tendrilless. I felt sorry for them in their ignorance. But life there wasn't so bad. We made great progress setting up newspapers and radio stations, silently taking over their communications so that we could manipulate their fears. It was easy for us to help them because we did everything so much better than a mere human could. They thought we were geniuses. The hardest part was never letting on how smart we really were."

"That's what I did," Jem said. "That's how I became the President's chief advisor."

"Yes, yes." Altus didn't sound interested at all. "I wonder if it's possible that President Gray knew who you were all along and simply didn't let on. Your mental shields are some of the best I've ever seen, but he's a smart man. Gray may have figured it out."

"Don't be ridiculous! It was because of my talent and skill that no one suspected."

"Even so, you were with him all that time—did you ever suspect Gray is a slan, even a rogue tendrilless? Or were his mental shields even better than your own?"

Jem scowled but didn't answer.

"At any rate, I found some things quite admirable about human society—their music, their congenial friendship, ah, and some of their gourmet foods. Nothing like what we have here on Mars. You blinded yourself with hate, and that is not the mark of a good diplomat." Again, that annoying paternal pat on his shoulder. "You see, Earth is where I met your mother. She was another worker in the communications towers. Oh, she was beautiful, had such a musical laugh. She had chestnut-brown hair and large blue eyes, a delicate chin. Your features remind me of her very much."

Jem tried to grasp what his father was saying. "My mother was also part of the operation? She was one of the tendrilless slans sent to infiltrate the cities?"

"No, no." Altus chuckled. "She was one of them, a human. She was very sweet. I wish you could have met her."

Jem choked. "You're lying. That can't be."

"Your mother was the best thing I found on Earth, kind and caring. She played a musical instrument, a stringed device they called a guitar, and her voice was like gold. She and I liked to dance. We must have spent three or four nights a week out in clubs and ballrooms. We even won a prize once. Hmm, I think I've still got the ribbon in my quarters somewhere. I took it with me when I left Earth after your mother died."

"This can't be!" Jem searched inside himself as if he could suddenly discover a fatal flaw, a hitherto-unsuspected weakness in his genes.

"Oh, it is, Jem. You're only half-slan, you see."

"That means I'm half-human." His stomach roiled and he felt as if he was going to vomit. "I'm half-human!"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. You can't help who you are. In fact, we can use it to our advantage after I go to Earth. Don't worry, I'll bring you there in due time. We would seem the perfect go-betweens in creating a new world order. You could have a good deal of interim power. Ah, your mother would have been proud—"

In a fury, Jem whirled and struck his father in the face, making the old man snap backward in stunned surprise. A large red mark stood out on his left cheek. "Calm yourself! I won't stand for this sort of behavior."

Jem roared and grabbed his father by the collar, screaming in his face with such force that spittle flew onto his cheeks. "You betrayed our race. You fell in love with a weakling human. You slept with the enemy."

"She was your mother, Jem."

"I will never accept that." He felt cold steel within him. "And you are no longer my father. You're a traitor. I will never let you go to Earth in my place."

With strength fueled by adrenaline and anger, he lifted the old man. Altus seemed no more than a large rag doll in the low Martian gravity. Without taking time to think, merely following his instincts, Jem hurled his father over the guard rail and sent him falling into his beloved Martian canyon. His thin terrified wail vanished into the background breezes.

Jem stared for a long moment, shaking after what he had just done, not from horror or grief, but merely surprised at how he had reacted. The old man had certainly deserved it; he would have ruined everything. Worse, if the news got out that Jem was half human . . .

He silently vowed to keep his heritage a secret. Certainly his father would never have told such an embarrassing fact to any of his peers. No one need ever know about his tainted blood.

He leaned over the deep, breathless drop, gathered a mouthful of saliva, and then he, too, let a long droplet of spit drop into the void. He was just full of impulsive decisions today.

Jem made his way back to the Authority chambers. It would be a long time before anyone discovered what had happened to old Altus, and by that time he would be long gone to Earth, where he would have consolidated his rule.

Inside the crystalline meeting chamber, all alone, he climbed to his father's traditional seat and lounged in the comfortable chair behind the impressive bench. Then he rang the prominent summoning tone, knowing the other Authority members would rush to the emergency meeting.

The group of old men arrived, hastily straightening their robes, donning their ceremonial caps. They looked up to see Jem Lorry sitting in the middle of their high bench and no sign of Altus anywhere. From his high position, the younger man looked down upon the other council members. "I am prepared to depart for Earth. I just wanted you to know that I'm on my way."

After today, all the tendrilless would be willing if not eager to follow him, despite the blood on his hands. The proof would be in his strength of rule. "I am going to meet with President Gray—and I will accept his surrender."

[CHAPTER 30]

The pain and emptiness did not go away, but after an infinite falling moment Jommy found the strength to endure. Even as he heard the humming engines of the tendrilless scout combing the wreckage for him, searching for him, Jommy discovered a lifeline within himself: He thought of Kathleen, beautiful Kathleen, and somehow he found the resolve to raise his head up. To survive.

Sharp agony was like a spear in the back of his head. He gasped and let himself collapse breathlessly onto the rubble, struggling to hide in a dim hole. The scout ship had driven away the murderous scavengers, but he did not dare let himself fall into the hands of the tendrilless.

He could feel the biting scrape of rough stone on his cheek, discovered raw skin and a bit of blood marring the concrete debris, but that was a mere distraction, a tiny whisper compared to the bellow of hurt inside his head.

The mob had slashed his tendrils off! It was as if they had lopped the wings off a bird or pulled the fins from a fish.

When the sounds of the enemy ship finally faded, giving up the search, he got to his hands and knees and coughed, but each jarring motion, each inhaled breath, sent more thunder through his brain. He fought against passing out, and then he retched, squeezing his eyes shut. His body was wracked with tremendous waves, but he crashed through them like a small boat against a hurricane.

With the mental silence yelling inside him, he could hear the blood rushing behind his ears. But he strained to hear something else, anything else, afraid he might pick up the noises of laughing scavengers returning for him, knife-wielding Deacon and his brutal gang. How long would the tendrilless ship frighten them off? They had left him alive, but maybe he was better off dead.

Jommy bit back a moan and forced himself not to follow that line of thought. He was still alive. He was still himself, with or without his tendrils.

