Prophet of ConFree (The Prophet of ConFree) (43 page)

"We already have," Streetwalker said. "We believe you. And so – you had this dream about Demon Hill. A very vivid dream."

"That's right."

"And you believe it came from the Brights?"

"Well, where else would it come from? In view of its accuracy?"

"Your warname is Prophet. What's that all about?" Streetwalker continued.

"That has nothing to do with it. My buddy started calling me Prophet because…well I was always dreaming and speculating about the future. Wondering what would happen to us and so forth."

"Did you ever make any good predictions on your own – before you ran into this Bright?"

"I didn't run into him. We met on the battlefield. And he was dying. No, I never made any predictions on my own."

"But your dream wasn't exactly what you later saw at Demon Hill, was it?"

"Well, it was pretty damned close. The site was exactly right – and the column of Demons and the saucers. The only thing that was off was that they had shields up in my dream but down in real life. And the female captives – they weren't there in real life."

"Why do you think that was?" Paleface asked.

"I don't know."

"Have you had any more of these dreams since then?" he continued.

"No."

"You realize that your alert saved plenty of Legion lives and turned a Demon surprise attack into a brilliant Legion victory."

"You make that sound like an accusation."

"Sorry," Paleface said. "It's just that it's so important. And we're trying to understand it. All right, no more questions. Just one more thing. We want to do a brainscan. It won't take long."

"Can I go back to my squad after that?"

"Certainly. Please follow me."

Δ

The brainscan didn't take long – just a few fracs. But they asked me to take a break while they examined the results and consulted with each other. Fine. I found my way to the nearest mess hall and indulged in an outrageously wonderful meal. I felt bad knowing that Delta was out there in the mud picking at Legion rats. I put a whole bunch of pastries into a bag to take back to the squad.

When my comset pinged, I returned to the consulting room and there were a whole slew of new people there – some of them were in uniform. Oh no! A silver star – a Legion general! I snapped to attention.

"Have a seat, please," the general said. "I'm General Hood. Prophet, I'd like to congratulate you for your initiative and daring in your successful recon of Demon Hill that resulted in a decisive allied tactical victory over the D's. I feel a whole hell of a lot better knowing I've got people like you out there."

"Thank you, sir! It wasn't just me, sir. My squadie Nitro was with me. And our attack dog, uh, wolf, Blackie. He spotted the D's before we did."

"An attack wolf. Remarkable! They didn't tell me that. Well look, Prophet. All these white-coated folks are very interested in how you predicted the location of those D's. They tell me you had physical contact with a Bright. And they've just brainscanned you. The scan revealed something remarkable, but they don't quite understand what it is. They have consulted with me, and I checked with the Ministry of War and I was told that a whole lot of people on Quaba want to talk with you and follow up. Galactic Information is the lead agency. So you've got a TDY to Quaba, starting as soon as this meeting ends."

"Sir, I was told I could return to my squad. My squad leader said he needs me."

"Galactic Info needs you more. We'll take care of your squad, don't worry. Sorry, Prophet. I know exactly how you feel. But if you are some kind of info channel from the Brights, this is a critical national development that must be investigated and exploited. Something like this could mean the difference between victory and defeat – as you've just demonstrated."

"Yes sir." What the hell else could I say? Damn it!

I thought a lot. I just tried to stay out of the way of those holy soldiers. I couldn't help them – they had plenty of help. But I guess it got me thinking. And I think it helped me out. I had been feeling helpless and down – leaving the squad like that. But I didn't have any problems – not like they did. I decided I'd better stop whining mentally about my situation, and make the best of it. After all, if Galactic Info felt what happened to me was worth investigating, it probably was. And if they believed it was important – even critical – it probably was. So I'd better stop resenting, and resisting. Who the hell was I, anyway? I was a pretty small cog in the Legion's gigantic machinery of war and they certainly knew better than I what was important and what was not. I decided I'd cooperate, get it done, and get back to Delta as soon as I could.

When we broke out of stardrive and approached Quaba, I got a lump in my throat looking out the simport at that gigantic, stunningly lovely world. Here was ConFree's beating heart, the Confederation's capital world. It had been one of the first refuges for the Outworlder race in the Outvac, when our people were fleeing System slavery, and now it was the galaxy's foremost example of political and economic perfection. ConFree was strong and free and wealthy and vigilant, determined to protect what it had created. And it was all run by the people, and any thug or lawyer or government bureaucrat who thought they could attack the people, or steal from them, was rapidly tracked down and executed for treason. Yes, that was what we were fighting for – the women and children of ConFree. They maybe couldn't defend themselves, but we sure as hell could. Standing there in my spotless blacks, looking out over that wonderful world, I felt great. I felt like a giant. All right, we'll see what they want. Then it will be back to Delta – where I belong.

Δ

I reported to Galactic Information, in a massive green stone bunker on the outskirts of Quaba City. Everything about that great installation spoke about power and purpose. It was beautiful in simplicity and austerity – as if the focus of everyone there was on the search for the truth. That was their motto, carved into stone – Know the Truth. I met with the Director himself. I guess my mission must have been viewed as important, otherwise I wouldn't be meeting with the Director of Galactic Information.

