Jim Baen's Universe

Serials - parts and parts.

Slan Hunter, Part 2

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

[CHAPTER 14]

From his headquarters office in the Martian city of Cimmerium, Jem Lorry received the vivid images from his vanguard forces at Earth. This was one of the most satisfying moments in his life.

Jem played the footage twice more just to savor it, then he picked up the display plate and hurried to show his father and the Authority members. Seeing this, they would have to admit that he had been right all along.

He marched into the cavernous crystal-ceilinged room, where the council members were packing up for the day. With a shout, he made the seven old men turn around. "I have news from Earth, glorious news! I must show it to you."

Altus looked impatient, as if he had tolerated enough from his son, but Jem stepped directly up to the podium where supplicants addressed the tendrilless Authority in open session. He plugged in his display plate and transferred the images to the tandem screens in front of all seven members. "Behold the fall of the human government! We have won. It was even smoother and more absolute than I had dreamed possible."

The transmitted images showed the devastation of Centropolis in impeccable detail. At first the cameras tracked across the city streets: collapsing skyscrapers, flaming vehicles, panicked pedestrians. Then the view centered in on the towering palace. Like a flock of hungry raptors, the tendrilless attack ships zeroed in, exchanged orders, then swooped down in perfect formation. Their bomb-bay doors opened to drop load after load of weapons on the grand structure.

The detonations occurred simultaneously, shockwaves crashing against each other, reinforcing and amplifying the destruction. Flames roared to the skies. Ornate and spectacular towers that had stood as landmarks for centuries now toppled into rubble.

A hundred stories tall, highlighted with crystalline spires, parapets, and remarkable architecture, the ancient slan-designed palace collapsed under the bombardment. The Presidential quarters, the administrative chambers, staff rooms and records vaults, formal dining halls and galleries lined with state portraits. After the palace collapsed, secondary detonations spat out bright orange flowers, columns of black smoke and plumes of debris. The images zoomed in on the burning rubble and smoking pit.

Jem stood tall, supremely confident. "Right now, every surviving human in the city is staring in despair, weeping for what they've lost. Even I didn't expect their defenses to crumble so easily, though I did take care to make their small space navy ineffective. I'll bet President Gray was quite surprised."

Altus scratched his chin as he watched the replaying images. "We expected more resistance from Earth because we thought the true slans would come out of hiding at last. Are you sure there has been no sign of them?"

"None at all. If anything could flush out the snakes, this should have done it. It is time for the Authority to face the only possible conclusion: There are no more true slans. We've heard rumors for so long, but they're just that: rumors."

"Rumors? And what about Jommy Cross or Kathleen Layton?"

Jem covered his pained expression at the thought of Kathleen. With her true slan genetics and Jem's tendrilless bloodline, their offspring would certainly have been superior. But she had rebuffed his advances. What a fool the girl had been! No doubt Kathleen had been inside the palace when it was destroyed. His lips pulled down in a bitter frown. She could have been with him.

"The only slans left are insignificant throwbacks, one or two genetic mistakes. They belong in a museum with other extinct species."

Altus said, "You draw sweeping conclusions from a relatively small amount of evidence."

One of the other Authority members added, "We can't be too careful." The other old men nodded, mumbling to each other.

A flush of anger came to Jem's cheeks. The Authority—and his own father—seemed intent on stalling every bit of progress he made. "Our irrational fear of the slans has set us back by centuries! We were so sure they were hiding, building great weapons, preparing invincible defenses against us. We wasted generations establishing our fortified city here on Mars, building an invincible fleet. We laid down an extensive space mine field around Earth orbit to guard it—and from what? We've squandered a fortune and years of effort building bastions against an enemy that doesn't even exist."

"Thank you for your interesting report, my son. We will draw our conclusions once we've received a report from our operative on the scene." Altus switched off the display plate, and his fellow Authority members did the same. "She should arrive soon."

Jem blinked, feeling left out. "What other operative? I am in charge of this strike."

"Joanna Hillory. We have already dispatched her to Earth."

"On what mission? How dare you go around me?"

"We are the Tendrilless Authority. We decide what is best," Altus said in a patient voice. "We sent her to find Jommy Cross, whom we consider to be our largest threat. After we have interrogated that outlaw slan—by whatever extreme means necessary—we will discover all we need to know."

[CHAPTER 15]

The sleek armored car raced toward the outskirts of the city, escaping from the holocaust. Behind them, the palace was completely destroyed. Overhead, enemy spacecraft continued to criss-cross the sky in search of targets. Once they had leveled Centropolis, the tendrilless attackers would spread out to the fringe areas, the smaller cities and towns. The invaders would not leave the job half finished.

Jommy drove through the late afternoon, dodging rubble, and continued to accelerate. The thick tires hummed across the cracked and blistered pavement. His reflexes were sufficient to dodge stalled cars, an overturned wagon, even a wide crater made by a stray bomb.

"Jommy, are you sure we'll be safe where we're going?"

"I can't guarantee we'll be safe anywhere, Kathleen, but we've got a good chance." His fingers danced across controls on the dashboard, illuminating a map. "It should take us about five hours to get there."

"That's assuming the roads and bridges along the way aren't blown up," said John Petty from the back.

"If there are obstacles, we will deal with them," Gray said.

"Obstacles?" Petty said. "I'd say the end of the world as we know it is a pretty substantial obstacle!" Then the slan hunter slumped back into silence.

Jommy's special car hugged the ground, moving almost as fast as an aircraft. After they left the outskirts of the city and headed toward the farmland and forested hills, he began to feel safer.

The car roared along isolated roads, making steady progress on the map projected on his dashboard. The ranchers and farmers who lived in the rolling countryside had holed up in storm shelters and root cellars, hiding from the interplanetary attack. No one else moved about. The sun would set soon, and then they would be safer.

His unusual vehicle, moving alone, inadvertently called attention to itself.

Red lights flashed on his sensitive detection systems, and from outside he heard a whining tone. He gripped the steering mechanism and looked around wildly. "Proximity alert. Something coming closer." Flipping a toggle switch, he shifted the ten-point steel of the car's roof into its transparent phase so that he could look overhead. "There!"

Three dark craft swooped down, the blunt-nosed tendrilless cruisers. For many years in his youth, he had seen similar fast vehicles launched regularly from the rooftop of the Air Center. "They've spotted us."

"Worse—they've targeted us." Kathleen craned her neck.

Plunging like hungry hawks, the tendrilless cruisers dropped focused explosives. The bombs blasted craters on either side of the country road, coughing up thick plumes of dirt and smoke. Jommy swerved, squeezing more power from the engine, but even with all his technological improvements, he could not make the car go faster.

The tendrilless bombers curved upward in a graceful loop, as if to show off their aerial maneuvers, then they came back down like a trio of executioners' axes. They would never let the car get away.

Jommy narrowed his eyes, his senses alert. He had to time this very carefully. Once the tendrilless ships dropped their next array of focused bombs, he needed to react perfectly and unexpectedly. The invaders cracked through the air, and the cluster of bombs dropped down exactly where the car should have been.

