W. Michael Gear - Spider 2 - Way Of Spider

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The production of this manuscript in its present form would have been

impossible without the vital input of a handful of key people. I owe a great

deal to my cherished wife, Kathy, who spent countless hours reading,

commenting and correcting. You wouldn't be reading this were it not for her.

Sharon Jarvis, my agent at the time, did a wonderful job working with DAW. My

ex-editor mother, Katherine P. Cook, provided her years of journalistic

insight and keen judgment. And finally, editors remain the overworked, unsung

heroes of the publishing business. With pleasure, therefore, I would like to

acknowledge Sheila Gilbert, of DAW Books, for the incredibly perceptive

comments and salient suggestions she provided. The book is stronger as a

result.

Thank you all.

CHAPTER 1.Spider would decide the fate of a planet.

Men and women peered upward into the flickering darkness, anxious, mouths

working silently as jagged fingers of actinic death ripped the soundless

heavens above. Evil strobes of violet boiled from one part of the heavens,

searing the cloud cover, rolling across the arch of the night to pulse in

weird lavender.

Star lightning-frightening in its unworldly silence-wove back and forth over

the village as starships flashed death beyond any Romanan's comprehension.

Hushed voices, abstracted and unreal, whispered in awe to either side of Susan

Smith Andojar. She looked around her as another streak of violet illuminated

angular, weatherhardened faces; their strength, spirit, and character betrayed

by the squint of an eye, the set of a hard mouth. Tension-so common to her

violent people-crackled in the air.

Wrinkled, age-battered old men, dark eyes gleaming, peered upward, fighting

their failing vision. Twisted mahogany lips pulled over toothless gums in a

rictus of dread and hope.

Silent, terror-locked women-some young, some oldstood, helpless. Others sat on

gay-colored wool blankets spread over hard-packed dirt, or perched in the beds

of wagons and leaned against pillows made of coats, packs and hides. Here and

there arms cradled an infant who slept soundly, heedless of the searing arcs

of death overhead.

The few warriors glared helplessly upward. Impotent agony glazed their eyes.

At each flash of the star weapons they shifted, shaking rifles futiiely at the

cloud-masked sky, fingering the human-hair coups dangling from their vests and

belts-knowing they missed the greatest opportunity for status and honor to

befall the People since the revolt against the Sobyets so long ago.

Man, woman, and child, they prayed to Spider-prayed the star death would end,

leaving their world alive.

Susan snugged her worn blanket tightly around her shoulders and walked slowly

from the crowd. Even while death glittered in the skies, she existed

separately, alone, mocked by Spider. As so often before, she sought sanctuary

within, away from her dead parents' people. In the deadly dancing lights, she

followed the way she knew by heart. Climbing up on the corral poles, she

leaned against one of the big posts, watching the eerie skies, waiting,

wondering.

The clouds had drifted, scudding rapidly to the east. A painful actinic

brilliance burst across the tortured sky. She pulled the coarse wool blanket

over her head. Terror breathed close. Would her soul go to Spider in that last

hellish instant?

The chill of the spring night crept into her. Scents of woodsmoke and dung-fed

fires intermixed with horse, manure, rot and spices drifted on the wind. Not

even the blanket could hide the macabre presence of the star weapons.

The renegade ship Bullet still fought. Worse, the Prophets said nothing! Two

had gone with the star men in their AT and risen into the heavens. The other

two sat in their room in the ancient wreck of the Nicholai Romanan and waited,

nodding, smiling, driving the People mad with their refusal to talk of the

future.

Susan chewed her lip, wondering what the stars looked like from so high in the

death-laced sky. Even if the Spider warriors and their star friends won, she

would never know. Her heart skipped a beat. Only what if. ... Quickly, she

clamped down on the idea, driving it from her mind. Such things were not for a

woman of the People.

Her uncle, Ramon Luis Andojar-disgusted by her odd ways and dreams-already

pushed her to marry Willy Red Hawk Horsecapture. Through bride price, he hoped

to get some return on the burden of her existence. Susan grimaced under the

security of her blanket. She hated Horsecapture. He might be a noted warrior.

Many eyes followed him through the camp. People spoke well of him. Only he

never hid his arrogance. Something sinister lay behind his hot black eyes: a

menace of evil and dishonor.

Marry him? Never!

