Chapter 28
The first thing Tom was aware of was a dull buzz boring through his head; it was confusing, as he had no idea of its origins or meaning, but it was comforting too. He was floating in a void as deep and dark as space, borne on a droning current. A great deal of pain, dizziness and nausea swirled around him. The buzzing sound seemed to be keeping it at bay. For a long while, he let it; until it began to occur to him that he was a lot more alive than he’d expected to be.
When that thought coalesced in his mind, he began marshaling his forces, gathering his strength, and tried to rouse himself out of his stupor. Something in the buzz seemed to tell him to relax, to rest, to sleep. It was compelling, and for a time he submitted, letting his thoughts eddy on the fringes of his consciousness. But soon enough—too soon—his curiosity got the better of him and he ignored the soft, soothing buzz. It was a bad idea.
He dragged himself awake into the most horrific headache he’d ever experienced. More than a headache! It was the grand daddy of all migraines, pumped up to the nines on steroids. Pain lanced through his skull and pulsed down his spine, spreading out into his chest and arms and legs, so he could feel it throbbing in his fingers and toes. It was several minutes before he could think of anything else, and it was only then that he realized, again, he wasn’t dead. The bomb had not gone off. Something had, but not the bomb.
Return to sleep. Tom’s eyes flew open. He was staring at a Drod, its face very close to his own. He became aware of its touch, all over and around him. He rolled his eyes down toward his body and understood why he felt as if he was floating. The giant Creeg was holding him, cradling him in its tentacles as if he was a baby; one of them snaked down through his shirt and pants, making contact along the full length of his body. He wanted to ask what had happened, but his tongue refused to cooperate. The patient voice answered him through the buzz, which was fainter now.
It was necessary to disarm the device by passing a cyno-neuron magnetic field through the chamber. Detonation was immanent. But the specific properties of the field make it physically harmful to living things. It nearly was fatal for the general. You will recover presently. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see two more Drods cradling the lieutenant and the general. A pair of Albins were placing the bomb—or what used to be the bomb—in a large cubicle container. Whatever had happened, it had happened quickly; only minutes before.
Seeing the Albins at work made him think of the Albin under the packing crates, and he began squirming with worry for it.
Albin will recover soon, came the non-voice in his brain. It was damaged, though not as badly as you. You should sleep again; it will accelerate your recovery. Tom found himself crying; from pain or relief, he didn’t know and didn’t care. The buzzing sound grew louder and a voice that sounded like his mother’s crooned to him to go to sleep, promised him that he’d feel better when he woke up. He didn’t resist anymore, letting the voice lure him back into the quiet and painless peace of oblivion.
The next time he woke he was still cradled in the arms of the Drod. His head was throbbing, but the rest of his body felt better. Almost normal, he would have thought, but he didn’t have a reference point on normalcy anymore. The buzz still droned through his head, helping him to draw his thoughts together. The dispassionate eyes watched him with seeming indifference, but the mind behind them caressed him in places no hand could touch.
“What happened?” The Drod didn’t answer; instead, it stirred his memories until their last conversation floated up. The Creeg had blasted the room with a cyno-neuron magnetic field—whatever that was—just as the bomb was going off. They had a field that could turn off a nuclear reaction. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. “You cut it pretty close, didn’t you?”
The device was difficult to scan inside the vessel; our equipment is designed to scan objects that are in the void. It was your forethought that told us what we had to deal with.
“My forethought?”
You insisted we listen to your conversation. Listening told us what scanning could not. If it hadn’t been too painful, Tom would have smiled. He thought instead.
“Why are you holding me?”
Treatment of the physical effects of the cyno-neuron magnetic field by medication would take too long. In the time it would take to apply it, you might die. The general would certainly have died. Instead, you are being treated by direct neurologic therapy. Nearly half of the collective is combining its efforts to enhance and accelerate your body’s ability to repair itself. Tom almost nodded.
“That explains it.” The buzz he’d been hearing became more clear. It was not an electronic noise in his ears, but the Creeg collective, tapping him into their telepathic network through the Drod that held him and doing things with his body and brain he couldn’t begin to imagine. “Does it always sound like this? Being in the collective?”
Only when the collective intelligence is set on a particular task of intense concentration. Neurologic treatment by telepathic means calls for especial intensity.
