Zach Hughes: The Stork Factor

with the strong voice. «It's all right, Luke. You are not in hell. It's all right. Stop now. Stop it. Don't think. Do this.» And through his fear and shock came a realization. He could see himself. Inside him he could see the working of him, the flow of blood

through veins and the seeping of blood into tiny capillaries, the beating of his heart and the functioning of glands and the pull of muscles as he rocked back and forth, back and forth, his head down, his heels dug into the bed, his knees clasped. And—do this. And a small thing happening inside his head and closing off and still there was the awareness and fear fought, failed, retreated before the wonder of knowing the very makeup of his brain, the flow of impulses, the sending and receiving of messages from parts of his body, the glow of sight and the sense of touch and—WONDER! And the strong voice—Good, good… «Where am I?» Luke asked aloud. «What is this place?» It is not hell. Not aloud. In his mind. A strange feeling of competence. A knowledge. A total awareness. Like the two brief times when God opened up the heavens and he could heal. «Oh, God—» I am not God. «Who are you?» A picture. Complex things mixed and totaled into a vast, strange machine. «How?» He didn't voice the question. And then the answer directed him to the part of his brain which seemed to pulse with power and he knew that something strange had happened and he had to understand. The machine was trying to tell him, but it was too fast, boiling fonts of information which he was unable to absorb. His head ached. But there were all mixed up, things—an opening of a potential which should not have been there, an assessment of himself which gave him the impression of—more than stupidity and then a childish thought that he could read so he was not stupid and it was more than retardation He was not a moron but more and then he wasn't and there was astonishment from the communications in his mind and mixed-up pictures of people who were eternal and eternally happy and vast, empty, luxurious worlds of parks and silent wilderness and it was too much for him. «Stop!» And then, silence, a wailing, weak cry for help. And blame. «How could I hurt her?» Raw power of never-before-used cells. An alien strangeness hitting at a mind grown defenseless during eons of peace and—love—sickness in Luke at the picture—SHE WAS HURT. «How can I help?» His mind. Pushed open. And the feeling of healing and so he went to her and found her huddled on her bed. She was breathing weakly. «I don't know how,» he said. And a picture of his mind entering hers. «But she's evil! She wanted me to—» She is a fellow being. It is her way. To her it is not evil. «But she is evil.» She is dying. The power of your mind— «Am I, then, more powerful than she, who has had this power forever?» A reluctance. But a member of the race was dying. The newness. The rawness. The unused potential building— «But if she tried to—» The vile pictures unwordable. No. Because he was more powerful. And suddenly they were afraid of him. The machines and all the people with eternal life were afraid of him and he looked into her mind and saw the ripping, the burning, the damage and he, knowing how it went, healed; and she looked up at him eyes wide, frightened. He closed. For a moment he felt the fright and he said aloud, «It's all right.» And then, looking into her and seeing her as she was and catching in that unguarded moment, the past, the love, the vileness and anger, shame, shock causing her to reel back in pain. Don't. Don't please. He closed. You must not! It hurts so. «We will talk,» Luke said. A view of her mind. Perversions. Slime. Filth. Anger, shock and pain to her and a further plea. «Don't spread your filth on me,» Luke said. Filth? You hopeless—images of worse than stupid, more than moronic, beyond retarded. You call me filth— And a sudden assault on his mind which was repelled with amazing ease and then she was cringing as he called down the fear of God onto her, preached to her of her shame her degradation, her evilness and she begging, begging, begging, her mind reeling under the assault. When his anger was gone, she was weak. He thought in silence. «If we are to communicate, we will have to keep partially—-closed—» «Yes.» «I know a little from your machines I want to know more.» Fear. A barbarian loose among the civilized worlds, a monster with hurtful power and a sick mind loose amid the beautiful, Trangized people. «I don't want to hurt you. I cannot approve of you, but you are not like us. You are alien. I want only—» He paused. What did he want? There was Caster, in the hands of the Brotherfuzz. He wanted her out. He wanted her safe. There were Wundt and the others who were trying to do something for the unfortunates of the world. He wanted them to be able to do it. He wanted to go back. He wanted to see Caster. He wanted— A sharp, huge pain crossed his chest. He gasped. His hands flew to his chest, clawed there. Agony doubled him. He fell. His heart speeded, stopped, leaped, tore at his chest as a portion of it died, ruptured. His mind was paralyzed by the enormity of the pain and panic joined terminal pain as he looked death over from up close and, above him, having leaped from her bed, the woman looked down. Hope. In the midst of fatal pain, hope. She could help him. She could heal. She watched him spasm in agony. She waited for him to look into himself, heal himself. He was open. He had a vast power, so vast that it threatened her, threatened her world. So with that power he could stop the pain, heal the ruptured heart. But he did not. He writhed and made sounds with his mouth and it was then that she realized that he would die if she didn't help. If she didn't heal, since he apparently was too stupid to know his own powers over himself, he would die and then the threat would be ended. He was gasping, his lungs spasming, his diaphragm pumping in a strange non-rhythm. She smiled. Now it would be over. Now, with the danger clearly demonstrated, they would send ships to the fringes of the galaxy, to the hundred exile worlds, and burn them from the skies. Then it would be over. Then she could go home. Home to eternal euphoria, to eternal love. She watched, eyes wide. She'd never seen a being die before. CHAPTER FOURTEEN On a wasted, sick planet the latest chapter in a long history of cruelty had begun. Where once there had been a sincere attempt to bring true equality to man, there was now an equality of persecution administered by