No one understood! Susan could hear and feel her molars grinding in

frustration. Another light flashed, brighter than the last. Peeking out from

under her blanket, she looked up at the heavens, seeing a small rain of

meteors. The death of one of the star ships? The breeze rustled with the soft

nervous cries of the People.

A bleak future stretched before her. Death from star weapons-or marriage to

Horsecapture. She had no escape. Better a quick burning finality as star

weapons blasted World rather than a slow death of drudgery. The thought of

Horsecapture pawing her body, his child growing within her. ...

Physically sick, Susan Smith Andojar clutched herself, trapped. She couldn't

put Horsecapture off forever. Not with her half-crazy uncle-his eyes on

Horsecapture's prize horses-demanding she marry and cease being a burden to

him, his family, and her clan.

She clenched long brown fingers into a fist and sought to quiet the feelings

of frustration and anxiety. Spider had given the People law. Spider had

decreed that men should behave one way and women another. Spider had freed

them all from the Sobyets and brought the People here to World to live

unfettered those many centuries ago.

She could not fight Spider. She could not outsmart him, trick him, or

out-argue him like she did her kinsfolk. She had to obey. Spider was God.

Even in her depression she realized the lights of death had gone black.

Looking up, she saw nothing but stars and the first moon rising beyond the

clouded Bear Mountains to the east. Faint yellow flickers streaked like

meteors, the ATs, the Attack Transports of the star men.

Who had won? Would she live? Perhaps the star men in the village would know!

She jumped lithely to the dung-soft dirt, calmed the horses, and darted off

between the dark houses.

The star men had assembled in one of the meeting halls. Susan stopped in the

doorway, suddenly frightened by her temerity. They knotted around a machine

that showed pictures. One of the men saw her from the corner of his eye. A

white uniform covered him from throat to foot, while his hands were bare. The

wide belt at his hip carried curious metal boxes and hoops of wire. Wide-set

blue eyes studied her from a face oddly pale as if it had never been in the

sun. His mousy hair, close cropped, wouldn't be worth a coup.

He straightened and turned, fatigue and concern lined into his face. Though

his voice was pleasant, he addressed her in incomprehensible star speech.

"I want to know who won," Susan told him, keeping her eyes lowered

appropriately for an unmarried woman speaking to a man.

The glance had been enough. Never would she cease to wonder at the incredible

clothing they wore-dazzling whites of soft, body-conforming light material.

Never did they wear heavy hides or scratchy wool. Odd metal things hung at

their belts, mysterious with magical qualities, allowing them to see or talk

across immense distances. The star men themselves displayed a wealth of

variations in their skin tones and hair colors. Even their eyes came in all

shades of green, blue, gray, and brown.

The man picked up a small box from the table. Attention centered on her now

and she wished she could sink into the rough pole wood planks of the floor. It

had been a mistake to come here. She turned to go, cursing herself for a fool.

"Wait!" The voice came in the tongue of the People. She turned, startled by

the mechanical sound.

While the others watched for her reaction, the man talked into the little box

he held between his hands. The words sounded tinny, oddly inflected. "Your

people are fine. The starships have ceased fighting. There is a truce."

"They will not destroy the Settlements?" Susan's heart beat rapidly.

"No one else will die," the box intoned after the man had spoken.

She heard with dull acceptance. Uncle Ramon would be more adamant.

Horsecapture had been involved with the star men since the beginning. Ramon

would tell her to accept Horsecapture. If she didn't, the clan council would

intercede and just give her to him-possibly without bride price: humiliation

on top of everything else.

She looked at the star people, wondering again at the women among them, now

tight-faced, staring at her with curiosity in their eyes. She'd seen the

female marines and marveled, wondering if they were for the men's pleasure at

first. Then she'd seen them with their blasters, walking as tall and proud as

the men. In fear, she'd hesitated to speak to them.

The big ship they called Bullet had come from the stars half a year earlier,

kicking off immediate warfare between the Spider and Santos tribes. At the

same time the star men had tried to conquer the People. With rifles and raw

courage they fought back against the ATs and blasters, screaming their

devotion to Spider, dying with honor as violet bolts charred and exploded

their flesh. Spider had been honoredtheir souls had returned to God.

John Smith Iron Eyes, the greatest Spider warrior, had saved them, by forging

an alliance between the tribes and the star men. An uneasy peace existed while

Spider and Santos warriors trained in the remote mountain camp called the

Navel. They had gone to the starship and the star Colonel, Damen Ree, had

decided to fight for the People. Rumors spread that Spider had spoken to him

through the Prophet, Chester Armijo Garcia, and made him one with Spider.