“Medical technology becomes obsolete.”
Not precisely; it is more accurate to say that—in this instance—the need for technology is reduced, but we do not believe it will ever be truly eliminated. You should be ready to stand now. But the Creeg made no move to put him down; it recognized that his emotional need was still strong.
“Are you reading the general’s mind, too?”
Not deliberately, but yes; this type of treatment is necessarily invasive in a psychic sense. We know his entire mind.
“Is it really bad?”
Yes. He told you only a tithe of the story, but what he told you was the truth. Do not pursue this subject any further. This line of thought is counterproductive to your recovery. You need to think of other things until you are stronger.
“Like what?”
You have many happy memories of your family, and of your friend Irene. Concentrate on them, if you can. Tom nodded.
“I’ll do my damnedest.”
The Drod began lowering him at once, bending at the middle, what would be the waist on a human, then tilted its arms until Tom’s feet were touching the floor. Standing took no effort on Tom’s part at all; the Creeg simply rotated him into position, then withdrew its tentacles, leaving one looped under his arms, just in case. Tom stood swaying a moment, savoring the touch of the long tentacle on his skin. It was so comforting, very much like his mother’s touch. Or Beth’s. When he was sure he wasn’t going to fall over, he looked across the room. The lieutenant was already on his feet and a Wem was leading him out, but the general still sagged in the arms of the third Drod.
“What’s going to happen to them?”
That is a question of human justice. As soon as the general is stable enough to travel, they will be released. What happens to them after is not our concern. A Wem walked into the room and headed straight for Tom. Go with Wem. You need nourishment and will benefit from medication now. If you are still determined to make the announcement, you will be summoned when we are ready to begin transmission.
The Wem led him to another room nearby, going at Tom’s pace, which was slow. When they reached their destination, the lieutenant was already seated at a makeshift table, eating a bowl of synthetic food. He looked as though he was a lost three year old and wanted his Mommy. Led to the same table, Tom sat opposite him, but ignored him. Quite apart from not being up to conversation, he didn’t want anything to do with any military type just then.
But the lieutenant didn’t speak either, concentrating instead on getting his unpalatable meal down his throat. He appeared to have never tasted synthetic food before. The Wem placed a small cup in front of Tom. It held a blue liquid that shimmered vaguely and tasted like mold. Tom drank it without comment, but felt a surge of understanding for the look on the young officer’s face. A drink of that medication, followed by a meal of synthetic food would make anyone want his Mommy. He stared hopelessly at the bowl of brown goo that was set in front of him. He wasn’t hungry, and the aftertaste of the medication was making him consider giving up eating altogether; synthetics, especially. He ate it after a few moments of hesitation, keeping his face as blank as he could. Let the damn lieutenant see how tough donors could be. He was halfway through when the flat voice of a translator broke the silence.
“Is time to it return vessel your to you.” The lieutenant looked up sharply at the Wem that stood over him.
“What about the General?” The Wem sighed in reply.
“Is travel ready yet not to he. Come please with us.” The lieutenant rose unsteadily to his feet and shot a look at Tom. There was an expression on his face, a mixture of shock, of confusion, and perhaps of apology; then he turned away and walked after the Wem. Tom finished his food. It wasn’t good enough to rate it, but he scraped the bowl clean. When the Wem who was tending him reached for the empty bowl, he stopped it with a hand on its arm.
“Is there someplace I can be alone to think for a while? Someplace where there’s something to look at?” The Wem lifted the bowl with apparent indifference, but Tom knew better.
“Affirmative,” it replied.
Tom stood at the viewport, staring at the earth. It was a disconcerting view; the planet seemed to be moving in a tight orbit, around nothing in particular. It swept away to his left and down, circled up and drew closer, then moved away again. Of course, it was not the earth that was moving. It was Tom.
The viewport was in the forward bulkhead of an observation deck, on the outward edge of the Creeg ship’s bow, where its artificial gravity was the strongest. Standing a half a kilo away from the ship’s axis, his own orbit around that axis created the optical illusion that the earth was in motion. At the back of his mind, he felt an understanding for the ancients and their belief that the earth was the center of the universe and that everything else moved around it. They had been deceived only by the evidence of their eyes.
