Philip E. High - Butterfly Planet
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Wildside Press
www.WildsidePress.com
Copyright ©2000 by Philip E. High. All rights reserved.
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or
distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper
print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe
fines or imprisonment.
Published by:
Cosmos Books, an imprint of Wildside Press
P.O. Box 301, Holicong, PA 18928-0301
www.wildsidepress.com
Cover art copyright 2000 by Ron Turner. Cover design copyright 2000 by Juha Lindroos.
No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without
first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.
For more information, contact Wildside Press.
ONE
THERE was no high drama, no intuitive awareness and certainly no danger signal. It appeared to
Maynard that he merely changed his mind. One minute the hot dinner he had been about to order seemed
worthwhile and, the next, he was no longer hungry.
He re-pocketed his coins, shrugged and began to shoulder his way unhurriedly out of the eatateria.
Dinner at noon was habit, but not always a necessity. Today, the thought of the menu-serve regurgitating
a plateful of food had taken away his appetite. Again, there were the crowds, no matter where one went
to eat, there were always crowds.
He became suddenly aware, as he approached the exit, that there was a man on either side of him. They
looked straight ahead, apparently unaware of his existence, but somehow they were too close for
comfort. They were also too determined to keep level.
Maynard hated being crowded, he also hated people walking too close behind him. Automatically he
slowed his pace and began fumbling in his pockets as if searching for something.
It was then that something hard pressed into the small of his back and a low voice said: “Just keep
walking, friend, make it casual."
Outside there was a low, waspish but luxurious vehicle and he was almost ushered into it—but for the
unchanging pressure in his back.
The men took positions on either side of him and the vehicle whispered away.
“Where are we going?” On subsequent reflection, it seemed a futile sort of question but he realized he
had asked it to relieve his growing alarm.
“You'll find out."
“That I could figure out myself. What are you—police?"
“Spare us, please. Do we look like police?"
“Then clearly you have made some sort of mistake. I'm a nobody, I'm a second-class technician
named—"
“Maynard. We're familiar with your name and background. Incidentally, you appear to be a reasonably
sensible man, you obeyed our orders. Continue to do so, that was a congealer we had pressed into your
back."
Maynard said nothing, aware only of a remote faintness. A congealer caused blood-clotting with an
immediate and invariably fatal heart attack. Had his warders chosen to use the weapon, they would have
got clean away with it. Only a post-mortem would reveal the true cause of death which was of no
consolation whatever.
The car stopped and he was ushered out. The men guided him to a tall building and they were whisked
upwards in the gravity shaft to almost the highest floor.
“This way."
He found himself in a high, wide room dominated by a huge ornate desk.
“Sit down.” A fat, brown-faced man sat behind the desk, resting his chin on his hands as if brooding.
“You heard. Sitdown !” Someone pushed a chair against the back of his knees and he sat rather heavily.
The fat man said: “That's better, I prefer the minor courtesies, don't you?” He removed his chin from his
hands and showed small white teeth, briefly. “For identification purposes, you may refer to me as
Smith—Mr.Smith. You are Peter Maynard, aged thirty years, two months and ten days. You are a
second-class technician employed by Allied Electronics."
He paused and looked at the other directly. “A third-class technician holding on to a second-class ticket
with his finger nails. You don't rate second-class, not really, you wear it because of a naïve honesty. So
far, you have ‘lost’ nothing, disposed of nothing or acquired anything for your personal use. Honest techs
are rare and your employers appreciate it."
He smiled again, the eyes remaining cold and calculating. “You are a nobody, Maynard, and I expect you
are wondering why we bothered to pick you up. The answer is brief, you are a deviant. Before you get
big ideas about that, permit me to cut you down to size. The word ‘deviant’ is an official label denoting
minor psychological variations. Actors, artists, musicians and various other creatives are thus bracketted.
Occasionally, however, someone crops up who is a little different. They may possess some minor asset
which could prove profitable and we like to get hold of them first."
Maynard said: “Presumably you have gained access to the psychological tapes in the Institute of
Psychiatry. The information contained on those tapes is supposed to be private."
The fat man laughed. “What an engaging little innocent you are.” He looked beyond Maynard and said:
“Difficult to believe that such can exist even in the ranks of the neutrals."
He looked again at Maynard. “We are a large organization, employing experts. You will be passed on to
these same experts for routine tests. Should these tests reveal something useful, you will be enrolled in the
organization at ten times the salary you are now receiving."
“With or without my consent!"
“Thank you for saving me the trouble of explaining, that is exactly the position.” He leaned back and
nodded briefly. “Take him away."