Jommy swerved, spun the rear tires, and hoped he had built sufficient clearance into the armored vehicle. The car bucked off the paved road, kicked up gravel as it went over the shoulder and through the shallow ditch. He didn't slow for an instant, but careened across the fallow countryside into the roadless rolling fields and grassy hills. Dirt and corn stalks flew up in a roostertail behind him. Ahead, past a small marker fence, he saw a thick line of dark trees, a patch of forest that had regrown after the old Slan Wars.

As he hit boulders and ruts, soft dirt and gravel, Jommy had a hard time maintaining his grip on the steering controls. At full speed, he dove through a small pond, hoping it wasn't too deep. Muddy water gushed in all directions, and then he was clear, arrowing straight toward the line of trees and, he hoped, shelter.

The tendrilless bombers had turned about again and raced after him, launching another volley. Coughing explosions left fresh craters in the field, but the tendrilless were overreacting. Jommy continued to dodge, spinning the wheels right and then left.

Petty, who had not properly strapped himself in, was thrown sideways into Kier Gray. The deposed President shoved him away in a tangle of arms and legs.

As the woods loomed in front of them and the tendrilless ships closed in, Jommy knew he would have to crash and dodge his way through the trunks, grind underbrush with his wheels, and hope the armor could withstand any impacts.

One of the dropped bombs exploded right behind the vehicle, and the concussion threw the car several feet in the air. After they crashed to the ground, Jommy spun and swerved, still accelerating toward the forest.

Flying low, the first enemy bomber streaked past the car, its pilot furious at having missed. He skimmed just above the speeding vehicle, as if he meant to smash the car's roof with his landing wheels.

Tall trees loomed up like a wall directly in front of the attacking craft. The tendrilless pilot pulled up frantically, but too late. Unable to clear the treetops, the attack craft scraped the high branches, which ripped out the underbelly. Hurtling out of control, the tendrilless fighter reeled, arced around, and plunged like a missile into the ground.

While the others in the car cheered, Jommy couldn't let his attention waver for a second. He drove headlong through the small marker fence and into the line of trees. Once in the forest, he was forced to slow, threading his way through the randomly spaced trunks. Branches crashed and crunched beneath him. He caromed off a thick spruce, ripping away a great chunk of bark, then he lumbered through a gully, spraying dry leaves. Ahead, the forest was even thicker.

The two remaining tendrilless bombers soared over the treetops, still searching. Now that their comrade was dead, Jommy knew they would never give up. The canopy was dense enough that they could not easily see the car, but they must have some kind of technological scanners that could pick up the heat of his engine or the ten-point steel of the vehicle's armor.

He knocked down a small tree, which did not even damage the reinforced fender. The gauges showed the engines overheating. He crunched along, plowing a path through the woods, all the while knowing he couldn't hide.

The two invader ships came back over the treetops in a methodical search pattern. When they spotted the car and homed in on it, they dropped another volley of aerial bombs. They meant to destroy the whole forest if they needed to.

Jommy saw them coming. "Hold on! We can't get away from this." Despite himself, he closed his eyes, hoping the armor would be sufficient against the destruction.

Like fireworks, a dozen explosions erupted through the woods. Fireballs knocked down trees; blast waves snapped trunks like toothpicks. All around the car, tall pines and oaks toppled. Boughs smashed across the car's roof and hood. A towering pine crashed immediately to their left, scraping and scratching with its needle-filled branches. A thick, shattered trunk fell on top of them like a sledge hammer, burying them.

But the car's armor held.

As the fire continued to swell and trees fell all around, the car was trapped under the avalanche of broken wood. Completely trapped. Even when the trees stopped falling, the blaze increased in intensity, rapidly becoming an inferno that spread through the forest. The car was immobilized, caught in the heart of a furnace.

Jommy shut down the systems. "There. We're completely safe."

[CHAPTER 16]

As the librarian stared at her baby's exposed tendrils, Anthea's own thrill of fear was echoed and doubled in her mind. The newborn somehow knew that he had been discovered—and instinctively understood the danger to both of them.

"Oh, my!" Mr. Reynolds took a half step backward. He raised his hands in a warding gesture, as if afraid he had touched something that might contaminate him.

Anthea tried to come closer. "Please, Mr. Reynolds! It's not what you think."

His eyes wide and round, the librarian jumped, as if he wanted to bolt out into the streets, regardless of the danger. "Not what I think? I think it's a slan baby!" He blinked several times, gaping at the child. "Yes, indeed, I'm sure it's a slan baby."

"Believe me, we're no threat to you—"

Outside, thunderous explosions made the walls shudder. The candles threw uncertain light and strange shadows.

The librarian made a quick move and dashed around the table. "Help!"

Anthea bounded in front of him, drawing strength from what she had been through, from what she knew might happen. She picked up one of the heavy tomes on the table. Without thinking, she swung it hard and bashed him on the back of the head. The hardcover hit his skull with a loud thump. Reynolds let out a heavy "oof," then sprawled face first on the polished floor. His round glasses bounced off his face and clattered to one side.

Anthea knelt beside him, her heart pounding. "I didn't mean that! I'm so sorry, but you didn't give me any choice."

The librarian groaned, though he remained unconscious. Anthea touched his head, then the pulse at his neck. "I think you'll be all right." She looked at the book with which she had hit him, noted the irony. The title was The Hidden Slan Threat.

On the table, the baby had turned his head so he could see her. She felt the continued strange connection with him. Her infant son seemed very aware of what was happening, and she felt a wash of secondhand relief coming from him, confident that his mother had taken care of the threat.

Anthea hated herself for hurting Mr. Reynolds. She had never been a violent person. She worked in a bank! Before today, she had never struck another person. But she had seen the doctor try to kill her newborn baby, and her own husband had been gunned down trying to protect them. When she'd fled, more people had tried to kill her. The city had been bombed, and now Earth itself was in the middle of a war. Anthea was fighting not only for her life, but for their child's as well. A slan child—a slan born from two apparently normal people.

She had been driven to do many extraordinary things this day, and she feared she would be forced to do many more.

In order to stay safe, she had to keep the librarian out of her way. Finding strength, she rolled Mr. Reynolds over, picked up his hands, and began to drag him down the slippery hall. Either through adrenaline or newfound physical strength, Anthea pulled the heavyset man along without difficulty. Conscientiously, she picked up his eyeglasses, folded down the bows, and tucked them into his pocket. She didn't want to inconvenience the man any more than she had to. Knocking him unconscious was bad enough.

The librarian's office was just outside of the archives wing. She could tie him up there, and she needed him safely out of the way before he regained consciousness. She hated to leave her baby alone even if the room was not far away, but she could sense that the child was in no immediate danger.

Inside the librarian's office, stacks of books and periodicals were on Reynolds's desk, on the floor, on top of filing cabinets. Neatly lettered labels on colored index cards identified each stack. Plastic wrappers and open cardboard boxes indicated that the man did much cataloguing of his new acquisitions here. For a large city library, Reynolds didn't seem to have very much staff. At the moment, she was glad that no one else was in the large building.