He opened his eyes into the fading light of dusk. The sky was a darkening blue with a scudding of clouds and finger-paint smears of smoke from the burning buildings. All of his senses—even the normal ones—were different now, blunted. He felt shut off. When he got to his feet, his balance was gone. Jommy reeled like a drunken man and then stumbled once more. He fell back onto his scraped hands, then with a grunt of effort, he stood up again, swaying but managing to remain erect.

Weaving, he made his way through the rubble, barely able to see, hoping the scout ship wouldn't return. He accidentally found shelter, the corner of a collapsed room, and he curled up behind a fallen block of structural stone, shuddering. And night fell.

He had been born a slan. All his life he had unconsciously depended on his tendrils, like a cat used its tail for balance. Every waking moment the slender fibers in the back of his head had picked up the signals of thoughts, the endless droning babble of other people, other minds. It was like the background noise of the ocean in a coastal village, always there, soothing and comforting. He hadn't even noticed it—and now it was entirely gone.

His dreams and thoughts were like fever visions, recollections and hallucinations. Jommy remembered going to sleep when he was just a little boy. His mother had sung him lullabies, but she did more than just give him the soothing music of her voice; her comforting thoughts wove a nest around him, letting him know he was protected, that she would always be there for him. Everything had changed when he was nine years old—and now he was faced with an even greater shift, a handicap.

Without his tendrils, Jommy felt both blind and deaf.

After fearing it for so long, he gingerly touched the back of his head and felt the raw stumps. The nerve endings sent a rocket of pain through him. He drew his fingertips away, saw only tiny specks of red. Though Deacon had sliced him, Jommy's slan healing powers had halted the bleeding. He was in no danger from the injury, at least.

But now what was he to do?

Next morning, after a dizzying and pain-wracked night without sleep, he picked his way forward, stumbling again. The palace wreckage shifted with an ominous patter of falling stones and sliding rubble, and he knew he could fall through at any moment.

"I am not helpless," he said aloud, then repeated it to reinforce the thought.

He blinked and looked around, trying to see in the growing dawn light. All of his senses and impressions seemed muffled, muted . . . useless. But he reminded himself that this was how normal human beings lived every day, and they managed to survive without enhanced senses or telepathic powers. Yes, he could smell rock dust and old sooty smoke. With his ears he could hear the sounds of distant aircraft cruising overhead.

But he no longer had the ability to sense Kathleen in his head. He had lost that connection with her. Forever.

He staggered through the rubble. The secure vault containing his disintegrator weapon was sealed again, and he had no way of defending himself. Another failure! He had come so close, but he couldn't find any means to retrieve the disintegrator now. He was too weak. He didn't know what he could do.

In all of the desperate situations he had encountered, Jommy had never felt so powerless. Previously, he had been so cocky, so sure of himself, never doubting that he would find a way out of any trouble he might encounter. Now all he could think of was to get back to the serenity of Granny's ranch, where he could be with Kathleen, where he could heal . . . though he would never be what he was before.

Disoriented and still in great pain, he could barely remember where he had hidden his car. He paused in a bombed-out street, holding onto a twisted iron girder. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to concentrate, dragging the memory to the front of his mind, until he knew which direction to go. He slumped against a scarred wall, his knees trembling.

He felt dull and listless, unaware . . . and when the sharp-edged shadow fell over him from a descending tendrilless scout ship, he leaped to his feet. He hadn't even heard it coming! The enemy had found him! Jommy was entirely exposed, out in the open. He looked around, but could find no place to hide.

The tendrilless craft's hot landing jets blasted up gravel in the debris-filled street. Jommy began to run, but he overcompensated. He didn't see a broken cinderblock at his feet and he tripped, sprawling into the sharp shards. He got to his knees, crawled along, then lurched up so he could run again. The tendrilless scout landed directly in front of him, blocking the street.

Jommy fell backward, turned about, and tried to scramble away in the other direction. The scout ship had weapons mounted in its nose. He was surprised the pilot didn't just open fire on him. Panic yammered through him as he heard the door open. Someone stepped out.

"Jommy," a woman's voice called. "Jommy Cross. I know that's you."

He recognized something in the timbre, the tone, though he could feel nothing, pick up no vibrations or thoughts. He turned to find a woman running down the ship's ramp, rushing toward him. Joanna Hillory.

When she reached him, her face was angry, relieved, anxious. "I've been looking for you! I drove away that mob in the palace, but then I lost you. I was just thrilled to know you were alive. I've been searching—"

He faced her, trying to look strong and brave. He thought he had already convinced her that true slans did not have to be the mortal enemies of the tendrilless, but she had been unable to stop the devastating attack. "What do you want, Joanna? Your tendrilless have followed through on their threats. Look what they've done. Look at what's happened to Earth. Are you proud?"

"I didn't want to be part of that, Jommy, and you know it." She took his arm, helped him forward. "I couldn't stop the initial attack, but we can still do something. We can still work together."

"Good," he said bitterly, bowing his head to show her the small bloody stumps on the back of his skull. "Because I'm one of you now. I'm a tendrilless."

****

She led him aboard her ship, where she cleaned and bandaged his wounds, gave him metabolism enhancers, and applied healing ointments so he could recover. From her expression and her movements, Jommy could tell that she was revolted by what the mob had done to him. Though the tendrilless were perfectly happy to kill slans, this sort of abominable torture was beyond her comprehension. "Jommy, I'm so sorry."

He lay on the cot in the tiny medical alcove of her scout craft. "There's nothing you can do." Her medical packs could not grow back his tendrils. "Why did you come here after me? You should have stayed on Mars, stopped their plans."

"The Tendrilless Authority sent me to search for you. They're afraid of you, Jommy. They say you're the most dangerous man alive."

"I don't have any powers, not any more."

"I was happy to accept the mission, Jommy. I knew I could track you down. I picked up a tiny slan signal from the area. I wasn't surprised that you came back to the ruins of the palace—otherwise I would never have found you."

"I should have stayed with my friends, helped the President."

"Do you know what they're planning? Kier Gray has requested a summit meeting, trying to put an end to the hostilities." She explained the message she had received en route. "The Authority is going to send a representative, and it's Jem Lorry. I don't trust him. He's going to set a trap, somehow."

"Lorry? I don't trust him, either," Jommy said.