His head still ached abominably, there was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, and depression and bitterness washed over him. It had been a long, wild ride, and now it was over, in a lot of ways. Because of him, his parents were going to lose their house. In the final analysis, they might approve his ends, but his means were a betrayal. They were losing their home, their retirement, their security. His sisters were going to have to learn a whole new way of life.
A lot of people were going to be out of work, most of whom didn’t deserve it, though some sure as hell did. Millions were going to be free now, but what kind of freedom would it be? The biggest war in the history of humanity was not coming to an end; it was just beginning. Only the enemy had changed. As for himself, he’d probably die in prison. If he lived long enough to get there. But then again, who cared?
In less than half an hour, the truth would be out, and that would pay for whatever came after. It wouldn’t pay for Spider, Theo Birch, or any like them, but it would be a start. The lies were all about to unravel. The lies were what it all came down to. The lies, and the love affair that human beings had with them. Not just their ability to lie, but their willingness to both lie and be lied to. Lying was such a vital part of human life, Tom wondered if the human race would even believe the truth when they heard it.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the door open behind him, nor feel the touch of the Creeg’s tentacle on his wrist, but he felt the presence enter his mind.
It is nearly time. Are you ready?
“As I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
You are not required to do this. It is not your obligation. Tom turned away from the window and faced the Drod; he had to tilt his head back to look it in the eye.
“You’re wrong. It is my obligation. I owe this to a lot of people.”
That is a nontruth, it corrected gently. Your feelings of debt and your actual debt are two different things. It is arguable that you have paid your debt in bringing the truth to us. In spite of his pain, Tom nodded.
“That may be true. But I want to do it.” The Creeg’s face remained as immobile and dispassionate as ever, but he felt a warmth flooding through his mind; something like affection. Was it real affection? Or something else, generated in the semblance of it for his benefit? The Creeg were not, after all, creatures of emotion; compassion, yes, but not emotion. Except, perhaps, the Albins. Just as quickly, and as subtly, the warmth subsided. The thought that crept in to take its place was detached and sober.
Only one issue remains to be settled, Tom. When this task is accomplished, what is to be done with you? It was our intention, once this mission was completed, to return you to your own kind. But based on what we have learned from you and General Horne, we now believe that this would be unwise. When the people of your world learn the truth, there will be violence; in addition, we believe—as do you—that some of it may well be directed against you, since you are the instrument of this unwelcome news. Tom nodded again, just once. It sent waves of pain washing through his skull.
“That’s a good point. But what’s the alternative?”
You could remain here with us. Tom’s stomach flipped. The decision is, of course, entirely your own, but it must be made soon.
“What—what would I do here? I don’t have any skills or education, I’m from a backward culture...”
You underestimate yourself. You have curiosity, which is the foundation of all science. You have an open mind and a willingness to learn, which are the basis of intellect. And you have courage, an essential element in any search for knowledge. Your culture, and your capacity for growth, are irrelevant. The Albin were once considered more backward than you, yet the work we do today would be impossible without their participation. Tom didn’t answer. Apart from everything else he was feeling—longing for his family, his friends, and Irene, who was more than both of those—the sight and sound and smell and taste of woods around him—he felt something else as well: Guilt.
He had added the word lie to the Creeg vocabulary; a simple word, in both form and use, but one with vaster repercussions than most of his species were aware of. The Creeg’s thought came very gently.
Your self and your culture are two different things. Some of your people have lied to us, but you have not. You have not even tried. That tells us more about you and your potential than perhaps you can conceive. If you desire to return home, we will transport you there. If you prefer to remain with us, you will be welcome.
The Drod raised a tentacle and brushed it lightly across Tom’s shoulder, as if with affection. Tom stared at it with stunned surprise; the bulbous eyes watched him with quiet dispassion. Or did they? He thought he perceived a flicker of something else. Then the creature turned away. The door slid open in near silence and closed behind it.
Alone in the observation platform, Tom turned to the port and stared out at the earth, thinking. This was something he’d put off thinking about, and why shouldn’t he? Mere survival had been his major thought for several days, and since then......since then, he’d been on an increasingly complex learning curve. Who knew just how soon he’d have to decide what he’d do with the rest of his life?