On a special table were five old books, dog-eared, their spines cracked and dust jackets torn. But they had been lovingly taped and bandaged, the bindings reglued. She could picture Reynolds spending hours under his bright desk lamp, like a surgeon performing an operation on these beloved and well-read tomes.

She wrestled Mr. Reynolds into the chair behind his desk, then looked around for something to tie him with. When nothing obvious presented itself other than cellophane tape on the desk dispenser, she removed the librarian's blue striped necktie and quickly lashed his wrists to the chair arms. Then she unthreaded the laces from his black Oxford shoes and used those to tie his ankles in place. When that didn't seem terribly secure, she also used the full roll of tape.

When he groaned, she felt sorry again for what she'd been forced to do. It seemed so unfair. Reynolds had been kind to her. She didn't want to hurt him. She had never wanted to hurt anybody—but the slan hunters had certainly changed that. With herself and her baby at stake, she couldn't trust anyone. But Anthea loved her baby far more than Reynolds could ever love his books. The man would be safe enough here until someone else rescued him.

Anthea took a sheet of paper from the desk and quickly scrawled a note. "I'm very sorry. We didn't mean to hurt you. I did not ask for this, but I had to protect my child. I hope someday you'll forgive us."

Rummaging in his desk drawer, she found a set of keys in a red envelope with a hand-written word. Archives. For the padlock that secured the combination wheels? She took the keys. Even without thinking, she knew she would have to open the vault and discover what secret information the government had hidden from the public. Why didn't they want anybody to know the truth about the slans?

She ran back to the thick vault door and its heavy combination wheels. The padlock itself couldn't have been more than a minor deterrent for anyone determined to break in, but it was one extra time-consuming step. She removed the key from the red envelope, inserted then twisted it. When the padlock popped open, she removed it with one hand and set it aside.

The large combination wheels that locked the heavy vault were ready for her. In her mind she remembered the combination Mr. Reynolds had so vividly recalled, the numbers that her baby had detected with his slan tendrils. 4 - 26 - 19 - 12.

The baby's bright eyes watched as Anthea turned the first wheel, felt it clicking through numbers. She stopped at the mark for 4, ratcheted the next wheel into its appropriate position, then the third, and finally the fourth. She heard a humming inside. It wasn't just a simple gear lock: She had activated an entire mechanism. Pistons and deadbolts rose up and down, pulling aside, clicking into place, and with a hiss like a tired sigh, the vault door moved out of its frame.

She bunched the soft blanket to prop the infant's small head as she picked him up from the table. Holding the baby, Anthea stepped back as the thick barrier groaned open. The hinges and heavy hydraulics seemed well-lubricated and maintained.

She wondered how often anyone ever studied these archives. Considering the security Mr. Reynolds had mentioned and how few curiosity seekers the government allowed, she doubted very many had read the information contained within.

But now she intended to.

[CHAPTER 17]

With Jommy's car buried under the inferno of collapsed trees, he had sealed off the vehicle's environment systems, opaqued the windows, and switched on the air scrubbers and recyclers. Then he sat back to wait.

He reassured his companions. "This may look like a normal car, but it's practically a battleship on wheels. The armor is sufficient against any temperatures a mere forest fire can generate. The self-contained air systems can last for a day underwater, so they'll easily filter out a little smoke. It might get a little warm in here, but I prefer to call it cozy."

"Have you ever tested it under those conditions?" Petty asked, clearly uneasy.

"Not exactly, but you can trust my calculations."

While the forest fire burned for the next three hours, the car was buried in a furnace of coals. Though the interior temperature became uncomfortably warm, the four occupants were never in real danger. By the time night had fallen, the blaze had begun to die down. The barricade of fallen trees and branches that had buried them was now little more than a rubble of charred logs and ashes. Even if the two enemy bombers had circled the spreading inferno, keeping watch, they would have departed by now, confident they had destroyed their quarry.

With the last vestiges of the blaze still shimmering against the purple night, Jommy activated his engines again, cleared the front screens, and slowly crunched their way through the live coals, emerging with a spray of sparks like an orange blizzard. As they drove out of the now devastated woods, the car smoked, covered with soot and ash, but it made it out to the fields, across the bumpy ground, and back to the paved road.

Jommy raced forward again, back on their way, this time under the cover of a starry night. The car's sharp headlights sent lances ahead of them.

"I told you Jommy could do it," Kathleen said.

From the back of the vehicle, John Petty began to laugh with relief and delight.

By morning, they had reached open country far from Centropolis, passing over a line of hills and into a broad and beautiful river valley. The landscape was green and peaceful, with a smattering of widely separated ranch houses and farms.

"It's lovely." Kathleen rubbed weariness from her red eyes as she watched the buttery-yellow sunrise come over the hills. One of the larger mountains was distorted, half collapsed, as if a great force had smashed it down.

This valley had always been a sheltered place where he and a hypnotically modified Granny had built a sanctuary for themselves. Jommy explained to his companions that he had spent four years building underground laboratories, an arsenal, even turning the interior of a nearby mountain into a fortress. But the tendrilless had already struck here, using a gigantic attack vessel to melt part of his mountain fortress in search of his underground laboratories and industries.

"I don't recall hearing about any tendrilless attack," Petty said, looking at Gray. "How could something like this be kept quiet, especially from my secret police?"

"The tendrilless controlled the news media, and they wanted to keep it a secret," the President said.

"I first bumped into one of the tendrilless when I was just a boy, not long after my mother was murdered." Jommy pointedly looked behind him at the slan hunter. "At the time I was thrilled, since I'd been looking for other slans. I knew I couldn't be the only one. I naively assumed the tendrilless would be happy to see me. Instead, they tried to kill me."

Petty said, "So, even the great Jommy Cross can make a mistake."

Kathleen glared at him. "The more I'm around you, Mr. Petty, the more I wonder why exactly we've taken you with us."

"You need me. I still control a sizeable force of the secret police, if I ever get in touch with them."

"We need a lot of things, but I've learned to live without them," Gray said. Petty became quiet.

Jommy continued, "When the tendrilless tracked me to this valley, I boobytrapped my extensive laboratories so the enemy couldn't get their hands on my technology. It was the only way. I left everything behind . . . everything and everyone." He had sent Granny to safety in their armored ranch house while he fled in his ship, luring the tendrilless after him.

He hoped that at least some of his notes and equipment were intact at whatever remained of the old ranch. He'd already begun to imagine how he might rebuild what he needed. Once he got a transmitting station up, President Gray could make world-wide broadcasts, rally the surviving humans, even establish a government in exile. And Jommy could create the arsenal they needed to fight back in an outright war.

As he drove down the narrow country lanes past other houses, farmers and ranchers looked up and waved congenially. He felt warm inside as he remembered how much he had loved this valley.

"It certainly seems a friendly place," Kathleen said. "Isolated, peaceful."

"I helped that along a little bit. In the years I lived here, I used my mental skills and hypnosis crystals to gently guide my neighbors in their thinking."

Petty seemed indignant. "So you used your mind powers to brainwash them."

Jommy frowned back at him. "On the contrary, after generations of propaganda and lies, I used my powers to un-brainwash them."