When other star men came from the blackness, Bullet had fought for the People.

Because of Bullet, the People would live. So said this star man with his

talking box. Spider had saved his People again. There would be no Sobyets to

come and make them prisoners.

She knew what these star men saw as she stood, cowering in the doorway. A

tall, thin girl with long black stringy hair, her dirt-shiny blanket-a castoff

she'd found-hiding her body. But they could see her haunted eyes, the bruises

from Ramon's frequent beatings.

"I give you thanks," Susan murmured under her breath turning to leave again.

"Wait!" Again the box called to her. She kept her eyes lowered. "You have been

out among the people. Are they mad at us?"

Susan looked up. "I don't understand." She frowned. "Why would they be mad at

you? The star men with John Smith Iron Eyes fought for us. You are our

friends. You have done the People honor! We salute you."

The man paled, shifting uneasily. Susan looked around the table, seeing men

and women avoid her glance, afraid to meet her suddenly curious stare.

"You do not know?" a woman asked.

"Know what?" Susan shook her head.

"We refused to fight," another man said through the translator. "We couldn't

go against our oaths. Bear arms against the Patrol. We are called traitors."

She could see shame on their faces. "Then why are you here?" Susan demanded,

feeling her blood rise. Were these cowards? The thought chilled her. Could

star men . . .

The first man had a wry smile on his lips. "We were placed here as hostages to

keep your village safe. Colonel Ree hoped the Directorate wouldn't destroy you

ifVe were in the way." His face reddened; but ironic amusement danced

in his eyes. "I think we're just as glad it worked out this way."

"Are you cowards?" she asked, scorn edging her voice. The man listened to the

machine translate and calmly shook his head. "No, we just had a different

loyalty. We did what we believed right. Is that cowardice?"

The sudden thought of her own outcast status crossed her mind. She didn't bow

to the will of the People and accept her place as a woman. Perhaps these star

men were the same?

"No," she whispered.

A question nagged at her. Screwing up her nerve she asked, "Why do you have

women with you?" Susan looked at the females where they stood, heads cocked at

her question. The sudden chatter of voices confused the translator. Finally

one of the women asked, "Why wouldn't we be here?"

Susan caught the note of uncertainty in her voice before the translator

uttered it.

"Because a woman's place is different." She sounded sullen and knew it.

One of the women, older, with steel-gray eyes walked forward. "A woman can do

anything a man can ... if she's willing to work to be as capable."

Tightness caught at her heart, a sudden leap of hope. "You . . . are a

warrior?"

The woman grinned. "I am. I'm a corporal-an officer. Uh, I suppose like your

war chiefs."

"Like a war chief?" Susan gasped, fingers to her lips in awe. "How? How did

they let you?"

"Let me?" the corporal mused, face lined. A hardness glittered in those gray

eyes. "I just . . . well, they accepted my application to join the Patrol. I

studied hard, passed the exams, and proved-"

"But, the men, didn't they try and ..." Her voice froze as she looked in fear

at the star men, all of whose eyes were focused on her.

The corporal nodded, clasping her hands together. "Ah, I see. Your Romanan

ways are different from ours. Our technology . . . uh, the machines we use to

alter our environment . . . have freed us from sexual role differentiation. We

don't-" For a brief moment, the room seemed brighter. "Could

I ... Could I come with you? Be a warrior? Go among the stars with-"

"Susan!" Her uncle's voice cut like a lash. "Get away from there!"

She turned as her uncle closed-ducked the backhanded blow he aimed at her

head-and scuttled into the darkness.

"You will never learn to be a woman! You are shamelessT he shouted after her.

"How could my beloved sister bear such a one as you?"

Behind her, she heard his whining tones as he apologized to the star men. Then

she rounded the corner of the building, bare feet pounding the dirt as she ran

into the safe arms of the night.

A room of swirling blue, seemingly endless, without depth or dimension, faded

into forever. Director Skor Robinson stared absently at the cerulean haze,

frightened by the thumping heartbeat in his chest. He twisted slightly in the

zero g environment, the catheters which kept him alive bending like snakes

behind him.

Fear: It filled him, pulsing along his veins, shivering up and down his

atrophied spine.

War! Death! Violence in Directorate space! A battle stopped at his discretion.

On his responsibilility, he'd concluded a pact with barbarians and traitors.