Hands descended on Maynard's shoulders. “Come along, friend."
Once more he was led to the gravity shaft, this time, however, there was no pressure in his back and he
was less dazed.
He wished briefly that he was some sort of superman or highly skilled agent such as one saw so often
depicted on the three-dimensional. Unfortunately his knowledge of self-defence and applied violence was
second-hand and basic.
His two escorts were lean, broad-shouldered and, all too clearly, professionals. He stood about as much
chance with them as a new-born lamb with a couple of tigers.
Nonetheless he was aware of desperation building something up inside him which, at any moment, was
liable to explode into action. Ill-considered and probably suicidal action he thought pessimistically but he
was unable to stop the tension building up. It was like a steam-head building up inside a boiler with no
safety valve and, in the long run, he knew, something would have to give.
In the street they urged him towards the waiting vehicle and he realized suddenly they were casual.
Perhaps they had decided he was harmless or, by now, so cowed that his resistance level was beneath
contempt. No weapon was pressed into his back and the men were doing their best to appear normal
before the surging crowds.
It was then that the pent-up desperation exploded into action but, even as he acted, he realized that his
mind was cool and detached and strangely uninfluenced by panic.
He lurched sideways, catching the man on his right in mid-stride. He spun, his nobbly technician's fist
clenched, and hit the other man in the stomach with all his force.
'Right', clutching desperately at his pocket, staggered sideways, tripped over his own feet and went
sprawling. ‘Left’ folded in half with a wheezing noise and sank to his knees.
Maynard leapt for the surging crowds on the sidewalk and, dodging and side-stepping quickly merged
with them.
Within two minutes he came to an intersection, he turned left and found himself level with a subway
entrance. He followed the crowds entering and was successful in catching the first train he saw just as it
was leaving. At the next station, he crossed platforms, changed trains and went back five stations in the
opposite direction.
Thirty minutes later he emerged in the outer suburbs, having changed trains nine times. Surely, for the
moment at least, he must be safe now.
Sweating and shaky he bought an iced drink from a street auto-vendor and looked about him.
Some distance away, an arched and ornate gateway bore the words “Green Belt". One of the city parks,
there at least he could relax on one of the benches and think. Furthermore, there were attendants at
frequent intervals, closed-circuit cameras to deter vandals and always a comforting policeman or two.
Inside the gate, a wide gravel path wound away between green and beautifully tended lawns. In the
distance, a lake shimmered, there were tree-lined walks, benches under spreading oaks and, despite
strolling people, a measure of solitude.
He found an unoccupied bench and sank gratefully and rather heavily into the soft pseudo-wood. Now
he must think. He was aware, however, that he had come to a dead-end. A period in his life had come to
an abrupt stop. He could never return to work or his apartment—they would be waiting. He had a small
nest-egg saved over the years which he could draw from any bank but it was no fortune. It would be
enough to carry him across the ocean to another continent but would do very little more. Certainly there
was not enough to approach the transmitter banks for transport to one of the stellar colonies.
Unsubsidized transport cost three thousand per light year and, even then, one needed official sanction
both from Earth and one's intended planetary destination.
He realized, with a kind of dull despair, that he was now a man on the run with very little future. The
police? What could he tell them? Only an unlikely story which he was unable to prove. If they believed
him, which was doubtful indeed, what could they do? An over-taxed organization like the police force
would hardly provide a permanent guard on such a slim story.
He sighed aloud and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette.
“Here friend, save yourself some trouble.” A hand, holding a lighted cigarette, appeared suddenly in front
of him. At the same time, something cold pressed against the back of his neck.
“It's okay, take it, it's your brand but don't try anything.” The man came round from behind him and
seated himself at the far end of the bench. He was as lean, as professional, as his previous captors and
although of a different colouring and build might have been stamped from the same mould. His hand,
casually in right-hand pocket, clearly held and pointed a weapon.
Maynard shrugged and accepted the cigarette. “It didn't take you long?"
“Should it? We have agents all over, friend. In a way, it's a good thing, taught you a well-needed lesson.
There is no escape, nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, wherever you go, or how fast, you will always
find someone waiting at the other end. No, no need to get up yet, finish your cigarette, because, when we
get you back, you have another lesson to learn. After which, no doubt, you will be less inclined to
independent action."
A policeman strolled past and his captor said: “Hello, Fred, nice beat."
“Hello, Mr. Combes—yes, do with months of this, like a paid holiday.” He strolled on without glancing
back.
His captor smiled. “Well, go on, run after him, tell him that a familiar local business man has a gun pointed
straight at your guts. Another lesson, Maynard, one I don't have to spell out for you. Look around you,
all these people, but which one can you trust, which one is not watching?"
