Space 1999 #4 - Collision Course Read online

  Mathias lifted a hand, fingers crossed as Helena began to cut open the bandages she had applied in the amniotic chamber. They were thick with dried blood, parting slowly beneath the gleaming jaws of the cutter.

  Handing over the tool to a nurse she gripped the cut edges and pulled.

  And froze.

  ‘Bob.’ Her voice was strained. ‘Bob—there isn’t a mark on him. His face is completely healed!’

  So was his entire body as far as medical science could determine. Koenig read the report and stared at Helena. Shrugging she turned to Mathias.

  ‘Bob? Can you explain it?’

  ‘A man crushed and dying, torn by the effects of a violent explosion, bones shattered, tissue pulped—a man who within a matter of an hour manages to heal himself? No, Helena, I can’t explain it.’ Pausing he added, wistfully, ‘But I’d give ten years of my life to know how it was done.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll tell us.’ Koenig threw the report on the desk. ‘Not conscious as yet?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  ‘You aren’t sure?’

  ‘John, as far as this character is concerned, I’m not sure about anything.’ Mathias rose. ‘Helena, it’s time we made another check.’

  Koenig accompanied them into the intensive care unit where, behind a panel, the alien lay bathed in a bluish glow. Helena checked the monitor lights and pursed her lips at what the tell-tales registered.

  ‘Pulse strong, breathing regular, vitality factor incredibly high. Any normal person would be dead by now, but he isn’t normal, certainly not in human terms.’

  ‘What we need to know is precisely how he is abnormal,’ said Koenig.

  ‘Take your pick.’ Helena gestured at the dials. ‘That vitality factor, for example, is ridiculous. Even a man at the height of physical and mental fitness wouldn’t register at that level. The healing process is normally a matter of accelerated cell growth—in this case the acceleration is fantastic. And not just the production of scar tissue, John, but actual regeneration. There isn’t a trace of a scar or lesion, not even a thickening of the epidermis.’

  ‘Conclusion?’

  ‘It’s too early for that yet, John. We haven’t enough data. All I can make at this time is a few wild guesses. He is an alien, that we know. Regeneration of the type he displays is, on Earth, confined to certain lower orders such as crustaceans who can grow a new claw if one is lost, or a lizard which can grow a new tail. Maybe his race managed to incorporate that secret into their metabolism or maybe they just evolved with it.’

  ‘A handy little attribute to have,’ said Mathias. ‘Well, we can’t do anything standing around here. We’ve got those computer findings to correlate, Helena, and we still have to check those slides we took from our friend. If there’s nothing else, John?’ Koenig took the hint.

  Bergman was in his laboratory busy with a scrap of rock-like substance. He prodded it with a slender metal rod as Koenig crossed the room towards him.

  ‘When you were a boy, John, did you ever read a story about a substance which doubled and grew and doubled and just kept on growing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A pity, as I remember, it was a great yarn. This stuff reminds me of it.’

  ‘From the ovoid?’

  ‘Yes. I managed to blast free a fragment from where it’s starting to grow back over the door. It has an amazing structure based on a triple-bonding of mutually enhancing constituents. It isn’t just crytalline and monocomposite as you would expect normal rock to be. In fact it acts almost as if it were alive.’

  Koenig picked up the fragment and hefted it. It felt solid and as heavy as lead. The surface was smooth as if it had been machined.

  ‘It’s growing,’ said Bergman. ‘Multiplying itself as if it were a kind of yeast. My guess is that it’s feeding off the very radiation present in this room. Certainly the temperature has lowered since I brought it into the laboratory. You notice how low the albedo is; the stuff doesn’t reflect but sucks up energy like a sponge. Life, John, primitive and in the order of our own chemical compounds, but anything which eats, grows and perpetuates itself follows the basic pattern of survival,’

  Something over which philosophers had argued in the past and would do so again in the future, but Koenig had no wish or inclination to split hairs.

  ‘A coating then,’ he said. ‘Was a coating put over that ovoid?’