And did the Creeg understand just how cruel a choice he was facing? Go back to Earth and his own kind and watch the collapse of a civilization, or stay with the Creeg and meld himself into a completely different one. It might not even be such a cruel choice, except that he had almost no time to come to a decision. They were waiting for him to come and make his speech, and he wasn’t even sure how he’d do that! Forced to make a decision, he had to as pragmatic as the Creeg themselves.
He couldn’t stay with the Creeg. They would be pleased to have him and they were pleasant company, but in a very real sense, they made him feel like a child. And he would always be a child to them. He was no engineer, nor a physicist. What work could they possibly give him that would make him feel equal to them? The highest point in their favor was that he would be safe among them, but there were plenty of other people who wouldn’t be safe. His parents, his sisters, Irene, Beth, Mae...... the list was endless.
His escape had put all of them in peril, and it didn’t strike him as fair to be safe among the Creeg while the axe fell on them. No, he had to go back to Earth and share in the fate he’d brought their way. The only question was, where? Or rather, who? Who would he go to? And again, forced by necessity, the answer was easy. He loved his family and ached for them, but there was nothing he could do to save them. Their home and way of life were lost whether he was with them or not.
There was only one person he could hope to save from the wreckage, and that was Irene. He had to go to Arizona, no matter what waited for him there. Looking out the viewport, he could see Arizona; or thought he could. Through the haze of clouds, he could make out the bulge of the North American continent. It looked peaceful, and was just then. Probably the last time it would be peaceful for quite a while.
When the story broke, it would take a while—days or even weeks, maybe—for the rest of the world to take up arms against the U.S., but on the Collection Bases, the war would start that very day, in that very hour. Donors would be turning on their nurses first. Nurses, trainers, doctors, floor and dorm supervisors, orderlies. Whoever was handy. God! He hoped Beth wasn’t in the dorm! Then again, maybe there wouldn’t be a bloodbath.
The collection base staffers weren’t in on the deception, and were just as likely to demand justice as the donors. There could be open rebellion without violence. And the other nations could just as easily handle their outrage through diplomatic channels and war crimes trials. He didn’t think it would happen that way, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in history, there was going to be an uprising, and one way or another, the people who had made it necessary were going to pay. In a very big way. Nodding his head grimly, Tom turned his back on the viewport and walked out the door.
When that thought coalesced in his mind, he began marshaling his forces, gathering his strength, and tried to rouse himself out of his stupor. Something in the buzz seemed to tell him to relax, to rest, to sleep. It was compelling, and for a time he submitted, letting his thoughts eddy on the fringes of his consciousness. But soon enough—too soon—his curiosity got the better of him and he ignored the soft, soothing buzz. It was a bad idea.
He dragged himself awake into the most horrific headache he’d ever experienced. More than a headache! It was the grand daddy of all migraines, pumped up to the nines on steroids. Pain lanced through his skull and pulsed down his spine, spreading out into his chest and arms and legs, so he could feel it throbbing in his fingers and toes. It was several minutes before he could think of anything else, and it was only then that he realized, again, he wasn’t dead. The bomb had not gone off. Something had, but not the bomb.
Return to sleep. Tom’s eyes flew open. He was staring at a Drod, its face very close to his own. He became aware of its touch, all over and around him. He rolled his eyes down toward his body and understood why he felt as if he was floating. The giant Creeg was holding him, cradling him in its tentacles as if he was a baby; one of them snaked down through his shirt and pants, making contact along the full length of his body. He wanted to ask what had happened, but his tongue refused to cooperate. The patient voice answered him through the buzz, which was fainter now.
It was necessary to disarm the device by passing a cyno-neuron magnetic field through the chamber. Detonation was immanent. But the specific properties of the field make it physically harmful to living things. It nearly was fatal for the general. You will recover presently. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see two more Drods cradling the lieutenant and the general. A pair of Albins were placing the bomb—or what used to be the bomb—in a large cubicle container. Whatever had happened, it had happened quickly; only minutes before.
Seeing the Albins at work made him think of the Albin under the packing crates, and he began squirming with worry for it.