Jommy sat up, deciding he had rested enough. Driving away the remnants of his shocked sadness, he reached a brave conclusion and looked at Joanna, wondering if he could count on her, if she would support his work. Even without his tendrils, he had his mind, he had his physical strength, he had his "normal" senses.

"I am still a true slan—and I have work to do."

[CHAPTER 31]

With her link to Jommy brutally severed, Kathleen felt as if she had fallen into a black hole. Grief was like tar all around her. Now she understood all too well how much pain and misery Jommy must have gone through after she'd been shot, after he had spent years believing she was dead.

Her whole body felt numb. She wasn't cold: just empty, lifeless, as if someone had cut a huge hole in her heart.

In Granny's ranch house, she sat at the kitchen table, and her father took a chair across from her, angry at what had happened, sympathizing with his daughter. With a clatter of dishes, the old woman rummaged in her cupboards and brought out a small china plate adorned with a goldenrod flower design. She scooped up a piece of the still-warm apple pie, added a dollop of ice cream from her icebox, and presented it to Kathleen.

Despite the delicious smells, she looked up at Granny. "I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not. But this pie is soooo good, Granny knows you'll want to taste it. Be the first, and tell us if it's good enough to serve to those important dignitaries who are on their way."

"Jommy's dead. A piece of pie isn't going to solve my problems."

The old woman cackled. "Good food often makes things seem a whole lot better. Just like money does." She grinned. Her teeth were crooked.

Petty lounged against the kitchen wall, completely unsympathetic. "We're going to have to do another load of laundry if that girl keeps going through handkerchiefs." He sidled over, got himself a plate from the cupboard, and moved to the freshly cut pie.

Granny yanked it away from him. "Don't you dare." She put the pie on a high shelf.

Because her father was also a slan, even without tendrils, Kathleen could sense his thoughts and his presence, but the connection was not the same as what she'd shared with Jommy.

"I know how you feel, Kathleen. I lost my wife—your mother," he said. "Though we kept our relationship a secret. There's so much you don't know about me."

She blinked at him. "But you raised me. I know all about you. I've read your biography."

"That was just a manufactured biography. President Kier Gray had to have a completely clean slate, an untarnished reputation. The truth about me was the most classified secret in my government. I had to make sure people like him," he jabbed an elbow in the direction of Petty, "would never discover who you really were. If they used that information against me, everything I was secretly working toward would fail."

"If you were so good at covering up embarrassing details, Mr. Slan President, how come you didn't just hide your brat?" Petty said.

Gray ignored him, focusing only on Kathleen. He reached out to wipe the tears from her face. "I was born without tendrils, though my parents explained my heritage. I knew about the tendrilless, knew what they were, and they prepared me for the future. They taught me how to have an absolutely impenetrable mind shield. Not even another tendrilless could sense me, unless I wanted them to.

"But when I was thirteen, my mother and father disappeared—I assumed they'd been caught, so I ran. I changed my identity and made a new life for myself . . . exactly as they had taught me to do.

"Years later, when I was a young man, I met your mother. It was an accident, but for slans there are no real accidents. I'd spent my life covering up my identity, and so had your mother. She was a true slan, with many ways of using wigs and hats and scarves. The old days of shaved heads and the Human Purity League were far behind us, and slans could get away with it now."

"Obviously we've grown too lax," Petty said.

"I met her in a flower shop. Your mother loved flowers. Her name was Rose." He smiled wistfully. "She worked there, taking care of the blossoms, removing the wilted ones, watering the plants on the shelves, using a mister on the ferns. I came in to get some flowers . . . tulips, I think, or maybe daffodils. It was springtime, and I wanted to cheer up the old widow who lived in an apartment down the hall from me."

"How sweet," Granny said.

"Fortunately, there were no other customers. When I walked in through the door and the bell jangled, your mother looked up at me. It was like an electric current passed between us. She didn't have her mind shields in place, expecting nothing. I must have been careless, too. We . . . clicked."

"Love at first sight?" Though she didn't realize what she was doing, Kathleen took a bite of the apple pie, letting the spicy sweetness fill her mouth.

"More than that. You know what it was like when you first encountered Jommy. Even though I was normal in all external appearances, a slan can know another unshielded slan—even a tendrilless one—instantly and instinctively. Your mother and I recognized each other for what we were. I don't think either of us breathed for a full minute. She came around the counter, setting down the flowers she'd been arranging in a vase. She went to the door of the shop, turned the lock, and drew the shade." He took a long breath. "We were married two days later."

Slans rarely needed to go through a long courtship process; they clicked like a key in a lock. "Jommy and I should have gotten married," Kathleen said.

"Rose and I lived quietly together for several years, drawing no attention to ourselves. We taught each other many things, but we didn't have other slans to interact with. We were just by ourselves. She worked in her flower shop, and I took a position in the information archives in the Ministry of Communication.

"Those were the happiest times of my life. When Rose finally got pregnant with you, we were content and satisfied. Unfortunately, because we were both slans, we couldn't risk seeking medical attention. I could pass for a normal human, but not Rose. If she went to a doctor during her pregnancy, they might run some kind of test. They might discover that the baby had tendrils. They might find out that Rose was a slan."

"So you did it all yourselves?" Kathleen asked.

"These days, home delivery using a midwife is as common as a hospital birth, especially out in the country. Because my Rose was strong, we were sure we could handle it. We read everything we could. We were ready."

His shoulders slumped. "What I didn't know, though, was that my poor Rose had terminal cancer. In retrospect, I now see a thousand little signs that I should have noticed, but we were too focused on her pregnancy. She gave birth to you, a perfectly healthy little girl, but the delivery was difficult for Rose. She barely recovered, and that was when I realized something else was terribly wrong with her. But she wouldn't let me take her to a doctor. I tended her at home, and I took care of you."

"You must have been exhausted," Kathleen said.

"I needed every ounce of my slan strength. Poor Rose lasted longer than any human would have, considering the severity of the cancer. I knew from my own diagnosis and some medical equipment that I purchased through anonymous sources that her tumors were growing and that they were inoperable. Even bringing her to a hospital would have done no good at that point. Rose would have been exposed, and surgeons aren't inclined to do their best work with a slan patient—unless they're curious and wanted to do a few experiments." Bitterness edged his tone.