  ‘Put over or gained while in transit through space,’ corrected Bergman. ‘However I am inclined to think it was deliberately used. Coupled with the heavy doors, the locks and the booby-trap, I think we can guess why.’

  ‘To hide it,’ said Koenig. ‘To seal it in and to grow like barnacles over the original metal so that it would be impossible to recognize.’ He threw the fragment back on the bench and rubbed his hand. It was chilled. ‘Victor, if you wanted to destroy a thing like that how would you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bergman, flatly. ‘I don’t think that if can be destroyed. It lives on energy, don’t forget, and so will feed on any force you turn against it. Even if you managed to shatter it, it would grow again. A single, tiny crystal would reproduce to restore the entire mass.’

  ‘A single crystal,’ said Koenig thoughtfully. ‘Or a single cell.’

  ‘If that stuff were a man, yes.’ Koenig reached for his commlock. ‘Get me security. Security? Send men to guard the Medical Centre with particular reference to the intensive care unit. They are to prevent the patient under care from leaving the area. What?’ He frowned as he listened to the voice from the instrument. I see. Full red alert immediately. Take all appropriate action to isolate and negate the threat.’

  As the alarm began to echo through the base he said to Bergman, ‘Trouble, Victor. Our alien guest has run amuck.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  He stood at the intersection of two corridors, tall, arrogant, proud in his defiance. A man lay slumped at his feet, with two others wearing the same purple sleeve to one side. One of them moaned a little, twitching. The stun-guns he and his companions had tried to use lay where they had fallen.

  ‘They didn’t work,’ said Carter, He had met Koenig as he had come running to where the alien had been found. Three jolts, enough to drop an elephant, and they didn’t work.’ He lifted the laser he carried. ‘Shall I use this, John?’

  ‘Give him a warning. Fire close to his head.’

  The alien stiffened as Carter raised the weapon. Before he could move the pilot had fired, molten metal running from the point where the beam hit the side of the corridor Inches from the stranger’s head. The gun fired again, this time aimed at the floor, a beam of raw energy which could crisp and sear and burn through flesh and blood and bone.

  ‘Wait!’ The words were thick, becoming more clear as the alien continued. ‘Please . . . I must communicate . . . talk with you. I am Balor, citizen of the planet Progon. I . . . the words . . .’ The handsome face frowned, brows knitting as if the brain behind the lambent eyes was seeking, learning.

  A form of telepathic education, Koenig guessed. If so it was highly efficient.

  He said, ‘Why did you attack us?’

  ‘Commander, please believe me. I mean you no harm.’

  Helena had joined the group. She said, ‘We brought you here because you were injured—we wanted to help you.’

  ‘I understand that now,’ said Balor. ‘But when you blasted your way into the ovoid I was hurt, disoriented. When I regained awareness I was in some kind of box, my body encased in instruments. I had to escape. Then your guards attacked me and I had to defend myself. But I am a civilized man and when weapons of destruction are used it is time to cease conflict and to talk to each other. To find a common understanding. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Koenig. ‘Well talk, but not here. Let’s go into my office.’

  Curious glances followed the party as Koenig led the way through Main Mission, and he could guess why. The alien dominated the scene. Taller than the others, he radiated an almost visible
aura of vital power and he had already demonstrated his extreme physical strength.

  The door closed, the group assembled at his desk. Koenig said, ‘Balor, we could do with some explanations. First, how is it that you weren’t affected by the weapons used against you?’

  ‘The instruments designed to affect the nervous system?’ Balor smiled. ‘They have no effect against me. Neither would the beam you threatened me with.’

  Carter said, dryly, ‘It would be a mistake for you to gamble on that.’

  ‘It would be no gamble. You wish to prove my words? Then go ahead, shoot me if you wish, I assure you that no harm will be done. My body is indestructible.’

  Helena said, ‘Now wait a minute, Balor, we know that you have remarkable powers of regeneration, but your claim is—’

  ‘Fantastic, Doctor?’ Balor met her eyes. ‘I assure you that I do not exaggerate. And I am fully aware of the implication of my statement. If a thing is indestructible it will last forever. I am immortal.’ He had their attention and he held it, his voice quietening a little as he continued.