Driving smoothly along a lane and then up a gravel drive lined by maple trees, they arrived at a ranch house. It was a small affair, painted red with white trimming, but Jommy knew that the walls, roof, and floors were made of reinforced steel. The decorative shingles on the roof had been patched. The familiarity of the place made Jommy grin.

He parked the car on the gravel pad in front of the house's big garage. The potted geraniums by the front porch were overflowing with bright coral-red flowers. Tulips planted along the front of the house blossomed in bright colors, and a small vegetable garden sported rows of beans, corn, potatoes, onions, and carrots—just enough for one person. Several feral-looking chickens squawked and ran along the front of the house, pecking at insects.

Jommy climbed out of the car with Kathleen beside him and saw how the vehicle had been battered and scraped. Considering what it had been through, though, it seemed in good shape. Petty and Gray stretched their legs, taking deep breaths of the fresh, clean valley air. The slan hunter rubbed his finger along the hood, smearing a long track in the soot. He wiped his blackened finger on his dark jacket.

Jommy took one step toward the front door of the house when someone yanked it open. A rail-thin old woman stepped onto the porch. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery, her gray hair pulled back. She wore an apron and a drab work dress. Her eyes were like a crow's, black but bright, flickering from side to side.

He grinned, raising a hand. "Granny!"

Without acknowledging, the old woman reached inside the door and came back out with a loaded shotgun. She raised the barrel, glaring at Jommy, glaring at them all, and aimed directly at him.

[CHAPTER 18]

Joanna Hillory's ultra-fast ship soared across interplanetary space from Mars to Earth. She would cover the distance in a fraction of the time that the lumbering occupation fleet required. She had only a few days to complete her mission—to find Jommy and make an emergency plan—before the main tendrilless forces reached their target.

As she streaked past them in space, Joanna gazed at the impressive armada of tendrilless battleships: giant wheel-shaped vessels powered by internal cyclotrons, bristling with atomic-powered weapons. Each gigantic craft was loaded with ground assault vehicles and the bulky equipment needed to crush any remaining resistance and establish an invincible presence. The heavy vessels carried most of the population of Cimmerium in a great exodus to occupy conquered Earth.

As she sped past the occupation fleet, Joanna transmitted the special signal that verified her business for the Tendrilless Authority. In a flurry of messages, the captains of the giant vessels wished her luck while making brave claims about how much damage they intended to wreak upon human civilization. She sent a gruff acknowledgment, feeling a knot in her chest, and flew onward.

When she made her final approach to Earth, she encountered a treacherous debris zone in the orbital lanes. A great battle had taken place here. Had the humans found some way to mount a space defense?

She saw blackened ships hanging dead in space, their hulls ripped open, cockpits and propulsion engines torn away by explosions—either from the tense dogfights or from detonation of the space mines. Hazardous shrapnel consisted of drifting hull plates, globules of molten metal that had solidified in the frozen vacuum.

Using the sensitive detectors aboard her scout ship, Joanna scanned and then projected a three-dimensional map of all the obstacles, including the remaining tendrilless space mines in orbit. Carefully avoiding collisions, she studied patterns among the wreckage, trying to piece together what had happened. When she studied the ruined hulks more closely, she could not identify the ship design. One hull fragment, though, had colors painted on it and she recognized the insignia. A secret human fleet. Astonishing!

For the past century, humans had made only minimal attempts at resurrecting their space program, which had once flourished during the First Golden Age of mankind. The very idea of President Gray building enough ships to pose a threat to the tendrilless was absurd. And yet the humans had indeed managed to launch their own space defensive fleet. The brashness and bravado amazed her.

For a long time now, tendrilless had controlled the airways, industries, and communications centers on Earth. Somehow Kier Gray had managed to create a significant space force without anyone—not even her—knowing about it. Did the humans have unexpected help? Slan collaborators, perhaps?

Joanna knew that the Tendrilless Authority was far more worried about the true slans. Jommy Cross had proved how frightfully talented others like him could be. Now that she had thrown her lot in with Jommy, she needed to reconcile her loyalties—and in the middle of a war.

Looking at the wreckage all around her, thousands of shards glinting in slow revolutions as they caught the light from the sun, she admitted that the human space fleet had failed, but they had caused great damage to the tendrilless ships.

Finalizing her approach, Joanna spotted a few spaceships from the vanguard fleet still cruising around the battle zone. While bombers and small fighters continued to pound the cities below, vanguard scouts patrolled the orbital zone, waiting for the main occupation force to arrive, hunting down any last human spaceships, alert for any last-ditch tricks.

Unexpectedly, her communications apparatus picked up the steady, rhythmic beacon of an S.O.S. signal. As she maneuvered her ship toward the source of the beacon, Joanna realized that it was a distress call from a lifepod.

One of the human defenders had somehow managed to eject an escape pod! As the lifepod drifted along, the lone survivor aboard begged for assistance, but all of his comrades were eradicated. He had no chance for rescue, with Earth completely under fire.

Uncertain what to do, Joanna followed the signal, homing in on a small ellipsoidal container. The automated beacon droned on, calling attention, pleading for someone to come and help.

Joanna imagined the bravery of this soldier. She had seen enough of human society to know that the man would have been terrified of the inhuman slans, but he would not have known any difference between the tendrilless ones and the "snakes." Even so, when his planet was in danger, he had climbed aboard one of the Earth spaceships—far inferior to the advanced tendrilless vanguard fleet—and launched into orbit to fight against the enemy. What folly! The soldier was either a hero, she decided, or a fool.

"Is anyone still alive there?" she transmitted, closing in on the drifting lifepod.

"Yes, I'm here!" came a shrill voice, a young man's. "Captain Byron Campbell, sole survivor of my ship. Gunner and navigator both killed in the explosion. Please, I need help."

"How is your oxygen?"

"My recyclers are still operating. I can last for another day or two. Please bring me back to Centropolis. The fight must still be going on down there." Joanna couldn't believe his naiveté. "My squadron flew up to engage the enemy, but the dirty slans had planted mines throughout orbit. Booby-trapped our whole planet! Most of my fellow ships were destroyed. Filthy cowards."

Around her in space the drifting debris could not convey the scope of the massacre. "Captain Campbell, Earth has already fallen. No one will rescue you."

"But there's you."

A lump formed in her throat. Before Joanna could respond, another ship streaked in, one of the sharklike vanguard scouts. "Commander Hillory, I apologize for not intercepting you sooner! Welcome to Earth. You'll find that everything is in order. We have taken care of most of the distractions. I'm sorry for this one. Just a loose end to tie up."

Campbell's voice cracked, full of betrayal. He shouted at Joanna. "You! You're one of them!"

The vanguard ship swooped in and opened fire with a blaze of energy bolts, disintegrating Captain Byron Campbell and his lifepod. Joanna caught her breath, but did not speak out. The damage was done. The man was dead, the lifepod destroyed.

"I need to get down to the surface," she said, cold and businesslike. "I have orders from the Authority." She watched the burning debris of the lifepod, chunks of glowing metal slowly drifting apart. "I don't require an escort, so long as you guarantee me clear passage to Centropolis."

