04. The Return of Nathan Brazil (7 page)

Dreel Central, about Five Thousand Light-years from the Com

THE RECORDER'S TINY SHIP DOCKED EASILY. THE mother ship was an entire world, more than ten thousand kilometers in diameter, but it was a world inside-out. It took the Recorder almost four hours by shuttle from the surface spaceport where he had landed to reach the chambers of the Set.

The chambers themselves were modest, for the Dreel were an austere people with little use for art or creature comforts. It came from inhabiting another's body—the Dreel, safe and secure inside a body, cared little for it beyond that it be in excellent health and remain undamaged.

Thus the seat of Dreel power was a chamber no more than thirty meters square, furnished only with hard plastic benches and enclosed only by undecorated steel bulkheads. The Recorder, expected nothing else; he sat on one of the benches and waited patiently, if a little nervously. All Dreel shared a desire for long life, and Dreel leaderhip had more than once been known to kill the bearer of unhappy tidings.

Still, The Recorder's concern was strictly for its own self; that the Dreel were here, that the great mother ship had brought them across the intergalactic void over an impossibly long time, was reassuring. That the Dreel might lose never crossed The Recorder's mind.

"Recorder, give your report." The voice echoed from the walls. Its suddenness startled him, but he recovered quickly. They already knew what he had to say—this was, as his title implied, strictly for the record, and in case questions were necessary.

"Subjects have an effective defensive force not realized in
the early scouting reports," he told the Set. "Their weapons, while slow, are of an extremely high order and in many ways inconsistent with their past history. Obviously, the relatively static culture that we found was atypical of the races involved. Such weapons as these, and the highly unorthodox methodology employed—much of which had obvious nonmilitary applications not reflected in their technological level are quite obviously a product of a savage evolution. Although apparently at Level One evolution—peaceful, highly developed, relatively static, as we have found elsewhere—they are not so. We depended too much on past models. These are at least Level Three cultures—barbarians, if you will, wild animals—with a convincing veneer of Level One."

"Such a finding is inconsistent," the Set objected. "A Level Three culture would continually war, continually fight among itself. We are faced with an affront to the laws of nature if your information is correct—a pack of ferocious annuals who have reached a working compromise. We could accept that of one race perhaps, but there are fourteen totally different types of life-form. It is against the laws of historical evolution. Such a civilization as is represented by this 'Com' should be at the highest level, beyond wars or threats of wars; it should be as it observably is, in social stasis, at precisely the level where the only possible advancement is Dreel assumption of control."

"Nevertheless," The Recorder responded, "they have a stasis reality and yet did not destroy the weapons of their barbarian past—and, most incredibly, did not lose the knowledge or will to use them. This is a fact. More, it applies to all of them. Therefore the different races are cooperating with each other against us."

The Set remained silent for a moment. The Recorder waited, still patient, knowing that within the heart of the massive mother ship the Set—countless Dreel without body—were interacting, searching for answers, devising plans. It was a giant live, organic computer with billions of years of wisdom and experience accounted for among its myriad components.

One of the things the Dreel had learned in all those years was pragmatism; it was the last refuge of the puzzled, and it worked.

"Much work will be done to explain this anomaly," the Set announced at last. "It is possible that laws of historical evolution do not apply universally as they did to our birth-galaxy. Therefore, faced with a civilization technologically capable of detecting us, further passive infiltration is hereby ended. If it is a Level Three we are dealing with, then we must counter it as we would a Level Three culture anywhere, no matter its outward appearance."

"That is a dangerous road," The Recorder pointed out. "Although slower than we, they successfully destroyed twelve of our ships on the Madalin attack to no losses on their side. Our fleet numbers under forty thousand ships, our factory-ship capacity is limited, and we do not control sufficient worlds to use their own facilities."

The Set was actually shocked. "To suggest that the Dreel might lose to such evolutionary inferiors! . . ."

The Recorder became alarmed. "No, no! I mean nothing of the sort! Only that the most submissive pet might still bite, kick, or otherwise injure the master."