Albin will recover soon, came the non-voice in his brain. It was damaged, though not as badly as you. You should sleep again; it will accelerate your recovery. Tom found himself crying; from pain or relief, he didn’t know and didn’t care. The buzzing sound grew louder and a voice that sounded like his mother’s crooned to him to go to sleep, promised him that he’d feel better when he woke up. He didn’t resist anymore, letting the voice lure him back into the quiet and painless peace of oblivion.
The next time he woke he was still cradled in the arms of the Drod. His head was throbbing, but the rest of his body felt better. Almost normal, he would have thought, but he didn’t have a reference point on normalcy anymore. The buzz still droned through his head, helping him to draw his thoughts together. The dispassionate eyes watched him with seeming indifference, but the mind behind them caressed him in places no hand could touch.
“What happened?” The Drod didn’t answer; instead, it stirred his memories until their last conversation floated up. The Creeg had blasted the room with a cyno-neuron magnetic field—whatever that was—just as the bomb was going off. They had a field that could turn off a nuclear reaction. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. “You cut it pretty close, didn’t you?”
The device was difficult to scan inside the vessel; our equipment is designed to scan objects that are in the void. It was your forethought that told us what we had to deal with.
“My forethought?”
You insisted we listen to your conversation. Listening told us what scanning could not. If it hadn’t been too painful, Tom would have smiled. He thought instead.
“Why are you holding me?”
Treatment of the physical effects of the cyno-neuron magnetic field by medication would take too long. In the time it would take to apply it, you might die. The general would certainly have died. Instead, you are being treated by direct neurologic therapy. Nearly half of the collective is combining its efforts to enhance and accelerate your body’s ability to repair itself. Tom almost nodded.
“That explains it.” The buzz he’d been hearing became more clear. It was not an electronic noise in his ears, but the Creeg collective, tapping him into their telepathic network through the Drod that held him and doing things with his body and brain he couldn’t begin to imagine. “Does it always sound like this? Being in the collective?”
Only when the collective intelligence is set on a particular task of intense concentration. Neurologic treatment by telepathic means calls for especial intensity.
“Medical technology becomes obsolete.”
Not precisely; it is more accurate to say that—in this instance—the need for technology is reduced, but we do not believe it will ever be truly eliminated. You should be ready to stand now. But the Creeg made no move to put him down; it recognized that his emotional need was still strong.
“Are you reading the general’s mind, too?”
Not deliberately, but yes; this type of treatment is necessarily invasive in a psychic sense. We know his entire mind.
“Is it really bad?”
Yes. He told you only a tithe of the story, but what he told you was the truth. Do not pursue this subject any further. This line of thought is counterproductive to your recovery. You need to think of other things until you are stronger.
“Like what?”
You have many happy memories of your family, and of your friend Irene. Concentrate on them, if you can. Tom nodded.
“I’ll do my damnedest.”
The Drod began lowering him at once, bending at the middle, what would be the waist on a human, then tilted its arms until Tom’s feet were touching the floor. Standing took no effort on Tom’s part at all; the Creeg simply rotated him into position, then withdrew its tentacles, leaving one looped under his arms, just in case. Tom stood swaying a moment, savoring the touch of the long tentacle on his skin. It was so comforting, very much like his mother’s touch. Or Beth’s. When he was sure he wasn’t going to fall over, he looked across the room. The lieutenant was already on his feet and a Wem was leading him out, but the general still sagged in the arms of the third Drod.
“What’s going to happen to them?”
That is a question of human justice. As soon as the general is stable enough to travel, they will be released. What happens to them after is not our concern. A Wem walked into the room and headed straight for Tom. Go with Wem. You need nourishment and will benefit from medication now. If you are still determined to make the announcement, you will be summoned when we are ready to begin transmission.
The Wem led him to another room nearby, going at Tom’s pace, which was slow. When they reached their destination, the lieutenant was already seated at a makeshift table, eating a bowl of synthetic food. He looked as though he was a lost three year old and wanted his Mommy. Led to the same table, Tom sat opposite him, but ignored him. Quite apart from not being up to conversation, he didn’t want anything to do with any military type just then.