"You were eighteen months old by the time your mother was near death. I begged Rose to let me take her to the hospital. There had to be some chance, though I knew in my heart there wasn't anything we could do. Finally when the pain became unbearable, she acquiesced—but she forced me into a bargain first. I dropped her off at night in the emergency room. I never gave my name or hers. She was just a 'Jane Doe.' You weren't even with me, Kathleen. They had no reason to suspect that we had a little girl.

"Over the years, Rose and I had met many kind and wonderful humans. I prayed now that whoever tended my dying wife might be a kindly nurse or an altruistic doctor, someone who would recognize her pain and help her. Though I had to go, to stay out of sight, Rose remained connected to me through her tendrils. I could sense her with our special bond. I could feel what was happening to her, though she herself had dulled her mind and body with painkillers. When the medical professionals in the emergency room discovered that she was a slan, there was quite an uproar."

"I'll bet," Petty said. "They should have called my secret police right away."

"One doctor did," Gray continued, his voice like a razor. "They gave Rose a bed, realized there was nothing they could do for her except to alleviate her pain, and so that's what they did. The secret police came, prodding her, interrogating her, attempting to rip information from her brain in her last moments of life. But she clung to the promise I'd made, and she found her own sort of peace."

"What did she make you promise?" Kathleen asked.

Gray fell silent for a long moment and swallowed twice, gathering his thoughts. "I knew she didn't have long. I took you to a conservatory, a large greenhouse filled with flowers. That was what she wanted.

"Rose regained consciousness before she died. Even without tendrils, I could sense her in my mind. I held you in my arms, little girl, and we stood among the roses, the tropical plants, the beautiful orchids. She could see them through my eyes. Despite what the secret police were doing to her, she could share my thoughts. Those were her favorite things in all the world, and even though I longed to be with my darling in her last moments, I gave her something better. I smelled the flowers, the sweet perfume that she loved so much. It's the last thing she experienced. When Rose died, it felt like a cold wind passing through my soul, and I held onto you very tightly."

In the moment of openness, Kathleen could sense that her father had lowered part of his impenetrable shield, letting her inside for the very first time. She picked up on his emotions, his bright memories, his love for her. And some of the distant, blurred recollections overlapped with her own vague memories.

Kathleen was crying. "I remember that. I remember the flowers, but I wasn't sure what they meant. It was when I was just a baby."

"It wasn't until long after that I tracked down her body. I wanted to give her a proper funeral, but the secret police had already taken her for dissection. After that day, everything changed." Gray's voice became hard now. "I decided I had to make a difference. I couldn't just allow slans like Rose, like you, to live like rats in hiding.

"Since I had discovered Rose, I knew there must be more slans, though no one guessed where they might be hiding. After I lost my parents, I had no further connection with any of the organized tendrilless. So I went to work with grim determination, all by myself. With my job in the communications ministry and with full access to the informational archives, I built a detailed and impressive history for myself. It was masterful. No one could find any flaws or mistakes. And then I launched my political career.

"I did find other slans, eventually. We arranged meetings, extended our influence, and made our plans. Because I could pass so easily among the normals, they wanted me as their champion. I built my network, manipulating, strengthening, growing. Using slan skills, nudging the thoughts of certain followers, I built a campaign organization—but I kept my personal life intensely private. No one knew about you, Kathleen.

"I won my first three elections by landslides. My career was meteoric. When many of my supporters, and even several defeated rivals (whose minds I had manipulated), supported me as a dark-horse candidate to be the next President, I felt sure I could accomplish what I needed to do."

"But what about me?" Kathleen said. "I remember someone taking care of me, an . . . uncle?"

"A kindly blind man watched over you. I paid him well," Gray said. "Either he never knew you had tendrils, or he didn't mind. You were smart enough to take care of yourself. I thought everything was set.

"But on the day of the election, in my finest hour after I had won the office of President, secret police raided the old man's home. Someone had tipped them off that he had a slan girl there. The blind man couldn't defend himself. He didn't know very much about me, but he could probably have revealed enough. Fortunately for us, I suppose, the secret police thugs killed him before they could interrogate him. They captured you—and then I had to act. It risked my political career, my best chance for changing the whole world, but I had to find a way to do both. You are my daughter, Kathleen. I had to take the chance and save you.

"As the newly sworn President, I issued a decree, announcing that in order to understand the slans and whatever threat they might pose, we needed to study them, not just react with automatic fear. I insisted that you be kept in the palace with me, where you would be safe and where, unfortunately, you would be scrutinized every moment of your life."

"Then why did you originally agree to let her be executed on her eleventh birthday?" Petty asked. "It makes no sense."

"That was a concession I had to make at the time. I had many years to work around that loophole, and as you can see, it didn't cause a problem, ultimately. But now look where we are. See how much has changed?" He reached over, picked up the fork, and took a bite of pie. Granny looked on, as if hoping for a compliment.

"I still miss my Rose. Sometimes I can hardly bear it. Even with my power as President, I'd gladly surrender it all just to have a quiet, normal life with my wife and daughter."

Petty, still pouting at the flaky pie that Granny had denied him, grumbled. "Sentimental crap."

With a swift movement, the old woman swatted him again on the back of his head.

[CHAPTER 32]

Alone inside the secret slan redoubt, Anthea counted eleven skeletons. Three were sprawled on the floor; others had collapsed into piles of bones beside desks and laboratory tables. Sensing her disappointment, confusion, and uneasiness, the baby boy squirmed and began to whimper.

Anthea picked her way among the skeletons, looked at the grinning teeth, the empty eye sockets. Several of the rib cages were broken, the bones shattered and blackened. All around, she found discarded weapons, bullet casings, and empty charge packs. Black marks stained the tables, floor, and walls. Chunks had been blasted from the high rock ceiling, and bullet holes stitched a zig-zag pattern across a chalkboard that hung askew.

A terrific battle had occurred here, a shootout—but with whom? And how long ago? Was there some sort of civil war among the slans, or had the secret police discovered this place and ambushed the hiding slans? She doubted she would ever know the answers.

She strained her ears, as if there might still be fading echoes, but she heard only the hum of buried generators. The lights were strong and steady, never flickering. The air smelled clean, though with a faint metallic odor and thankfully without any residue of the decaying bodies.

Had the skeletons been here since the days of the Slan Wars, centuries ago? She looked down at the sprawled figures, wondering if they might be the last remains of the children of Dr. Lann. She didn't think so.