"We are aware of that," the Set replied coldly. "Know that superior numbers are not always the answer.
They
are on the defensive, not we. They must meet our threat. The twelve ships lost were lost because they had to face a preset gauntlet. The situation will be reversed. Be at ease, report to Medical. Go."

Even as The Recorder left, the Set was ordering that, while undergoing medical check, additional Dreel be added to his system to counterbalance the obvious alienation The Recorder had suffered while in the Com. The historical anomaly had obviously unhinged him. Recombination was needed. Never before had the Dreel faced this sort of society; never before had it been at such a disadvantage. The victory here would be all the greater for the difficulty the Com presented. A herd might trample a warder, but never the race of warders. Now was the time for the Dreel to show its true superiority, which was power.

On the Freighter Hoahokim

THEY CALLED HIM GYPSY, NOTHING MORE. A TALL, quiet man, dark-complected and without the almost universal Oriental cast of the human race, he had a strong Roman nose and dark, flashing eyes that were a hypnotic mask. Gypsy was not a Com Policeman; in fact, he seemed to hate all authority and authority figures. Marquoz had run into him some years before on a backwater planet where Gypsy was playing his pipe and passing the hat. That had been the first time Marquoz had performed the dance, impromptu, and they became fast friends. Even now, the Chugach knew little about his human companion and understood less. Deep down, though, each seemed to sense a kindred spark in their attitudes toward themselves and others.

They had hit upon the act almost at once, and it proved even more effective when they discovered that, on most planets, people took the little dragon for some sort of exotic animal—not so unusual when you consider that most Com citizens never left the planet of their birth and knew as little about elsewhere as ordinary people had since time immemorial.

Marquoz was snoozing in the stateroom while Gypsy strolled on the deck. The Chugach awoke with a snort and a tiny puff of smoke from his nostrils as the door opened and the man entered. There was no pretense at being a pet on ship; spacefarers generally recognized all the races.

One reptilian lid popped open and watched as the man entered. "So? Find anything you didn't find on the last three thousand ships we've been on?"

Gypsy flopped on the bunk, sighed, and spat. "Naw. I got up to the passenger lounge and there was one of those superwomen there—the ones with tails, you know? —spoutin' all the religious guff. Maybe I should'a gone into the religion racket—lots of bucks and an easy life. I
did
do some faith healing once."

Both dragon eyes popped open. "You? A faith healer?" Again the smoky snort, this time of derisive amusement.

Gypsy's shaggy head nodded slightly. "Yeah. Great scam. Whip 'em all up, sing a lotta hymns, then summon the sick to be cured. Put a shill or two in the crowd so's you can have a couple of real cures to get things started. Bums'll do it for a fiver—good actors, too, if you don't pay 'em until after the scam. Who knows? If you actually cure anybody legit you make a fortune; if you don't, well, it's because they didn't have enough faith. Part of the secret of a good scam— always put the blame for the breakdown on the mark."

"Did you really cure anybody?" Marquoz asked, skeptical but interested.

"Oh, sure, one or two here and there," Gypsy responded matter-of-factly. "The mind can cure a lot of ills on its own if the person really believes. Hell, I can stop my bleeding at will and refuse to recognize pain—the needle scam, you remember."

The Chugach nodded. "I still don't know how you do that. Must be something different in our two races. Put a needle into me anywhere and it hurts like hell. I'm still feeling the Dreel immunization shot."

Gypsy chuckled. "Naw, I don't think it's anything racial. I think anybody with a good brain can do it. It's really willpower."

Marquoz shrugged. "Have it your way. No one of my race has come close to it. I think there's more to it than you believe—something humans can do, and perhaps some others, but not we, any more than you can snort fire and smoke."

"Have it your own way." Gypsy sighed, then changed the subject. "That Olympian is really a stunner. All the attributes of every dream woman anybody can imagine, but I can't get turned on by her. There's something about her—other than the horse tail, of course—that just isn't human. In some way I think she's a lot less human that you, Marq."

The Chugach chuckled at that. "Perhaps I should go up and see her." He stopped a moment, then snorted slightly. "I wonder if she'll ask
me
if I'm Nathan Brazil?"