  ‘It was no accident of evolution which made me what I am. Like many of your number I am a scientist. In happier times on my world I studied the complex nature of cell composition; the essence of the vital life forces, the effects of controlled radiation on the nucleonic acids, the temporal interchange of sub-atomic particles. Our techniques and knowledge were great, but even so it took many years. Suffice to say that I succeeded. I learned how to eliminate the ageing process from living tissue, to achieve regeneration and to accelerate the healing process and to compress full basic knowledge of the overall pattern into each and every cell. Do you understand?’

  Bergman nodded. ‘Yes. So you learned these new techniques and you, naturally, applied them to yourself. Then—’

  ‘Not only to myself, Professor!’ Balor’s tone was sharp. ‘I gave the secret to my people and to my world. Death was defeated together with disease. Cripples became a relic of the past and life, to each, became an eternity of joy. Centuries passed and then a terrible malaise began to affect my people. They grew bored. Instead of devoting themselves to the pursuit of science and the search for knowledge they amused themselves with irrational pastimes—battles, wars, conflicts, strife of all kind, struggles which were futile because no one could be hurt and no one could die. A madness which I had not foreseen.’

  ‘Children,’ said Helena, quietly. ‘Did the treatment give sterility?’

  ‘Yes—and you have guessed the reason for the malaise and the hate which followed it. A hate directed against myself. The process of immortality could not be reversed and, when I admitted final defeat, they turned against me. A prison was built from adamantine materials and I was sealed in it and sent into space to wander for eternity. Can you begin to imagine the torment I suffered?’

  ‘A terrible punishment,’ said Helena sympathetically. ‘I can understand your people’s regret at having lost the ability to bear children, but to do that to a living, thinking man!’

  ‘I bear them no hatred. Time heals all wounds and a child must not be blamed for what it is. The power which guides the destiny of us all has saved me. You found me and released me from my prison. For that I am grateful. Grant me sanctuary and, in return, I will share my secrets with you.’ Balor paused, looking from one to the other, ‘You, Doctor! You, Professor! You, Commander! All of you—all will be as immortal as myself!’

  The cabin was like a museum, shelves littered with model aircraft, early spaceships, replicas of various types of Eagles. An airship swung on a thread, a flimsy construction of paper and bamboo that was a memory of the first heavier-than-air machine to leave the ground, a painted aerial fighter that made a livid splotch of colour.

  Baxter’s world and his life.

  He turned as a knock came from his door, opening the panel and staring at the tall figure of the alien. Balor smiled.

  ‘May I enter?’

  ‘Why not?’ The pilot gestured to a chair. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘No, my friend, I have come to help you, not myself. You take your flying very seriously, am I correct?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘And I understand that some minor physical disability has proved to be something of an inconvenience, yes?’

  Baxter looked at his hands. They were clenched, the knuckles white. He said, tensely, ‘If you’ve come here to mock me then get the hell out!’

  ‘Mock?’ The alien shook his head. ‘I offer you my help. I am a stranger, needing friends, and you could be one. If I heal your eyes—’

  ‘Mister, you do that and I’m yours for life. But if you’re kidding me—’

  ‘Relax, my friend. Trust me.’ Balor raised his hands and moved towards where the pilot stood, palms outward, thumbs lifted to touch the other man’s closed eyes. ‘It will only take a moment,’ he said quietly. ‘A simple adjustment and all will be well.’ His face changed, became suddenly gloating, an expression which Baxter was unable to see.

  An expression which vanished as Koenig entered the room.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I am helping your companion.’ Balor dropped his hands. ‘There, it is done. And now, if you will excuse me?’

  Baxter shook his head as the door closed behind the alien. His eyes, now open, looked dazed.

  ‘My head,’ he muttered. ‘There’s something—is that you, Commander?’

  ‘Yes. What was Balor doing in here?’