The vanguard pilot transmitted a verification, and she plunged down toward the main cities of Earth. In the turbulence of war she wasn't sure how she could ever find Jommy Cross, but she had an idea where to start looking. She and Jommy had already begun to make plans during his last hours in Cimmerium, but now all those had fallen apart, thanks to the impatient and brash violence of Jem Lorry.

She had to find him if she had any chance of stopping this disaster. She was sure Jommy was the only one who could pull a solution out of the air.

With a sinking heart, Joanna cruised over the smoldering ruins. He was down there somewhere, and she knew he must still be alive. Tendrilless ships criss-crossed the air, hunting down any remaining resistance, though Centropolis looked sorely beaten. Rooftops had been blown apart, anti-aircraft guns and defensive measures entirely removed from the equation.

Zooming in closer, she was dismayed—yet not entirely surprised—to discover that the grand palace had been utterly leveled. Now, nothing remained of it.

Joanna set down her ship in the vicinity. This was where she would concentrate her search. Amidst the continuing explosions and the chaos in the streets, no one gave a second glance to her small craft. Angular invader ships still scattered occasional bombs to maintain the heightened state of fear.

Joanna stepped out of her craft, brushing curly brown hair from her forehead. It had been some time since she'd breathed the fresh air of Earth. Curls of smoke from burning buildings rose into the sky, adding a sour, raw smell. She stood in the rubble and looked toward the collapsed fragments and the burned-out zone.

Nothing could have survived that devastation.

In her heart she wanted to believe that Jommy had found a way out. But even if he had, how could she link up with him? He wouldn't know that she was searching for him, or that she had come to Earth at all. How could she find out for sure?

As she stared around the obliterated palace, she had no idea where she should start to look.

[CHAPTER 19]

"Not one step closer," the old woman said. The barrel of the shotgun in her hands did not waver. "You have a lot of nerve to come back here. Granny intends to protect her home."

Jommy smiled at her, unintimidated by the weapon. "I believe it's my home, Granny. I paid for it."

"My home!" She swung the shotgun around, pointing at all of them. Petty dove for cover behind the car, while Gray stood next to his daughter, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.

Through his tendrils Jommy sent questing thoughts, soothing emotions. During the four years he had lived here with the old woman, he had done much work to alter her personality, to smooth over the corruption in her twisted mind. He had changed her into some semblance of a normal human being, but she had been through much recently—and he hadn't been around to reinforce his work. The old woman certainly didn't know how to show compassion—at least not naturally.

"Granny, is this any way to say hello?"

"I would prefer to say goodbye. Or better yet, rest in peace."

Still smiling, Jommy was sure he could do this. No one in the world knew Granny and her weaknesses better than he did. The greedy woman had manipulated him when he was just a boy, coerced him into committing many crimes. But she had also saved him from killers like Petty. He had owed her a debt of gratitude, though by any reasonable measure, he had already paid her back a thousand times over.

"Well, for my part I'm glad to see you alive and healthy. After the tendrilless almost destroyed this valley, I wasn't sure just how you had recovered."

The old woman cackled, still gripping the shotgun. "Oh, Granny's good at surviving. Do you have any idea how much misery you put her through? How much work it was to rebuild this house?"

In all the time he had known the old woman, Granny had been allergic to physical labor. He stepped closer until the shotgun barrel was only a few feet away, still pointed directly at his chest. "And it looks like you did a fine job."

"Damn right I did." Four of her chickens strutted around the yard in front of them. One scuttled under the big car. "I went through a lot of hard times because of you, Jommy Cross." Maintaining her huffy act, she glared at Kier Gray and Kathleen. "And if one slan wasn't enough to cause me misery, who are all these people? Are they slans, too?"

Petty barely poked his head up from behind the car. One of the chickens pecked at his ankle, and he cried out in pain, kicking at the bird. Feathers flew as it ran squawking toward Granny.

Jommy extended a hand behind him; Kathleen came forward and took it. "This is Kathleen Layton. She's the love of my life." The young woman blushed.

Granny grew misty eyed for just a moment, then forced her wrinkled face into a scowl. "How sweet. And what about the other two? And you better impress me. Otherwise, why should I keep you here on my property? Granny's got enough shotgun shells for all of you."

"That man cowering behind the car is the great slan hunter, John Petty, chief of the secret police."

Granny grinned with her papery lips. "Oh, Mr. Petty! I've admired your work."

The slan hunter blinked at her, then stood to his full height. Ashes and soot from the car smeared his chest, cheeks, and jacket.

"And this is Kier Gray, the President of Earth," Jommy said. "Is that impressive enough for you?"

Cradling the gun in the crook of one arm, Granny fumbled in a pocket of her apron and withdrew a ten credit note, flapping it to unfold the paper. She held it up with her bony fingers, stared at the portrait on the money, comparing it with Gray. "Yes, that's him all right. You haven't aged a bit, Mr. Gray."

The President couldn't shake Granny's hand because she was gripping the shotgun too tightly. Jommy could tell the old woman was relaxing, but she wanted to maintain her semblance of power for as long as possible. It was Granny's way.

"From what the wireless says, he's not President of much anymore. I wasn't surprised to hear about those evil slans attacking. I always knew there were thousands of them just waiting to come after decent, law-abiding humans."

"They aren't slans, Granny. They're a different breed—"

"They're all slans to Granny! And I wouldn't be surprised for a second to find out that you and all your ilk were behind this."

Kathleen looked indignant. "We most certainly aren't! We've been hunted down. The grand palace is destroyed."

"Don't excite yourself, Missy. This is a peaceful valley, and I intend to keep it that way—through force of arms if necessary." She looked down at the shotgun, then finally rested the stock on the porch beside her. "And having you folk here increases Granny's danger. Who knows how many people are after you? Could be angry mobs, could be assassins . . . maybe more slans, maybe even secret police."

Then her eyes got that familiar greedy gleam. "Hmm, on the other hand, there'll be a big reward for you. Could be enough money to put a nice addition onto the ranch house."

Gray's rich familiar voice was very regal. "I'll make you a proposal, ma'am. As the President of Earth, I could dredge up a ransom a lot larger than any reward offered by those hunting for us. Consider it your reward for services rendered."

"It would be more money than one woman could imagine," Petty said.

She turned her steely glare at him. "Granny has a very good imagination, Mr. Petty." The wheels were turning in her head. "But if the world is overrun by slan traitors, how can even President Gray pay me anything? Sounds like your wallet could very soon be empty."

The President turned on his charm. "Think of it this way: If the world is destroyed by our enemies, how could you spend a reward even if you have it? It makes much more sense to help us out, and then send us a bill."

Granny considered for a long moment and then, in a fluid motion as fast as a snake striking, she reached down and snatched up the chicken pecking around the flowers at the porch. She lifted it into the air and wrung its neck. The bird barely had time to squawk.

"All right, you can stay for supper." The old woman grinned. "Then I'll show you how I welcome my guests."

[CHAPTER 20]

Once she entered the library's archive vault, the lights came on automatically, powered by the emergency generator. The stale air had a metallic flatness of recyclers, filters, and dehumidifiers.