"Probably," Gypsy responded lightly. "I dunno what she'd do if you admitted it, though. Crazy kinda religion. I wonder how Brazil stands it? He's probably gone far underground to keep the hounds off, poor guy."

Saurian eyelids rose. "You really think there is such a person?"

"Oh, sure," Gypsy replied. "Him and me we tied one on a couple years ago, before this cult thing became big and spread out. Hell of a nice guy, too. I wonder how these alien beauties ever got fixated on him."

Suddenly Marquoz was lost in thought. Finally he said, "Gypsy, are you
sure
there is such a person? I mean, he just wasn't putting you on? The cult's been going a good decade, after all."

"Nope, he was Brazil, all right. I was on his ship— freighter a lot like this one only a lot older and noisier." His brow furrowed. "Lemme see—the
Stepkin
—no, that's not right. The
Stehekin,
I think. No luxury, spartan cabins, old-style everything, but it carried a hell of a load and he kept it up. Brazil was the name on his pilot's license. We used to joke about it—according to the renewal stickers it looked like he'd been alive forever." He paused. "Hmmm . . . Maybe that's why they got stuck on him. Something of a legend, I think. Oldest pilot in service though he looked about twenty-five or thirty to me. Knew some spacers who said their father and their father's father had known him. Some folks are just born lucky—I guess he's got a greater tolerance for rejuves than most."

The dragon nodded but he was still thinking hard. Gypsy was a bundle of surprises; he would never tell anybody his age and it was almost impossible to tell, but he'd been around countless planets and ridden on equally countless ships. His experience was fantastic but never volunteered—you just had to ask the right question or be in the right conversation.

"What was he like, this Brazil?" Marquoz pressed.

Gypsy shrugged. "Little runt—couldn't 'a weighed more than sixty, sixty-five kilos, maybe a head shorter than me. Long black hair, scraggly beard. Liked to dress in loud but ratty clothes and smoked really stenchy cheroots. A tough guy on the surface but something of a softy deep down, you could sorta tell. I wouldn't want to have ta outfight or outdrink him, though. Always real full of life, didn't seem to take anything or anybody serious at all. But down there, buried with that soft spot, was a real serious sort— cold, calculating, pure mind and raw emotion. You'd never guess it to look at him, but in a fight I'd want him on my side."

Marquoz nodded attentively. Despite Gypsy's tendency to fractured purple prose he had an incredible knack for reading other people, human and nonhuman. Sometimes Marquoz thought his human companion had a supernatural or at least psychic power—an empath, perhaps. Marquoz had learned to trust the man's judgment of others. And why not? Gypsy was almost always right.

"I wonder what the Olympian would say if you told that to her?"

Gypsy sat straight up on the cot, looking stricken. "Jesus! I wouldn't dare! I'd be knocked on the head and smuggled off to one of their Temples for interrogation! I had some friends disappear like that around those broads!"

A small reptilian hand flashed palm out in mock defense. "All right, all right, I was only interested." Marquoz laughed. "Seriously, though, I think there should be a thorough Com Police check on him. If he's the free soul you say he is, he might be cashing in on this cult himself."

It was Gypsy's turn to give a derisive chuckle. "Not likely! No, if I know him at all I'd say he's gone and buried himself so far underground the best security force we have couldn't find him. Besides—I know a couple of Com biggies who've tried to get the records on him. No go."

"You mean there aren't any?"

"Of course not," Gypsy responded impatiently. "Everybody leaves a trail of records a kilometer long. Even
I
could be tracked down by a computer match of ticket and travel information with ship schedules throughout the Com. No,
that
kind of record hold they only give to people involved in something nobody should ever know about. What he could have been involved in I don't know, but he sure isn't the type to be a Com agent or anybody else's. Nonetheless, he paid for that ship somewhere."

"You've heard rumors, though?" Marquoz prompted.

The man nodded casually. "Yeah. Mostly that at one time he had blackmail on every Councillor who could make a decision. There's something awful shady about that Brazil. Lots of tales, too, about him showing up in trouble spots, working angles all over, like that. I think he's an operator."