  ‘He came to help me. He promised to fix my eyes. My eyes!’ Baxter’s hand lifted, hovered inches from his distended pupils. ‘I can’t—you bastard! You lying bastard! I’ll kill you for that!’

  Models crashed as he turned, wood splintering, paper shredding, plastic shattering into jagged fragments. A slender cone of polished metal, the prototype of an early rocket ship, lay close and Baxter grabbed it, slashing with it, using it like a club.

  A blow sent Koenig staggering back with blood streaming from his temple.

  ‘Mike, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?’

  Baxter snarled, moving in, the model a swinging weight in his hand. Koenig dodged, felt his feet hit something which rolled, fell as the club slammed against his jaw.

  Baxter kicked, the toe of his boot driving against a rib, a knee, the point of the jaw. Desperately Koenig grabbed at his commlock, activated it as again the boot lifted.

  ‘Help! Baxter’s cabin! Come immediately!’

  Then the boot landed and Koenig fell into darkness.

  He awoke to stare at Balor’s calmly smiling face.

  ‘It seems I returned in good time, Commander.’

  ‘Baxter?’

  ‘Is unfortunately dead. Now, can you rise?’

  Koenig felt the grip of the hand, the tremendous. strength which lifted him with effortless ease. Wonderingly he touched his face, his jaw. It had been battered, the bone splintered, the nose broken, the skin torn and bruised. A boot had broken a rib—but there was no pain. He had been clubbed almost to death—but there were no marks.

  ‘You healed me,’ he said. ‘It had to be you.’

  ‘A small return, Commander, for you having released me from my prison.’

  ‘And Baxter?’ Koenig frowned, remembering. ‘You did something to him. Promised to restore his eyes, but something went wrong.’

  ‘No, nothing went wrong, Commander.’

  ‘But he couldn’t recognize me. He thought that I was you. He tried to kill me.’

  ‘And almost succeeded,’ said Balor calmly. ‘A most amusing episode. It is gratifying to know that your race can be manipulated so easily. The expenditure of one unit can be replaced later when I set up the breeding programme. From what I have learned your species multiplies very rapidly. That, too, is gratifying to learn.’

  Koenig said, flatly, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Isn’t it clear? You disappoint me, Commander. I had considered you to be a person of sharp-intelligence. I am taking over your lit
tle world. You will remain in nominal control, but you will take your orders from me. Any reluctance to obey will result in immediate punishment.’ Balor threw open the cabin door. Outside, in the passage, lay the slumped figures of three security men—the guards who had answered the appeal for help.

  ‘They aren’t dead,’ said Balor casually, ‘but I have no inclination to heal their injuries. Your own doctors can do that while I—’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Koenig. ‘Insane!’

  Balor snarled, his hands reaching out, gripping, lifting as they tightened. Koenig swung, choking, tearing at the fingers clamped around his throat. A moment before he lost consciousness he was slammed down on his feet.

  ‘I will not kill you, Commander, that would be too easy for you. But if you annoy me again I will break certain bones and rupture certain organs. You will live on as a cripple and I shall gain pleasure from watching you. But you will not die, John Koenig—I will make sure of that!’

  Bergman, said, bleakly, ‘A psychopath. A madman. Well, now we know.’

  ‘The paintings,’ said Helena. ‘They were put in the ovoid to remind him of why he had been punished. John, he must be a monster! Why didn’t they kill him?’

  ‘They couldn’t,’ said Koenig. ‘He’s immortal.’

  A creature who could not be killed, trapped and confined by a race who could do nothing but hurl him into space away from all human contact. Like a disease they had isolated, but could not destroy. An evil entity now released and raging through the base.

  Kane called from the computer. ‘Lower section monitors destroyed, Commander. Alien now heading towards power junctions F and G.’

  ‘Continue monitoring progress.’

  Balor was running wild, destroying, forcing the personnel to accept him as their ruler. Three men lay in the Medical Centre, seven more nursed their bruises, two women lay unconscious, their uniforms smeared with blood.