What have I wrought, Prophet? he'd asked the Romanan shaman, Chester Armijo

Garcia.

Freedom . . . freedom . . . freedom . . . The words echoed hollowly through

Skor Robinson's huge brain. In one fleeting moment, with one decision to spare

the Rebel ship, Bullet, and the Romanans it sheltered, his universe changed,

transmuted to a different reality. Freedom . . . freedom to fear!

I have learned, Prophet. . . Skor echoed to himself, each of his many segments

of mind reacting, evaluating, afraid, . . . that freedom is the ultimate

condemnation. Yes, I shall learn from the universe. What will it teach me?

What horror is loose with your Romanans?

Skor winced, grunting, as he forced himself to raise his reed-thin arm to

touch the gray metal headset encapsulating his huge bulbous cranium. Pain

lanced up his arm-the legacy of muscles unused since birth. The sensation of

touch awed him, the cool feel of the headset strange tfhder his bone-thin

fingers.

A caricature of a man, Skor floated, weightless. The most powerful man in

human space, he shuddered under the impact of his thoughts. Alone! I am a

mutant! Grown in a culture vat, tailored to interface with the Gi-net

computers, I can never be fully human!

Skor blinked, trying to flex atrophied limbs, feeling the sting as residual

strands of muscle strained.

Director? Assistant Director Semri Navtov's call sought again to interrupt.

Strands of inquiry began wheedling into Skor's mind as other urgent requests

for information prickled at the edges of his consciousness.

I am free. Condemned.

Skor firmly denied the frantic calls jamming the QED switches of his Gi-net

interface. A vast feeling of emptiness filled his mighty mind as he studied

the effects of the message still filtering through space.

Leeta Dobra had wreaked havoc before her death in the fight over World. She

had broadcast the entire story of the Romanan expedition out into human space,

bypassing the Gi-net-just as her suicidal lover, Jeffray, had once threatened

to do. Now, all humanity questioned the actions of the Directorate, upset,

curious. How do I defend genocide? Thank God the Romanans lived.

But what other choice did I have? he wondered. Sirius is in revolt. I have

made a pact with barbarians and traitors to subdue a Directorate world. Social

unrest stirs through human space. Subspace transduction jams the iota-regga

dimensions, humming beyond gravity and mass. How can I save civilization?

Even the incredible systems of the Gi-net were strained by the number of

requests for information: Had the Directorate really ordered the genocide of

an entire people? Ordered the destruction of an entire planet? Confusion

reigned. At the core of the Arcturian Gi-net, Skor felt the tremors of the

frightened billions.

And Sirius burned-a chancre of revolt.

Order has fled. Skor continued to feel the headset with his delicate fingers.

They call us pumpkin-heads. They call us freaks. Did we do so badly by

humanity and its needs?

He sent a mental query through the system, replaying the battle between

Bullet, Victory, and Brotherhood above the gemlike planet of World. Again, he

watched as Damen Ree and his renegade ship hurled itself, wounded and

out-gunned, at his Patrol brethren. Blaster bolts laced the ships, hulls

breaching, atmosphere, machinery and men boiling out into fiery death. Shields

glared across the entire spectrum, wavering under the incredible energies.

Insanity! Nevertheless, Skor's heart pounded, pumping strange adrenaline into

his bloodstream. Registering the change in blood composition, the Gi-net

controlled monitors struggled to compensate, lowering his body's metabolism in

response, keeping the balance.

"I wish they could see our eyes," Damen Ree was mumbling to himself under his

breath. "They would see that they killed us, but-by Spider-they never defeated

us!"

"Ree! What the hell are you doing?" Sheila Rostostiev, Brotherhood's

commander, demanded, her face forming on Bullet's bridge monitors.

"We are all going to die," Ree told her, a curious serenity in his expression.

"Unless, of course, you yield."

Odd, that serenity. So much like the inevitable knowing look in Chester

Garcia's eyes. What is it about this Spider religion that possesses the

Romanans? How can it be so infectious?

Maya ben Ahmad, Colonel in command of the Patrol ship Victory, cried, "You

mean you would destroy your ship to kill us?" Her dark, ancient face screwed

up in disbelief.

"I will keep you from destroying the Romanans," Ree insisted stubbornly. "I

will win this battle and all your lives will be for naught." Ree laughed in a

manner totally unbefitting the dire nature of the situation. "You can't get

away before I set off the reaction. You're too close together."