Anthea saw a maze of wonders, historical treasures beyond her wildest imagining. Even with her new speed-reading ability, she had a lot to study. Standing inside, she just stared for a moment; her baby's small hazel eyes were hungry, looking around him.

Metal shelves were stacked high with bulging and yellowed boxes of documents. Books bore red-and-white Classified and Restricted Use stickers; many of the volumes seemed incredibly old. One small table held a stack of polymer-coated papers, preserved newspaper clippings from when slans had first appeared. Some clippings quoted outspoken supporters, while others declared that these new "terrible mutants" posed a severe danger to humanity. The dates on the newspapers came from a different calendar entirely; she couldn't tell how old they really were.

After finding a safe and comfortable place for the infant to rest, Anthea turned her attention to the old records. When tendrilled children first began to be born—unexpectedly, it seemed—they were treated as freaks, oddities, and misfits. By the time the public began to suspect the powers of the new race, a flood of slans had been born all around the world. Was the emergence of mutations an accident or part of a carefully coordinated plan? The records were unclear on that point.

As the first generation of slans grew to adulthood, the reports became darker and more disturbing. New radical groups formed, in particular a masked and black-robed society calling itself the Human Purity League. Bloodthirsty vigilantes, they hunted down and lynched slans.

Some brave first-generation slans acted as spokesmen on television and radio talk shows, begging for understanding and acceptance. The spokesmen claimed that slans did not choose to be what they were, but that they could not give up their birthright. They simply wanted to live in peace like any other human, to go about their business.

Their detractors, however, insisted that "slan business" was to destroy "inferior" humanity much the same way that modern man would have hunted down and eradicated Neanderthals. "How can a slan not feel this way?" claimed the leader of the Human Purity League. "They must believe themselves to be superior—and if they believe themselves superior, then all humans need to be concerned."

This attitude sparked protests from militant slans, who retaliated against the prejudice and persecution by standing up for themselves. "We are superior. We are the next step in human evolution. Why should we be ashamed of our skills and abilities? We should use them, not hide them."

Absorbing information as swiftly as she could sift through the records, Anthea read with growing horror. In four separate incidents, black-robed vigilantes dragged outspoken slan advocates out of their homes in the middle of the night, then drugged them into a stupor to dull their mind powers. The Human Purity League hacked off the tendrils of the advocates, then hung the victims from lamp posts or trees as an example "for all good humans to follow."

These terrifying acts drove many slans into hiding. Slans went to back-alley clinics to have their tendrils surgically removed so they could live quietly among human society. Entire networks and underground railroads sprang up to give these "neutered" slans new identities in safe places.

Saddest of all, Anthea thought, was one small article reporting (with no particular significance) that a large percentage of those shamed slans who had chosen the illicit tendril-amputation surgery exhibited an extremely high incidence of suicide afterward. Approximately eighty percent of those desperate enough to take such measures chose not to survive with dulled senses and mental blindness; they killed themselves within months.

The Human Purity League began to sport clean-shaven heads as proof of their tendril-free scalps. Flagrantly bragging about their actions, the Purity League insisted that anyone with long hair—male or female—had to be hiding something. Their thugs knocked down people in the streets and forcibly shaved their heads. Very few of their targets turned out to have tendrils, but this did not stop their antics.

Anthea felt a tightening in her gut as she continued reading. She already knew how history would turn out, and now she could see the events escalating toward a full-scale war between slans and normal humans.

Pushed into a corner, slan activists began to fight back more aggressively. They formed support groups and protective societies. They met openly where they thought their large numbers would guarantee them safety. But in a particularly appalling incident, the Human Purity League surrounded one such hall where they claimed the evil slans were plotting the overthrow of Earth. They barricaded the doors, barred the windows, then set the whole building on fire, burning to death over three hundred slans.

That had been the tipping point that turned slans entirely against their human persecutors. From there, it had only grown worse and worse.

Trembling with all she had learned, Anthea realized that very few people alive knew this truth. Humans still exhibited an undiminished hatred toward the mutant race. No wonder the true slans (if any of them still remained) lived in desperate hiding.

Weary of the sickening reports, Anthea stretched her legs and moved along the shelves, pulling down boxes and poking among the other paraphernalia. She found dusty devices, strange laboratory equipment that looked antique while at the same time futuristic. The sealed items were labeled merely "unknown slan weapon" or "dangerous slan mind-control device."

In one cabinet she found an old-fashioned video viewer and canisters of tapes. "S. Lann recordings: Original statements. Highest Security Access." Doctor Samuel Lann, the first investigator—some said the creator—of the slans! She knew she had to watch the tapes.

She lifted the viewer and brought it back to the table where the baby still lay, wide awake. She spent several minutes deciphering the player and loading the old and brittle tapes. She feared the tape might snap as it rattled through the viewing mechanism, but she had to learn what Samuel Lann had said in his own words.

Once she activated the power switch and heard the wheels clattering, jumpy images began to flicker on the screen. She saw a handsome man with dark-brown hair, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw that denoted confidence and trustworthiness. He seemed defiant yet patient as he faced his questioners. She realized that this was Lann and that these were interrogation tapes. Even back before the Slan Wars, there must have been an organization equivalent to the secret police and the slan hunters.

"Why do you fear my children?" Lann said. "I love them. Two fine daughters and a son—triplets—who happen to have been born with an unusual birth defect. They're no threat to you."

The interrogator said in a gruff voice, "Anyone with powers such as theirs is a threat to us. Anyone who has the ability to control minds must themselves be controlled before they harm our government or our population."

"But they're just children, barely fifteen," Lann said mildly. Even Anthea could tell he was hiding something.

"They are weapons, living weapons that could be turned against us if we do not control them."

Another voice, a woman's, spoke up from outside the field of view, "And how many others like this are there, Dr. Lann? How many children have tendrils? We've heard reports from other countries—countries that you visited. Wouldn't you like us to bring together these other mutants, just so we can give them proper medical care?"

Lann wasn't falling for it. "Ask the other parents. How can I judge how many have been born?"

"Born? Or created, Dr. Lann?" said the male voice.

"What are you suggesting?"

"In your laboratory we found and confiscated many devices, strange machines that had the ability to alter human brains."

The woman continued in a soothing voice, "Your research is well-known, Doctor. You are quite prominent in the field of mental enhancement."

"Yes, I have made a career of studying the nature of the human mind, of memories and knowledge. My dream is to record and share those components that make up a person's history and personality."

The male interrogator seized on the comment. "And did those diabolical machines also expand the brains of your children, mutate them into these powerful creatures who can manipulate thoughts? You could be manufacturing enhanced humans, putting your own fingerprints on the evolution of the race."

"Don't be absurd." Lann laughed at first, then saw that the others were serious.

"We know you have the capability," the woman added.

"No one has that capability. I may be a genius in my field, but not even my children—who are far smarter and more imaginative than I am—could concoct such a bizarre conspiracy of using mind machines to produce a whole new race of human beings. Surely you can see that's ridiculous?"