She picked up one of the unusual energy weapons on the floor—a stunner?—and saw that it had been completely discharged. She couldn't use it for her own protection, should slan hunters threaten her here.

After her initial surprise, Anthea cautiously explored the large chambers, calling out, but finding no one else there. The redoubt was completely empty, completely silent.

She found fresh running water and sanitary facilities, several rooms with comfortable beds, clean clothes. In a dining area she discovered a wealth of preserved packaged food. After recognizing slightly old-fashioned brands and label designs, she concluded that someone had occupied this place within the last few decades. The food was still good, and she ravenously ate a wrapped chocolate bar. If necessary, she could stay here a long time.

At last feeling a warmth and contentment she hadn't experienced since Davis had rushed her to the hospital—on what she thought would be the happiest day of her life—Anthea realized how utterly exhausted she was. She sat in a chair and kept herself awake long enough to nurse the baby, who sucked greedily. He must have been starving as well.

Barely able to stay awake, Anthea chose one of the soft beds and took just enough time to pull out a blanket and a pillow. She lay back, cradling the baby against her, and fell asleep within moments.

****

Later, rested and refreshed at last, she arranged a makeshift crib for the baby and then turned to the first order of business: removing the grim reminder of the skeletons. These bones weren't just random garbage that she could sweep up and toss in a trash bin. Every one had been a person, probably an unjustly persecuted slan. She imagined that they must have died fighting, as heroes.

Finding a pair of gloves and some empty boxes, she gathered each of the remains and reverently put them in separate containers, like makeshift coffins. She didn't know what else to do. Someday, there might be a way to identify these people and bury them properly so they could rest in peace. After she had quietly tucked away each of the boxes and cleaned the dark stains, she felt drained.

Now, she could devote her full attention to investigating the place that would be her refuge during the war above. The buried complex was quite remarkable with laboratory equipment that far surpassed anything she had seen in the library archives. The tall, blocky units with spinning tape feeds and blinking lights were obviously powerful computers. Thick electrical conduits ran through the walls, distributing power from generators that must have been located in a deeper grotto.

In a separate control room, she found a throbbing device studded with crystal rods and vacuum tubes. It glowed blue-white with energy, crackling as tiny sparks discharged across electrodes and thrummed through conduits into the ceiling. A signal generator? It seemed to be sending out a pulsing message—but to whom? The system itself must have been designed by those long-ago slans, perhaps the original children of Samuel Lann, or maybe the more recent inhabitants who had died in the shootout. Either way, was there anyone left who could receive such a transmission? Were there still slans out in the wreckage of Centropolis? Staring at the machinery, she didn't know how to respond to the signal, how to listen to what it might be saying.

As she continued her explorations, Anthea realized that the whole underground facility had been steadily changing ever since she and the baby had arrived—powering up, awakening. When the Porgrave sensors had recognized the arrival of a slan, dormant systems began to come online again.

The slan scientists in this base, whoever they were, had created technology capable of detecting members of their race. Anthea realized that if such sensors had fallen into the hands of the secret police, then no slan would ever be safe. The inhabitants of this base would have given their lives to protect that invention.

In the laboratory rooms, she found neatly stacked notebooks, records signed by a slan scientist named Peter Cross. In addition to the hand-written logs, she also found a recording loop and a viewer similar to the one she had used in the library archives. She installed the reel and played it, seeing Peter Cross in person. He was a handsome man with bright eyes, dark curly hair cut short, and a high brow. He made no effort to hide the fine slan tendrils that dangled at the base of his neck.

Cross spoke at length into the recorder about complex technical matters, describing how slans were again using this ancient base, though he feared the war was over and lost, for all intents and purposes. Cross described the treasure-trove of forgotten discoveries he had found here upon reopening the underground redoubt, including a series of Samuel Lann's investigations about "original memory transference" and "baseline life-recording technology."

Then Peter Cross looked directly into the imager. His blue eyes seemed to stare right out at her, and Anthea felt his words tug at her heart. "I will never stop my work," he vowed. "Not until I succeed in making a better world so that my wife and baby son no longer have to live in fear."

When the recording ended, Anthea nodded silently and solemnly to herself. "That's something we can all wish for."

[CHAPTER 33]

Inside the sleek spacecraft, Jommy recovered, sleeping as if in a coma, then feeling weak and disoriented when he woke. Counting on Joanna's help, he tried to think of a way they could save Earth and prevent the extinction of both humans and slans. Both of them felt a sense of urgency, knowing that Jem Lorry would be meeting with President Gray soon. Worse, Joanna told him the ominous main occupation fleet from Mars would arrive within days.

As she checked her systems, Joanna glanced up to see a flash of fire as an explosive projectile came flying toward her ship. "Jommy! Someone's shooting at—" She didn't have time to complete her warning before the explosion struck the side hull. The metal plates buckled inward, and fire tore open the wall.

Jommy staggered to his feet, feeling angry and helpless. He saw the ragged scavengers outside, coming closer. "They didn't take long to creep out of their hiding holes." The looters had scavenged firearms from civil defense armories and from the cold, dead hands of civilians who had tried to defend themselves. Now they closed in on the landed tendrilless craft.

Joanna ran to her cockpit systems, struggling to power up and fire her small battery of defensive guns. Three brief shots rang out, and the bright bursts scattered the attackers outside, giving them a brief respite. Joanna got her engines activated, and the damaged ship shuddered. With a blast of rockets, the scout heaved itself a few feet off the ground.

The angry scavengers shot whatever weapons they had managed to cobble together. Before she could lift the ship out of reach, a thrown grenade took out her rear engine, causing the ship to spin. The spacecraft's rear smashed into the wall of a nearby building, bending one of her guidance fins.

Jommy gripped the back of Joanna's pilot seat for balance as the ship collapsed back to the ground, raking the street with a flare of screeching sparks. Oily black smoke poured in from the engine compartment. Joanna looked at him, stricken. "Looks like we're not taking this ship anywhere."

Though broad spiderweb cracks obscured the cockpit window, he could see tattered-looking people closing in from all sides. He recognized some of them, saw their scrapes and bruises, the angry expressions on their faces—in particular one man with sharply squared shoulders and a fresh cut on one cheek. Deacon. He must have recognized the scout ship that had attacked them before he and his people could finish with Jommy. . . .

Jommy reacted with instinctive loathing, and a red undertone of anger suffused his face. "That's the man who cut off my tendrils."