"Oh, God, no!" Sheila shrieked, screaming rabidly at the screens, howling like

some tortured animal.

Skor winced, swallowing hard, seeing the tension in tough Maya ben Ahmad's

face as Sheila was pulled, kicking and slavering, from the bridge of

Brotherhood.

Skor watched, fascinated as Ree continued his conversation with Maya. "Won't

surrender? It's a chance, Maya." Ree bent his head curiously.

"Can't, Damen. On the odd chance you're bluffing, I'd feel like a fool. Just

as you've chosen what you feel is right, I have to follow my orders. Just a

quirk, you understand." Maya smiled at Ree, an odd warmth in her eyes, a

fondness reflected there.

Respect! She can't help but admire Damen Ree even while he destroys her! Why?

What does this mean? Skor stared, baffled, his magnificent mind stunned at the

illogic of it all.

"We're too glorious for that damn Robinson, you know that?" And Ree saluted

and opened the dead-man's box, his fingers gripping the big red toggle lever

that would drop the stasis fields around the antimatter, releasing it to react

with the matter of the ship.

Skor froze the scene in his mind, studying the expression on Ree's face.

Almost rapturous, the Colonel's blocky features betrayed a certain internal

glow-a man victorious. Maya, on the other hand, her ship having seriously

wounded Bullet, looked drained. A curious interplay of grudging respect and

admiration mixed with the impending horror of her own death along with that of

her ship and crew. Skor studied the images, curiosity budding, reading Maya's

dread of defeat.

"And I interrupted," Skor said aloud, strained vocal chords turning the

utterance into a rasp. "I passed the cusp. Made the decisions to let them all

live."

He blinked, a foreign twist of emotion in his chest. Skor waited until the

computer regained control of his metabolism, feeling his heart slow, the

strangeness of emotion draining from his exhausted body.

For yet another minute he studied their faces, trying to read their thoughts

through expressions and postures-to peer into their very brains.

"Chester Armijo Garcia says I have lost my humanity." Skor swallowed dryly.

"Is that what it means to be human?" Director! Semri Navtov overrode his

mental block. You have ignored our requests for information! Are you well? We

notice significant abnormalities in your physical chemical composition. Your

body is unstable. If you do not respond within statistically acceptable

parameters of logical ability, your control of the Gi-net will be terminated

and I shall take over primary control

Skor returned to the present, allowing the image of Damen Ree and Maya ben

Ahmad to slip into his subconscious. Rapidly, he accessed the system, pulling

data from the biological monitors despite Navtov's sudden move to block him.

He found what he expected.

I suggest you look at your own biological charts, Assistant Director, Skor

replied scathingly as he accessed the readouts himself. You and An Roque are

both exhibiting abnormalities. Do not censure me when your own physical

deviance is evident. We face a disaster! Navtov replied through the system-

ignoring the subject now that he'd lost. Subspace is clogged! The pirate, Ree,

has raised pandemonium! We can deny it happened, deny that we ordered the

Romanans destroyed, but^Ree continues to broadcast. Everything is public!

Order is compromised! Social turbulence is rising to an unprecedented

degree-jumping as much as ten statistical points among borderline populations.

We see an increase of sudden deviance factors among the Arpeggians and

Zionists. The worst rising index shows the Sirian position is strengthened.

Ngen Van Chow is playing the Bullet broadcast to the Sirian rebels . . .

making a mockery of the Directorate. Support among the conservatives has

faltered. Less than eleven percent of the population continue to support us .

. . and you pick this moment to ignore our calls?

Skor Robinson studied the statistics Navtov forwarded. Assistant Director, the

time has come for us to deal with this on a rational basis. The Romanans are

our only hope to quell the rebellion on Sirius. This Ngen Van Chow-this

smuggler and felon-has been allowed loose too long. We-

How did we miss his ability? Why did no alarm go off? Navtov hesitated. Could

it be that the Director allowed his preoccupation with the Romanans to blind

him to the Sirian instability?

Skor countered, Could it be that the Assistant Director of Social Affairs

failed to administer his area of responsibilility?

An Roque's intrusion into the thought channels came abruptly. I hear discord!

How can we maintain control when we ourselves are in confusion? I am

considerably disturbed. I need to have predictability from both of you. From

what source does this disharmony arise? I do not find rational decision making

in your thoughts. If either of you persist in maintaining illogical

mannerisms, you both must be removed.

W. Michael Gear - Spider 2 - Way Of Spider

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