"Good morning, trooper," he said. "Prophet, is it? My name's Snow Leopard. Have some dox." He was clad in black. He had a very pale face with white-blond hair and hot pink eyes and blue veins that stood out against his temples. His assistant brought us both dox. She was an attractive female. But I repeat myself. Truth is, I find almost all females attractive.

Snow Leopard looked me over as he sipped his dox. "What happened to you is extremely important," he said. "We've got to get to the bottom of it, and find out what the Brights did to you, and why, and whether or not it was purposeful or just an accident that has given you the power to predict future events. If you really have that, it could be invaluable. Have you had any further dreams, or insights into the future?"

"No sir. Everything seems to be normal."

"I see. Well, the lifies note otherwise. They saw something abnormal in your brainscan so they'll be investigating that. You'll be in their hands until they’re through. Please cooperate and let them do their job. Then we'll meet again and discuss the result. By the way – good work on Demon Hill. That was outstanding."

"Thank you, sir. It was a team effort."

"Everything we do is a team effort. Trooper, if you need anything special, feel free to contact me. Meantime, try to get some rest in the hospital. My assistant has an aircar waiting for you."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir." Hospital! I'm going to a hospital?

Δ

Not much later I found myself checking into the Legion Neurological and Physiological Reconstructive Recovery Hospital. This was the same hospital where they had sent Ice and Saka – I’d get to see them! Great! The Recovery Hospital was for those complex cases that could not be addressed elsewhere. If you landed there, it meant there was something seriously unusual about your case.

"Prophet? I'm Doctor Wellesley. I'm the lead doctor for your case. How are you?" Dr. Wellesley was a tall, rangy Outworlder with a close-cropped haircut. He wore a white coat. They must issue those in medical school.

"I'm fine, sir. I feel good." I was sitting on the edge of my bed, in my personal cube, and they had made me change into a flimsy hospital gown that seemed to be made for some unisex creature much smaller than me. A nurse had already clipped a little device to my gown that led into a tube they had inserted into a vein on my arm.

"Good. Good. We'll do our best to keep you feeling comfortable as we do our investigation. Just relax and all will be well."

"I'd like to visit some friends who are patients here," I said.

"Please open your mouth," the nurse said. I did so and she squirted something into my mouth from a little tube. "Swallow," she said. I did so. It was bitter.

"Certainly," Doctor Well said. "Nothing could be…" but by then I was fading out, floating away, collapsing.

The next few days were very confusing. I was unconscious most of the time. When I was conscious, I was all doped up and not in control. It was like a dream – a very bad dream. Nurses and doctors were always hovering over me. Much of the time my head was in a brainscan and I got to listen to a lot of conversation as the gang viewed the results on their d-screens. Other times I was moving through the hospital halls on an air stretcher, watching the ceiling lights flow past me dreamily. I believe they fed me through a tube. Sometimes they had to clean up my defecations in the toilets with a hose because I could not go by myself. I was just a spectator to all this, when I was conscious, although much of the time I was unconscious.

Finally they gave me a break. The activity stopped. I awoke, slowly, with a splitting headache. I struggled out of bed and staggered around my cube and visited the attached bathroom. As I painfully emerged, weak and dizzy, a nurse came into my cube. During my dreamtime she was Nurse Grim, a distant, stern authoritarian.

"Nurse Grim." I said. "You slipped up. I'm conscious."

"My name is Doctor Graham," she replied, "not Nurse Grim. What are you doing?"

I ripped the transfusion device and intravenous tube from my arm and smashed them against the wall.

"Don't do that! How dare you! What is your problem?"

"You're not much of a doctor," I said. "What was in that thing? What were you putting into my system?"

"It's neurotrophin stimulant. It's exactly what you need."

"And exactly what does that do? Is that why I'm crapping in my pants all day?"

"Well, among other things it contains a muscle relaxant. Yes, one of the side effects is…"

"Get outta my sight or I'm gonna kick your ass right out the door. And tell Doctor Wellesley I want to see him. Now!"

By the time Doctor Well showed up, I was almost fully dressed in my Legion blacks.

"What's the problem, Prophet?" he asked. Nurse Grim was right behind him.

"The problem is your program stinks! Your doctors and nurses have been treating me like a slab of beef. I've been mostly unconscious these last few days. I don't even know how many days it's been. Nobody has told me, at any point, what they are doing to me or why. Nobody has consulted with me on anything. They just shot me full of drugs and pushed me around from place to place on an airstretcher and fed me through a straw and cleaned my ass with a hose. We don't even treat prisoners of war that badly, and in case nobody told you we're all supposed to be on the same side. Hospitals are supposed to make you well. I felt fine when I entered this place but now I'm exhausted, I have a splitting headache, I've got diarrhea, and I'm ready to drop. Well, as far as I'm concerned, you can all go to hell. Right now I'm going to visit my friends who are also patients in this house of horrors, and if you're treating them as bad as you've been treating me, I'm going to submit a detailed report to the Director of Galactic Information. But before I do that I'm going to kick your ass!"