"What we see, Dr. Lann, is that your three children have powers we do not understand. We've already received reports from our counterpart agencies that an alarming number of others just like them have begun popping up in the most unlikely places. Children born with tendrils—"

The woman interjected, harsher now, "Or perhaps innocent babies were exposed to unusual rays produced by your machines, which caused the tendrils to grow. Are you seeding them around the world, Dr. Lann, trying to create a quiet revolution?"

"Of course not."

There was a long silence, and finally the interrogators decided to let him go. "You watch yourself, Dr. Lann—because we'll certainly be watching you."

With a shudder, Anthea removed the tape and put in the next one. Beside her, the baby was fully alert. When she looked at her little boy, she experienced a poignant understanding of how Dr. Lann must have felt upon seeing his own three children born with strange tendrils. Was he surprised, or intrigued?

There was no record of the woman who had been mother to those first three slan children. Had the mother been normal, or a secret slan all along? Maybe the race had existed far longer than anyone suspected. Had that long-forgotten woman—or Dr. Lann himself—been exposed to some strange chemical or mutagen? She doubted she would ever know.

In the next interrogation tape, Dr. Lann looked haggard. Purple bruises surrounded one eye, and a bandage covered his forehead. His clothes were rumpled, even torn, but his face held a murderously defiant spark that hadn't been there before.

"By being so outspoken, you call attention to yourself, Doctor," said the interrogator, a different one than before. "If you don't want to be singled out for our special attentions, then you shouldn't speak on the behalf of these dangerous mutants."

"Someone has to," Lann snapped back. "Someone needs to be the voice of reason. Obviously, it won't come from your new secret police organization." A stiff gloved hand struck him across the face. Lann spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at his interrogator. "You have no right to hold me here. I have committed no crime."

"You have attempted to destroy the human race. That's a significant crime in our book. Mutants are cropping up everywhere—it's a veritable plague! I doubt we could possibly stop the spread now, even if we exterminated all of them before they have a chance to breed. They keep appearing even from seemingly normal parents."

"I have nothing to do with that," Lann said. "It's the next step in evolution. Why fight it? Embrace it, for the betterment of the human race."

"There's nothing natural about it. Everyone knows of your machine for transforming babies into telepathic monsters. You use your rays on pregnant mothers and newborn infants, causing them to develop tendrils."

"That is absurd propaganda. Everyone 'knows' about it only because of the lies you and your organization have spread." Another slap across his face. Dr. Lann didn't even seem rattled.

"We know your son and daughters have barricaded themselves inside your fortress lab. One can only guess what they're doing in there. Is it true both daughters are pregnant? Who is the father?"

"None of your business. We have done nothing wrong."

"Then why won't they let us come in and inspect?"

Lann sneered at the interrogators. "Because you've already proved yourselves to be prejudiced oafs. You wouldn't understand what you find. You could easily plant evidence."

"If you cooperate, Dr. Lann, perhaps we'll be merciful."

"I think this interview is over." Lann struggled to stand up, but the gloved hands shoved him back down into the chair.

"It's over when we finish asking you questions."

But Lann clenched his jaws, crossed his arms over his chest, and refused to say another word. The tape ran for several long minutes. The interrogator prodded and provoked him, but he would not answer. Finally the recording ended.

Anthea could only stare. This information had been kept from the public! How could the government have sealed away such details from everyone? It was as if someone—someone in control—wanted the slans to remain hated.

[CHAPTER 21]

While the chicken was roasting in the oven, sending savory smells throughout the house, Granny showed the fugitives their separate rooms and allowed them to clean up and rest. But she had other business with Jommy.

As he followed the old woman, he suspected that she had a scheme up her sleeve. Even though he had worked to adjust her corrupt attitudes over the years, she could easily have reverted to her villainous old self. At the moment, however, he had few other choices.

Spry with eagerness, Granny walked around to the back of the house, where she pulled up the wooden door to the root cellar. Instead of the traditional smells of dirt, cobwebs, and old vegetables, Jommy saw bright lights, tiled walls, and metal stairs leading to one of his underground chambers. "I thought you might like to see this—I salvaged a few scraps. Important scraps." Her eyes glittered. "I'm sure it's worth something to you."

Jommy looked around in amazement and confusion. "But I triggered the self-destruct myself, just before I led the tendrilless away from here on a wild-goose chase! I gave you a hypnotic instruction."

"Yes, you did, but Granny's mind found a way around it." She propped her hands on her bony hips. "And I had a devil of a time saving some of your papers and blueprints and designs. I had burns and blisters on my face and hands for weeks!"

"But why would you do that? It was dangerous, and foolish." He stepped ahead, amazed to see so many intact boxes and shelves. He had expected it all to be destroyed, and he couldn't keep the appreciation and admiration out of his voice. "You saved so much of my work."

She snorted. "It could have been valuable. I always intended to sell it, but I wasn't sure how much it was worth. I didn't want to be cheated. Everybody wants to cheat Granny." She narrowed her eyes. "And what's it worth to you now, Jommy? Take a look around."

She led him into a chamber where she had stacked a pile of singed lab notebooks along with some of his personal inventions, instruments he used for testing circuits and improvising power sources. With a flourish, she opened a metal cabinet full of small components, valuable micro-generators, and a host of other devices the world had never seen before.

Jommy was grinning. "It's a starting point for me to rebuild everything, Granny. But it's still missing a great many of my records and notes. Most of those were burned, I'm sure."

"Oh, they burned all right. But Granny has more. Not everything was lost." Her expression was very devious. "During our four peaceful years here, when everybody liked each other in the whole valley, I used to sneak into your laboratories at night. I copied many of your notebooks—and you didn't suspect a thing!" She cackled. "It was just a precaution. Common sense, actually. You would have done it yourself. Maybe old Granny's figured out how to block your slan mind probing, eh?"

"Very risky, Granny. If the tendrilless got their hands on this information--"

She pointed a scolding finger at him. "Don't you get all high and mighty, Jommy Cross. It was a bit of insurance, and if you were to leave me—which you did—then I had something I could sell. I was sure there'd be many buyers for these notes and blueprints."

"So why didn't you sell them?"

Now the old woman looked away. "I was afraid to. What would I say? 'A slan criminal left me these designs because I sheltered him for so long?' I would have been arrested by people like that John Petty you brought into this house."

Jommy knew the old woman was right.

"So now you owe it to Granny. I'm an old woman with modest needs. I don't have to be filthy rich, but I wouldn't mind a little wealth here and there."

He knew Granny would never be satisfied. Only her constant, greedy dreams of having more kept her going.

She took him through several of his old laboratory rooms, which were cluttered and dark. The walls bore serious burn and smoke marks, and half of the lights didn't work. She'd used his precision testing room to store canned vegetables and sacks of sugar, flour, and beans. It would take him quite a while to clean and set up his lab again, but it was quite a head start.

Granny led him with her stiff-legged gait down the tunnel that went under the ranch house to one of the outbuildings. "This way. One last thing. Extremely impressive. And valuable—very valuable." Her chuckle turned into a dry cough.

They climbed a set of metal stairs. Granny flicked a switch to activate the lights, then raised a hatch to the small hangar shed Jommy had built. He climbed out onto the sealed concrete floor and just stared. "It's still intact!" His fast rocket-plane, which he had built for his special explorations.