Deacon's gang seemed to realize that they had snared themselves big prey. Jommy imagined how the scarred gang lord would use the captured enemy craft to consolidate his power, swooping along the streets and assassinating rivals. At the front of the advancing crowd, Deacon waved his dagger in the air as he ran forward. He seemed to think nothing could harm him.

The spacecraft's remaining engine groaned and whirred. Smoke polluted the air in the compartment. "If that man wants to capture my vessel intact, he's not showing much restraint." Joanna flashed a grin as smooth as broken glass. "And I plan to show even less restraint." She opened fire with the ship's energy weapons.

The dazzling beams struck Deacon squarely in the chest, turning his entire body into a cloud of reddish mist, shattered bone, and greasy smoke. He disappeared in mid-shout.

The other scavengers scrambled to a halt. Four of them dropped their makeshift weapons and ran away in a panic. Another hurled an empty pistol at the side of the tendrilless ship; it struck the hull with a harmless clang. Then the whole mob vanished into the shadowy streets like cockroaches fleeing a bright light.

"They won't cause us any more trouble." A faint undertone of disappointment rode on the tendrilless woman's words.

Jommy lurched back to the engine compartment and used flame extinguishers to smother the crackling fire. Joining him to inspect the damage, Joanna shook her head. "The energy cells are cracked. The ship's ruined, completely ruined."

His brow furrowed with concern. "We can't stay here. Exposure to those cracked cells can be more hazardous than facing a desperate gang." He pulled on Joanna's arm. "I hope you didn't intend on going back to Mars any time soon."

The woman's face showed a mixture of conflicting emotions. "I'm not returning there until we've got a viable resolution to this unnecessary war. I'm staying at your side, Jommy."

Earlier, when she had helped him escape from Cimmerium and grudgingly admitted the possibilities of his idealism, he hadn't been sure how to read her. Like many of her race, Joanna had developed tight mental blocks that kept him from sensing her innermost thoughts. But he suspected that she was more than intrigued by him, more than perplexed by his strange optimism. Even though she was aware of his bond with Kathleen, Joanna actually seemed to be in love with him. . . .

"Jommy, what were you doing at the palace? What were you searching for when that gang found you, when they cut—?" She stopped herself.

"I came to the city to find something—something vital." He reminded her of his father's disintegrator weapon, which she had previously seen him use to great effect. "I know exactly where it is. I found it. I had my hands on it—then those scavengers came." He lowered his head, then drew strength from his resolve. "Come on. We've got to retrieve it. I'm not going back to the ranch empty-handed—especially if Jem Lorry's going to pull one of his tricks."

Before abandoning the wrecked scout ship, he and Joanna stuffed supplies into a pack, though they found it difficult to see and breathe in the thickening smoke. Since he had already activated the locking mechanism on the door to the vault that held his disintegrator, he knew exactly what sort of equipment he would need. Joanna also packed two small hand weapons. Though they had once been on different sides of this conflict, he was glad to have the tendrilless woman at his side.

"Joanna, if we don't get out of this, if we can't end the tendrilless war, then I am at your mercy. You can claim me as your prize and take whatever reward or promotion that's your due. At that point, it won't matter anymore."

"It'll always matter, Jommy. You said it yourself." He answered with a faint smile. Perhaps he truly had gotten through to her after all.

They exited the smoldering wreck and trudged away, never looking back. The scavengers could have the broken hulk with its poisonous smoke and radiation that leaked from the destroyed engines.

As sunset threw long shadows across the streets, bonfires began to blaze in cul-de-sacs and alleys. A few candles and kerosene lanterns shone behind broken windows, where people huddled around the light and warmth. It would be another dangerous and harrowing night for the survivors in Centropolis.

He and Joanna stalked toward the site of the palace, both of them sensing that unseen eyes were watching them. They clambered over stones, dodged girders and broken glass.

In twilight, they finally reached the battered vault that lay like an egg in a nest of shattered debris. When he saw dark bloodstains spattering the stones, Jommy wondered how much of it was his own.

Joanna found the discarded bottom half of the man Thompkins, who had been severed in two by the slamming vault door. Untroubled, she kicked the loose legs, knocking them aside with a wet ripping sound so she could reach the vault door controls. "I wish people would pick up after themselves," she muttered.

Jommy was pleased to see that his dismantled tracking device still dangled to the controls by a few loose wires. "We better open the vault door, retrieve the disintegrator, and get out of here as fast as we can. It'll be dangerous negotiating our way out of this crater in the dark."

"Especially if we have company again." She peered warily into the shadows.

Struggling to function without his tendrils, realizing now how much he had relied on them, Jommy removed the necessary equipment from his pack and installed a new power source to run the vault's pistons. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, but he managed to rig the mechanism and charge up the weary motors of the security door. Once again, the pistons hummed, and the tilted door groaned partway open until the hinges jammed.

From inside, they heard a sliding, wet thump, and Jommy realized it was the top half of Thompkins dropping the rest of the way into the vault.

Suddenly, all around them in the dimness, hundreds of bright torches appeared, surrounding the crater. In the thrown firelight, the people looked like scarecrowish trolls, a wild tribe closing in on two victims. Without saying a word, Joanna dug in her pack and withdrew her hand weapons. Gunshots rang out from the scavengers, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks next to Jommy and Joanna. One pinged off the partly opened vault door.

"This isn't going to be as easy as I thought," she said.

Painfully aware of his lost tendrils, Jommy said, "Those are either Deacon's men, or a new gang's already moved into town."

"It seems I created a job opportunity for a potential new leader." Joanna slowly turned around, took aim at one of the capering figures, and shot him dead. Her moment of triumph was short-lived as a volley of responding shots peppered the rubble around them. She ducked behind a large chunk of concrete. "Maybe we should come back at a better time."

"Never. Not while we're this close."

A rocket-launched explosive detonated nearby, sending a spray of rock splinters and clattering pipes and broken glass. Jommy hunched behind the tilted wall of the displaced vault chamber.

Joanna looked for another target and coolly took a second shot, which sent one of the torch bearers scrambling away, his bobbing light like a drunken firefly in the darkness. She snapped at Jommy, "Get inside the vault, find what you need to find, and then climb back out. I'll hold them off as long as I can."