an elite corps who had control. Fare, Tech, Tired, and Lay suffered alike as vast armies of police, reinforced by the Army of the Second Republic, searched and ripped a world apart. The racks hummed with power as all suspects were questioned with degrees of severity determined only by the sadism of the Brothers in charge of the individual interrogation centers. A section of Old Town, in East City, burned, ignited by a careless search team who poured explosive Soul Lifter into a storm sewer. Fire protection was obsolete, unable to cope with the conflagration which spread to cover an area of several crowded blocks, burning the ancient buildings and their inhabitants in a great roar which produced odd and erratic wind currents throughout the remainder of the old section and threatened to take the entire section in one vast firestorm. The glow from East City was visible when Colonel Ed Baxley lifted his personal atmoflyer from the Washington port and headed west. He asked for reports and was given skimpy information. His attention was on his mission and he didn't push the matter. Below, as he crossed the big river in mid-continent, Middle City seethed with activity. Martial vehicles blocked the streets as soldiers searched ground cars. Then he was past and checking with West City control for landing instructions. He was stopped leaving the port. He showed his identification and was treated with awed respect. One of the junior officers in charge of the roadblock was a former cadet and greeted the colonel with a snappy salute and a smile. It was impossible to remember all the cadets from years past, but the colonel smiled and said, «Good show.» «We'll get the bastards,» the cadet said. «Sir.» He flushed with confusion, having let slip the profanity without conscious thought. «I'm sure you will,» Baxley said. «The search is being conducted in a closing circle,» the former cadet said, eager to make a good impression. «There are five hundred thousand troops plus the city police. We're covering the city building by building.» Baxley frowned. He had given no orders for the search to begin. As he was driven past the block, he contacted Washington. Brother President Murrel was unavailable. He spoke with an aide. «Who ordered the operation to begin?» he asked. «The President himself,» he was told. Baxley closed contact without comment. He leaned back, frowning. Around him there was chaos. A group of sorry looking Tireds was being forced at gunpoint from a dilapidated building. As he passed, he saw a policeman strike a Tired female. She went down to her hands and knees. Blood sprang from her nose. The ground car eased through a mass of military vehicles. People were being loaded aboard vans, their faces contorted in panic. Baxley resisted an impulse to stop and order the troops to cease the senseless brutality. He realized, however, that such a move would be a relatively empty gesture. When he left, the troops would fall back on the only method they knew, the art of violent repression. Where had it all gone wrong?» The suspect was in central police headquarters. He showed his papers and the vehicle was admitted to the parking area An elevator took him to a top floor. The woman was in a small room, surrounded by Brothers and police officials. A doctor was present. The Brother Mayor of West City was a corpulent man with a sweating, bald head. He greeted Baxley with respect and, formalities over, pointed toward the seated woman. «She hasn't talked, but she will.» The woman's face was contorted into a mask of fear and pain. Her hands were tied behind her. The chief of West City police was questioning