But the lieutenant didn’t speak either, concentrating instead on getting his unpalatable meal down his throat. He appeared to have never tasted synthetic food before. The Wem placed a small cup in front of Tom. It held a blue liquid that shimmered vaguely and tasted like mold. Tom drank it without comment, but felt a surge of understanding for the look on the young officer’s face. A drink of that medication, followed by a meal of synthetic food would make anyone want his Mommy. He stared hopelessly at the bowl of brown goo that was set in front of him. He wasn’t hungry, and the aftertaste of the medication was making him consider giving up eating altogether; synthetics, especially. He ate it after a few moments of hesitation, keeping his face as blank as he could. Let the damn lieutenant see how tough donors could be. He was halfway through when the flat voice of a translator broke the silence.
“Is time to it return vessel your to you.” The lieutenant looked up sharply at the Wem that stood over him.
“What about the General?” The Wem sighed in reply.
“Is travel ready yet not to he. Come please with us.” The lieutenant rose unsteadily to his feet and shot a look at Tom. There was an expression on his face, a mixture of shock, of confusion, and perhaps of apology; then he turned away and walked after the Wem. Tom finished his food. It wasn’t good enough to rate it, but he scraped the bowl clean. When the Wem who was tending him reached for the empty bowl, he stopped it with a hand on its arm.
“Is there someplace I can be alone to think for a while? Someplace where there’s something to look at?” The Wem lifted the bowl with apparent indifference, but Tom knew better.
“Affirmative,” it replied.
Tom stood at the viewport, staring at the earth. It was a disconcerting view; the planet seemed to be moving in a tight orbit, around nothing in particular. It swept away to his left and down, circled up and drew closer, then moved away again. Of course, it was not the earth that was moving. It was Tom.
The viewport was in the forward bulkhead of an observation deck, on the outward edge of the Creeg ship’s bow, where its artificial gravity was the strongest. Standing a half a kilo away from the ship’s axis, his own orbit around that axis created the optical illusion that the earth was in motion. At the back of his mind, he felt an understanding for the ancients and their belief that the earth was the center of the universe and that everything else moved around it. They had been deceived only by the evidence of their eyes.
His head still ached abominably, there was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, and depression and bitterness washed over him. It had been a long, wild ride, and now it was over, in a lot of ways. Because of him, his parents were going to lose their house. In the final analysis, they might approve his ends, but his means were a betrayal. They were losing their home, their retirement, their security. His sisters were going to have to learn a whole new way of life.
A lot of people were going to be out of work, most of whom didn’t deserve it, though some sure as hell did. Millions were going to be free now, but what kind of freedom would it be? The biggest war in the history of humanity was not coming to an end; it was just beginning. Only the enemy had changed. As for himself, he’d probably die in prison. If he lived long enough to get there. But then again, who cared?
In less than half an hour, the truth would be out, and that would pay for whatever came after. It wouldn’t pay for Spider, Theo Birch, or any like them, but it would be a start. The lies were all about to unravel. The lies were what it all came down to. The lies, and the love affair that human beings had with them. Not just their ability to lie, but their willingness to both lie and be lied to. Lying was such a vital part of human life, Tom wondered if the human race would even believe the truth when they heard it.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the door open behind him, nor feel the touch of the Creeg’s tentacle on his wrist, but he felt the presence enter his mind.
It is nearly time. Are you ready?
“As I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
You are not required to do this. It is not your obligation. Tom turned away from the window and faced the Drod; he had to tilt his head back to look it in the eye.
“You’re wrong. It is my obligation. I owe this to a lot of people.”
That is a nontruth, it corrected gently. Your feelings of debt and your actual debt are two different things. It is arguable that you have paid your debt in bringing the truth to us. In spite of his pain, Tom nodded.
“That may be true. But I want to do it.” The Creeg’s face remained as immobile and dispassionate as ever, but he felt a warmth flooding through his mind; something like affection. Was it real affection? Or something else, generated in the semblance of it for his benefit? The Creeg were not, after all, creatures of emotion; compassion, yes, but not emotion. Except, perhaps, the Albins. Just as quickly, and as subtly, the warmth subsided. The thought that crept in to take its place was detached and sober.
Only one issue remains to be settled, Tom. When this task is accomplished, what is to be done with you? It was our intention, once this mission was completed, to return you to your own kind. But based on what we have learned from you and General Horne, we now believe that this would be unwise. When the people of your world learn the truth, there will be violence; in addition, we believe—as do you—that some of it may well be directed against you, since you are the instrument of this unwelcome news. Tom nodded again, just once. It sent waves of pain washing through his skull.