"Not good enough. There's no time." With his shoulder, he knocked Joanna backward through the partly opened door. She fell into the vault, and he heard her clatter among the broken shelves and scattered debris.

"What are you doing? It's dark in here!" He heard her trip and let out a gasp. "Hey, how many bodies did you leave lying around?"

Another grenade hit, exploding against the back of the vault. He heard shouting and screaming, more gunfire. A swarm of angry scavengers boiled over the rubble, coming closer. He could see their snarling faces in the torchlight.

Jommy scrambled in through the gap, hoping the door's pistons would hold just a few more seconds. Before he dropped inside, he seized the blinking device attached to the locking mechanism, then yanked it free. As he dropped down, the immensely heavy door slammed shut with a hissing groan, sealing them inside the impregnable vault in total blackness.

Next to him, he heard Joanna breathing hard. >From outside, the scavengers' banging and pummeling sounded oddly distant through the thick walls.

"Well, we're safe now. We can spend the night here." His voice seemed disembodied in the rich darkness. "There's just one problem. We can't open the door from the inside."

[CHAPTER 34]

As commander of the victorious tendrilless forces, Jem Lorry had no need to disguise who he truly was. Not anymore. Now that his meddling father was out of the way, now that Jem had command of all the invading armies, he returned among the lowly humans like a conquering hero.

He came alone to the summit meeting; it was his way of showing that he did not consider President Gray or his pathetic resistance cell to be a threat. And he did not intend any "peaceful negotiations," as Altus Lorry and the Tendrilless Authority had suggested.

While his swift expedition was on its way, John Petty had transmitted a subsidiary message. "I'll guarantee your safety, Lorry. You and I both want this meeting to go the same way. Once Gray and the slans are out of the way, we can divide up the spoils."

The secret police chief was a fool to believe that, but Jem allowed him to be a fool. Petty was so good at it.

He landed his solo ship in front of Granny's ranch house, ruining part of her vegetable garden. Jem wore a full formal uniform of the tendrilless army, a dark blue shirt fastened with crystalline buttons, trousers with gold piping and crisp creases. Raising his chin, he stepped away from his ship and looked coolly at those who came to meet him. He did not bother to offer a gesture of respect to the deposed President. He had spent too many years serving Kier Gray, offering his counsel and biting back anger when his own plans were ignored. "So, Gray? I've come representing the slans."

"The tendrilless slans," Gray said.

Jem looked down his pointed nose. "It seems we are the only slans left."

Petty came out on the porch to stand beside the President. He looked meaningfully at Jem, who gave a slight nod, as the slan hunter seemed to expect.

When Jem spotted Kathleen Layton, he assessed her with his hungry eyes. At one time he had desired her greatly, but the shine was gone. The slan girl looked much less attractive than he remembered—her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, her eyes red from crying. He wondered how he could ever have found her to be beautiful. Perhaps he had wanted her primarily because she was forbidden. It must have been just a passing and meaningless physical attraction.

When Granny ushered them inside her home, Jem looked around for the others he expected to be there. He could easily handle John Petty, as well as President Gray himself. But even his foolish father had recognized that Jommy Cross was one of the greatest threats. "Where's Cross?" It was a pity; he had wanted to catch all the rats in one trap.

"Jommy's dead." Kathleen used her bitter tone to slash at him, as if she blamed Jem for whatever trouble the young slan had gotten into. He wouldn't believe the death of Jommy Cross, however, until he saw the troublemaker's body with his own eyes.

Granny had set up her formal dining table, complete with a checked cloth and a vase of fresh flowers. With a clatter of dishes, she brought out small dessert plates. "My best china, for the special occasion." Granny frowned at Lorry as she served apple pie, scooping out flaky slices onto the dessert plates. "This was Jommy's favorite." She hesitated a moment, then busied herself. "I've got a pot of fresh coffee percolating. It'll be ready in a few minutes." Before she left the room, she added in a stern voice, "Mr. Lorry, I don't care how powerful you think you are, but you are a guest in Granny's house, and you will behave with respect. I don't trust anyone who invades my planet."

Lorry could barely hide his amusement. "A conqueror of a world can do whatever he likes, ma'am."

"Granny's got a shotgun in the closet if you get out of hand. Don't you forget that." She walked off into the kitchen.

Petty quickly sat down, as eager for the pie as he was for the anticipated double-cross. President Gray took a formal chair at the head of the table and gestured for Jem to sit on the opposite end.

The President still wore the same rumpled suit he'd been wearing during his imprisonment and escape. For this important conference, his protocol attendees consisted of an old woman and his daughter. Kathleen picked up a pen and pad of paper to document any treaty or agreement they negotiated. Jem found it very amusing.

Before Gray could say anything, Jem abruptly began. "We tendrilless have already conquered Earth. I agreed to come here, Mister Gray—" he intentionally refused to used the title of President "—in order to accept your surrender. There's little I can do to save your life now, but perhaps if you cooperate, I can take Kathleen Layton under my special protection." He smiled at her; she glared back.

"The tendrilless have demonstrated superior military strength," Gray admitted. "You worked secretly for years, made your plans, and then launched a surprise attack. No doubt if tendrilless write the history books, you'll portray it as a heroic effort. But there is no need for the violence and bloodshed to continue."

Jem let out a bitter laugh. "Maybe you should review the history books, Gray—the unwritten history. Refresh your memory about what true slans did to humans during the wars, and then what they did to the tendrilless."

"I already explained it to the Tendrilless Authority," Gray said in a brittle voice. "Even the tendrilless will soon begin to give birth to true slan babies again. Must you eradicate us all just for your petty vengeance?"

Thinking he had heard his name, Petty looked up and wiped pie crust crumbs from his mouth.

Jem steepled his fingers. "My father repeated some of your silly fairy tales, but I don't believe any of it. I'm sorry he couldn't be with us." He hadn't touched his pie, thinking it might be poisoned, but then he realized these people would never try such devious means. This pathetic attempt at diplomacy was their only chance. He took a bite and had to admit it was delicious.

"It sounds like you came here to argue rather than negotiate," Gray said sadly.

"I never came here to negotiate. I just wanted to look you in the face one last time before I destroyed you and took over the Earth."

Granny walked in, holding a silver pot. "Coffee, anyone?"

Jem stood, checking the time on his wrist chronometer. "Come with me outside. There's something I want you to see."