"Not just intact, young man—it's fully fueled and ready to launch, just the way you left it."

He startled the old woman by throwing his arms around her in a hug. She felt like a sack of sharp elbows and ribs and shoulder blades. "Granny, you may well have helped save the world. That must be worth a very large reward. I am very impressed."

****

The next day, with Kathleen sitting beside him in the well-lit laboratory chamber, Jommy carefully cracked open the first of his father's notebooks in the stack on the table. He didn't want Petty close to him while he looked at the papers, and President Gray had left the two of them alone, preoccupied with possible plans to draw up a defense of what remained of civilization on Earth.

Jommy had slept for only a few hours the night before, too excited to lie around in bed. Kathleen also got up at dawn, looking refreshed and beautiful. Granny brought them a pot of strong coffee, and the bitter roasted scent drifted into the air. She had also cooked a big breakfast of fried eggs and potatoes, which Gray and Petty gladly devoured, but Jommy was too anxious to get to work in the laboratories.

"This is very interesting stuff," Kathleen said, scanning the records as she sat beside him. Granny had copied many of the documents onto fresh paper, but they devoted their initial efforts to the original records. "Your father's conclusions are . . . remarkable."

"He was killed when I was only six, but he placed these volumes in storage for me, to help me reach my potential. But they weren't just gifts—they were clues, his way of showing me what I could become. I wish I'd known him better." He heaved a sigh.

Kathleen picked up the bottom journal on the stack, the one most severely singed around the edges. Granny must have pulled it directly from the flames. She turned the brittle, brown pages, looking at Peter Cross's tight, neat handwriting. As she flipped from one page to the other, she frowned, then held one page up to the light. "Jommy, look! There's something more here. I thought it was just a stain, but . . ."

Leaning close, he saw faint lines and scrawls, diagrams and symbols that might have been shadows of letters etched into the paper. "Thermal-response ink. The heat from the fire must have activated it."

"It's all just gibberish. Can you decipher it?"

"If my father created the code, then I can translate it. It just might take a little while."

"And help," Kathleen added, "which I'm glad to provide."

Jommy picked up the other notebooks, carefully warmed some of the pages over a small flame, and saw that many of the pages did bear secondary messages. Messages for him. Peter Cross's notebooks were already so full of unexpected details and incredible revelations that he would never have thought to look for additional information.

But the information he found between the lines were even more amazing.

Jommy and Kathleen worked intensely for hours, transcribing the symbols onto clean sheets of paper. Jommy set up graphs to decode the messages, while Kathleen scrutinized them, remembering all the intensive schooling Kier Gray had given her at the grand palace. Back then, many detractors had complained about the waste of time and energy in educating a slan girl who was due to be executed on her eleventh birthday. But the President had insisted. She knew a great deal about encryption and secret messages, more than the palace workers ever suspected.

Jommy finally discovered a connection, figuring out that one of the symbols indicated a letter in his mother's name and another in Jommy's own name. From that point, they possessed a key to part of the alphabet, and by translating bit by bit, unfolding incomplete words and filling in blanks, they picked up speed. Jommy and Kathleen vigorously cracked the code, both of them grinning, their slan tendrils waving as they shared telepathic excitement. They laid out the real message Peter Cross had hidden in his journals.

Jommy read the lines of text, barely daring to breathe. "It's directions to my father's main laboratory. A major slan base containing technology far beyond anything I've ever invented. It was there that he did his greatest work."

"The diagrams are a map, and these numbers are geographical coordinates." Kathleen eagerly leaned over his shoulder, reading. Jommy felt her nearness, smelled the faint perfume of soap on her skin, and a great warmth filled him. She picked up on his thoughts and let her fingers trail down his shoulder as she kept reading. "It sounds like the greatest repository of slan knowledge in the world. Look here." She pointed. "He says it includes machinery and stored energy sources dating all the way back to the time of Samuel Lann himself."

"Maybe that's where the other slans are hiding. We could sure use their help. That place could be the key!" He looked up at her, suddenly frowning. "But now I've lost my father's disintegrator weapon, thanks to Petty. My father left it for me. He considered it his greatest, most dangerous weapon. With the tendrilless taking over the Earth, we have a huge fight ahead of us. We'll need every advantage we can get."

"Can you build another one? I'll help—"

"The technology is beyond even me, and my father didn't leave the designs. He considered the weapon to be too deadly for anyone but his own son. It could have been our greatest advantage." He squeezed her hand.

"No, Jommy. We ourselves are the greatest advantage. The disintegrator was destroyed along with the palace. You'll have to learn to do without it."

He caught his breath as an idea occurred to him. "Not necessarily. I placed a locator tag on the weapon." He gestured to the metal cabinet against the wall. "I can modify some of this equipment to pick up the signal. I could easily trace it, even if it's buried in the rubble of the palace. If I find the disintegrator, then we can hold our own—and take back the world."

She looked at him puzzled, not sure what he meant. Her tendrils waved in the air.

"I'm going back to the city. I intend to retrieve it, no matter what it takes."

[CHAPTER 22]

The last of the Samuel Lann records were a hodge-podge of media reports and news items. Wanting to know more, to know everything, Anthea viewed them all, drinking in the horrifying details.

One clip blared that the dangerous Dr. Lann had escaped from custody and interrogation. A squat, angry-looking man spoke to the reporter, "Our security is tight, but his mutants possess abilities against which we have no defenses. It's clear to me that Dr. Lann's own corrupted children were involved in the breakout. They twisted our minds, hypnotized us so they could free their father." He sounded quite indignant.

"This proves two things. First, this implies that Dr. Lann is indeed guilty of everything we suspect him of doing. If he had nothing to hide, as he insists, why would he escape? Second," the man pointed now at the camera, "it proves that these slans are a genuine threat. Look what happened here! With such mind powers, they could walk into any home, rob our families, assault our wives, kidnap—or even mutate—our children! Be afraid of them. We should all be very afraid."

The next clip showed a large building completely engulfed in flames. Fire vehicles and army troops had surrounded the structure, but did nothing to quench the blaze. The emergency personnel stood back and watched, waited, like predators. They didn't seem to be there to help.

Finally, a lone man broke out of the doors and ran away from the blazing laboratory. His clothes were on fire. He waved his hands, screaming. Anthea recognized Dr. Lann himself. Instead of helping him, though, the soldiers raised their rifles and shot him in full view of everyone. Lann's body jittered as a dozen bullets struck him full in the chest. Then he collapsed to the pavement.

"Do not approach!" a military commander shouted through a bullhorn. "There could still be some danger." The cordon remained in place as the uncontrolled fire raged through the laboratory. No one came within twenty feet of Dr. Lann's still-smoldering body.

Watching the records, Anthea felt sick.

"His three children are in there," bellowed the incident commander. "They're a bigger threat than the doctor is. If they come out, your orders are to shoot to kill. Don't give them a chance to twist your minds. Remember, these are slans we're talking about. They could hypnotize you into opening fire on a comrade. We can't risk that. Slans are a danger to all humanity, and