“That’s a good point. But what’s the alternative?”
You could remain here with us. Tom’s stomach flipped. The decision is, of course, entirely your own, but it must be made soon.
“What—what would I do here? I don’t have any skills or education, I’m from a backward culture...”
You underestimate yourself. You have curiosity, which is the foundation of all science. You have an open mind and a willingness to learn, which are the basis of intellect. And you have courage, an essential element in any search for knowledge. Your culture, and your capacity for growth, are irrelevant. The Albin were once considered more backward than you, yet the work we do today would be impossible without their participation. Tom didn’t answer. Apart from everything else he was feeling—longing for his family, his friends, and Irene, who was more than both of those—the sight and sound and smell and taste of woods around him—he felt something else as well: Guilt.
He had added the word lie to the Creeg vocabulary; a simple word, in both form and use, but one with vaster repercussions than most of his species were aware of. The Creeg’s thought came very gently.
Your self and your culture are two different things. Some of your people have lied to us, but you have not. You have not even tried. That tells us more about you and your potential than perhaps you can conceive. If you desire to return home, we will transport you there. If you prefer to remain with us, you will be welcome.
The Drod raised a tentacle and brushed it lightly across Tom’s shoulder, as if with affection. Tom stared at it with stunned surprise; the bulbous eyes watched him with quiet dispassion. Or did they? He thought he perceived a flicker of something else. Then the creature turned away. The door slid open in near silence and closed behind it.
Alone in the observation platform, Tom turned to the port and stared out at the earth, thinking. This was something he’d put off thinking about, and why shouldn’t he? Mere survival had been his major thought for several days, and since then......since then, he’d been on an increasingly complex learning curve. Who knew just how soon he’d have to decide what he’d do with the rest of his life?
And did the Creeg understand just how cruel a choice he was facing? Go back to Earth and his own kind and watch the collapse of a civilization, or stay with the Creeg and meld himself into a completely different one. It might not even be such a cruel choice, except that he had almost no time to come to a decision. They were waiting for him to come and make his speech, and he wasn’t even sure how he’d do that! Forced to make a decision, he had to as pragmatic as the Creeg themselves.
He couldn’t stay with the Creeg. They would be pleased to have him and they were pleasant company, but in a very real sense, they made him feel like a child. And he would always be a child to them. He was no engineer, nor a physicist. What work could they possibly give him that would make him feel equal to them? The highest point in their favor was that he would be safe among them, but there were plenty of other people who wouldn’t be safe. His parents, his sisters, Irene, Beth, Mae...... the list was endless.
His escape had put all of them in peril, and it didn’t strike him as fair to be safe among the Creeg while the axe fell on them. No, he had to go back to Earth and share in the fate he’d brought their way. The only question was, where? Or rather, who? Who would he go to? And again, forced by necessity, the answer was easy. He loved his family and ached for them, but there was nothing he could do to save them. Their home and way of life were lost whether he was with them or not.
There was only one person he could hope to save from the wreckage, and that was Irene. He had to go to Arizona, no matter what waited for him there. Looking out the viewport, he could see Arizona; or thought he could. Through the haze of clouds, he could make out the bulge of the North American continent. It looked peaceful, and was just then. Probably the last time it would be peaceful for quite a while.
When the story broke, it would take a while—days or even weeks, maybe—for the rest of the world to take up arms against the U.S., but on the Collection Bases, the war would start that very day, in that very hour. Donors would be turning on their nurses first. Nurses, trainers, doctors, floor and dorm supervisors, orderlies. Whoever was handy. God! He hoped Beth wasn’t in the dorm! Then again, maybe there wouldn’t be a bloodbath.
The collection base staffers weren’t in on the deception, and were just as likely to demand justice as the donors. There could be open rebellion without violence. And the other nations could just as easily handle their outrage through diplomatic channels and war crimes trials. He didn’t think it would happen that way, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in history, there was going to be an uprising, and one way or another, the people who had made it necessary were going to pay. In a very big way. Nodding his head grimly, Tom turned his back on the viewport and walked out the door.