Petty jumped to his feet. He thought this was all part of the plan, but the slan hunter would soon learn differently. They would all learn.

Jem had agreed to come in a solo craft, but he had gathered a full squadron of attack ships that would even now be streaking in over this valley. He had no interest in compromises. He didn't need to make any.

As they all stepped out onto the porch, looking up in the open air, Jem could already hear the drone of approaching engines and the arrival of heavy military craft.

[CHAPTER 35]

Trapped inside the sealed vault in the palace ruins, Jommy leaned back in darkness so thick that he seemed to breathe pitch black each time he inhaled. He could still hear the muffled noises from outside along with Joanna's increasingly urgent questions. "What were you thinking? How are we going to get out of here?"

"Would you rather have let them tear us to pieces?" he asked.

"We had a few weapons, not to mention superior physical strength. We could have made it quite a battle. Those scavengers are cowards at heart."

"We could have killed dozens of them. This way is better. Less bloodshed."

Their voices bounced back and forth in the blackness. "Do you know how many stone-cold corpses I bumped into after you knocked me in here?"

"Two."

"Two and a half. I found the top portion of Mr. Legs out there. I felt his shoulders, ran my hand down his back, and then he just . . . stopped. Like one of those matinee adventure movie serials—to be continued."

"At least you're finding humor in the situation."

"I'd find more humor if I could have a little light and some clean rags to wipe off my hands."

Jommy worked his fingers blindly, fiddling with the small tracker device he still held in his hands. The indicator lights were like the tiny bright eyes of a green lizard. "Considering how dark it is, this is as good as a flashlight."

The first thing he could make out in the faint glow were the pale forms of the dead bodies. Joanna saw them too. "Oh, yes—much better." Her voice was sarcastic.

They sat together listening as the noises outside gradually faded, the scavengers giving up. Jommy had known the gang members would not stay long, realizing they had no way to break into the shielded laboratory vault. Once he was sure they had gone on to search for other prey, he used the minimal light of his device and his sharp eyesight to rummage around on the floor. He pushed one of the metal shelves aside, moved scattered papers, and rolled an empty chemical bottle away.

"Looking for a deck of playing cards?" Joanna asked. "I'm pretty good at gin rummy."

As he continued to crawl on his hands and knees, he cut his palm on a shard of glass. He had to delay his search while he picked the sharp pieces from his bleeding hand and dabbed it with a rag he found. The bleeding stopped quickly. "Remind me to use your medical pack when we get out of here. No telling what toxic chemicals the secret police might have stored in this laboratory."

Joanna just groaned. "Right. When we get out of here."

Jommy finally found what he was looking for in the corner where the steel wall met the steel floor. His hands wrapped around a smooth cylinder that fit so familiarly within his palm. "Ah, here it is." He felt a rush of pleasure because he had succeeded without relying on his slan powers.

"Did you find a deck of cards?"

"Better. It's what we came here for in the first place. Move our packs out of the way and get behind me. I don't want you in the line of fire."

She moved up behind him, leaning close, perhaps too close. Her voice was right in his ear. "Now I see what you were thinking of all along. Does the weapon ricochet?"

"No." At least he didn't think so. He depressed the firing stud.

A misty white light lunged out like a shout of destruction. A wide chunk of the thick vault simply vanished into vapor, leaving a gaping hole. "There, I made us another door."

He gathered his pack and walked through the gap into the night, barely needing to duck his head. Outside, even the stars seemed to be hiding behind a veil of clouds, but after the utter blackness of the vault, the two of them could see perfectly well. Far off in the wreckage, he could make out a few fires. The largest bonfire looked to be where Joanna's ship had crashed. No doubt the scavengers had stripped it down to a bare hulk and now used it as their camp, oblivious to the toxic fumes.

"Shall we take my car?" Jommy asked, hefting the disintegrator tube.

He unerringly led her back to the obscure alley and the half-collapsed shed under which he had camouflaged his vehicle. He and Joanna cleared the debris from the car, and she looked at its battered appearance. "Looks like you've been through some rough driving."

"I didn't have time to get a wash." Using the special thumb lock he had installed, he opened the access door.

"I'll be happy enough to get out of Centropolis," Joanna said. "I had quite a head start on Jem Lorry. We should be able to get to the ranch before he tries anything."

"I wouldn't count on it. And we're going to have to do some quick explaining about you—as a tendrilless spy, you won't exactly be welcome at Granny's ranch with President Gray and John Petty."

When he sat in the driver's seat to check out the systems, a persistent droning blip caught his attention. It was part of the instrument panel he rarely used, and now he saw that the car had picked up an unexpected signal. An emergency signal.

As Joanna loaded their packs into the back, he focused the scanners, scrolling across his screen and trying to pinpoint the source. Long ago when searching for slan hideouts, he had installed specially designed systems to detect important slan broadcasts, coded Porgrave messages beyond the range of any human or tendrilless technology.

Joanna leaned in, curious about what he was doing.

Now his systems had locked onto a loud beacon. He had not heard the signal when he first drove into the city two days earlier, but now the pulsing was strong and undeniable. Some hidden slans were sending out a distress call or an announcement.

"It's the location of a slan enclave. An active one!" Tracking it, he compared the pinpoint with the car's stored guidance maps as well as the details in his own memories. Jommy grinned when he realized that the signal originated from the same place his father had marked on the secret-ink maps.

Then the astonishing signal came through the car's analytical systems, broadcasting to both Joanna and himself, a voice that Jommy vaguely recognized from his distant past. "My name is Peter Cross, a slan scientist. If you are receiving this signal, you have been identified as bearing slan characteristics in your genetic profile. We need you. Your race needs you. Please follow this signal. I hope you will find us."

Jommy swallowed hard. He knew his father had been killed when he was only six years old, but the clear voice, the encouraging words . . . "We have to go there first."

"What about the summit meeting? Jem Lorry is bound to lay a trap."

He felt an ache in his heart, thinking of Kathleen . . . and then imagining the large slan enclave, perhaps people who had known his father. "I don't think President Gray or John Petty will let their guard down for an instant." And, even with the disintegrator, he felt weak and ineffective without his tendrils.

But if he could bring back a full army of hidden slans, other weapons or technologies—then they would have a fighting chance. And the slan hideout was right here, while Granny's ranch was almost a day's dangerous journey away.

He turned to Joanna. "Help me mount the disintegrator in the