Maynard, cold inside, took another drag at the half-smoked cigarette and stared at a world which had
suddenly become hostile. What the man had said was probably true, the elderly man apparently half
asleep on a nearby bench, the strolling youth with his hands in his pockets, both could be enemies. Then
there was the tall man contemplating the flower bed, the young couple approaching with the baby-float.
No hardly, not with a baby, but one never could tell. They looked like normal people leading normal lives
and, as they drew level, he could hear them talking animatedly—It was then that the man spun the
baby-float and thrust it suddenly forwards so that it crashed against the bench between Maynard and his
captor. At the same time, something flashed in the woman's hand. His jailer half rose and fell back limply
with his mouth open.
His rescuer—if rescuer he was—was beside him in one stride. “All right, Maynard, up. We haven't much
time—this way."
They almost dragged him away from the trees and, as they did so, something descended from the sky
and stood there whispering about a foot above the grass.
"In!"Hands swifter and stronger than his own, lifted him and thrust him bodily through the door. He was
aware of them, leaping in behind him, the slamming of the door and a sudden heart-stopping ascent which
gradually slowed before he lost consciousness.
He looked about him, saw that he was in what appeared to be a normal air-taxi and struggled shakily
from the floor to the nearest seat.
“Close,” said the woman, “nicely timed and well executed but too close for comfort.” Maynard saw that
she was quite striking in a gaunt but rather strained kind of way.
“Aren't they all?” The man was fair-haired, short, broad-shouldered with fair skin sun-bronzed almost to
blackness.
He looked directly at Maynard, extracted something from his pocket and held it out for inspection.
“Right, you can relax, police, Special Branch. You are, within somewhat tenuous limits, safe now—safe
and committed. How do you feel about your change of status?"
“Eh?"
“Sorry, I see by your expression that you don't follow. You were a neutral, now you are a combatant but
I'll explain that as we go along. In the meantime, we'd like to hear your story."
Maynard told it.
“Ah, so that's the reason. One of our monitors picked up your escape and, since you were not a member
of the opposition, we reasoned that you must be important to them. Anyone important to them is
important to us, hence the rescue act. We'll have your psych-tapes thoroughly checked.” He extended
his hand. “Call me Dawnson, my partner is Maureen, no one ever calls her anything else."
“Charmed. In the meantime, I'd like to know what's going on."
“Certainly. It's very simple. Divide mankind into three, the neutrals, the law and the organization. You
were a neutral, that is to say that you were unaware of what was going on. One-third of mankind are in
the same position, they are unaware of anything taking place within their midst. Both sides work hard to
keep it that way. The hard-pressed law, because complete realization on the part of the neutrals would
bring anarchy and the collapse of civilization. The opposition, because they can use it and, at the same
time, hide behind it. Again, no predator can exist without prey, and ninety billion neutrals provide an
almost fantastic revenue. The organization—hereafter referred to as the Enemy—operates behind a
legitimate front and wallows in the luxurious rake-off."
“You're trying to tell me I'm living in the middle of a war and don't know about it!” Maynard was
shocked.
Dawnson said, without malice: “You have unwittingly provided the Enemy with funds. Organized crime
took over the Trade Unions more than five centuries ago."
“How big is this thing?"
“Too big. The enemy control two-thirds of the news services, all betting, all sport, all vice and ninety-two
per cent of entertainment services. In other spheres such as the regular police, the armed services and
local and provincial government, every third man is in Enemy pay. Further, no criminal, large or small,
operates outside the Organization. If he does, the Organization itself exposes him and the police make a
spectacular arrest, much applauded by Enemy News Services for obvious reasons."
Maynard frowned at him. “It sounds as if you're on the losing side."
“We're outnumbered by approximately four hundred and twenty to one,” said the woman, Maureen.
“We have our backs to the wall and the Enemy knows it. Every vehicle we possess is known and we
suspect that they have a complete dossier on each and every one of our operatives. Our only assets are a
higher degree of efficiency and, in an outmoded philosophy, a greater degree of sheer dedication."
“Bluntly,” said Dawnson, taking up the words, “this is war and, once again, how do you like your change
of status?"
Maynard scowled at him. “I would say I had been mobilized. How do you know I'll suit?"
“We don't, and if you don't we'll have to turn you loose. We can't afford passengers. Sorry to be so
brutal but this is war. Perhaps the tapes will turn up something helpful or, maybe, under routine tests, you
may have the makings of an efficient operative."
He laughed briefly. “Off the record, I'd say you stood a good chance. That smack in Grimmond's
stomach when you escaped places you in theelite class."
Before Maynard could comment, the taxi stopped and the door slid open.
When he stepped out, he found himself in artificial light with a roof over his head.
Dawnson waved his arm vaguely at the roof. “Can't leave a vehicle in the open. The Enemy are too smart
with their remote-control saboteuring devices. Come on, there are experts waiting to talk to you..."
The experts looked like businessmen and the ‘talk’ was virtually a grilling.
“Well, Mr. Maynard, we have been through your tapes and, yes, certainly, there is a slight variation from
the norm—Oh, do sit down—no—over there in the light, please."
They drew up chairs facing him. “According to your record, you were an uninspired but conscientious
worker. You were also highly ethical—why?"
“I don't quite understand—"
“You made no money on the side, disposing of waste material. Everyone else did, why didn't you?"
“It wasn't my property."
“Quite so, and was this principle or fear of the consequences?"
Maynard flushed angrily. “I never bothered to reason it out. One abides by a set of rules or one doesn't."
“What rules, no one else abided by them, why should you?"
Maynard half rose. “The rules were there, because others brushed them off I don't have to follow suit."
“You are an individualist?"
“I stand on my own feet if that's what you mean."
“Excellent, but we should like to hear if, due to these self-imposed principles, you felt noble or superior
to your fellows."
“I don't know what you're getting at but I never really thought about it. All I considered was living
comfortably with myself."
They looked at him expressionlessly, then one of them said: “You keep yourself to yourself, do you think
you are different from other people?"
“Not really, they just don't seem to like the things I like. No common ground, if you understand me."
“Yet your popularity rating is reasonably high—how do you account for that?"
“I mind my own business and I like to listen."
“Reason enough, we can proceed from there. Can you think of anything which makes you different from
others?"
“No."
“You have no creative talents?"
“I play a harmonica, read verse and like classical music—no."
“Have you thought of, studied, or experienced any form of extra-sensory perception?"
''No."
“How do you sleep, Mr. Maynard?”
“Very well, as a rule."
“Do you dream?"
“Yes, I dream. Everyone dreams, don't they?"
“We are asking the questions. Do you dream every night?"
“I couldn't say, but fairly frequently."
“Do you remember them?"
“Only when I wake as a rule."
“Are they vivid dreams?"
“Yes, they are."
“In colour or in black and white?"
“In colour."
“Ah, one moment, please.” They conferred in low voices.
“One more question, do your dreams, generally, make sense?"
“About half and half."
“Fifty per cent, a high average.” One of them rose. “Mr. Maynard, we are fumbling in the dark but your
dreams are the only lead we have to this unspecified deviation. We therefore, propose putting you to
sleep for a short period. We shall give a small hypnotic pill and, under its influence, you will tell us your
dream as you dream it."
“How can you be sure I shall dream?"
“Dreams take place at certain levels of sleep well known to science. The drug ensures that your sleep
state will be maintained in that level."
One of them came forward. “Now if you will just swallow this please—take a sip of water, fine. Now, if
we adjust your chair so—just relax, Mr. Maynard, nothing to worry about, nothing at all—"
He drifted into sleep and into the dream in an almost leisurely way. He knew as soon as it began that it
was a dream and yet at the same time it was so vivid, it seemed like waking elsewhere.
The first things he saw were the stars in a night sky and the stars were myriad and brilliant. He had never
seen stars like that before and yet, in some odd way, they were familiar.
Somewhere there was the slap and sigh of water and a creaking noise—rigging! He was on a ship! A
high-bridged wooden sailing ship with the sloping sails of the ancient Arab dhow.
Later when trying to recall the dream, he tried to pinpoint the time when he lost his identity but was never
able to do so.
One minute he was Maynard, asleep and knowing he was dreaming, and the next Matt Kern, and Matt
Kern had never heard of Maynard.
He walked to the rail nervously and looked down at the water. Still brightly phosphorescent, no sign of
King-spinner which so often tore ships apart. In which case, of course, they would make Terrentis at
dawn with everything in their favour. Well, almost everything, the sun would be in the eyes of the land
gunners and Portis Royal fleet.
He fingered his knife nervously. The Royal fleet, seventy six men-of-war and thirty heavily armed
Speedsails. This lot plus all the shore batteries which surrounded Terrentis harbour they were going to
take on with one ship.
He shivered. He didn't mind a fight, a fight in which he stood a chance but this was suicide. Unless—he
looked uneasily forward—unless the gun worked.
TWO
KERN edged forward, looking uneasily at the long, slender barrel with its sort of funnel end. It didn't
evenlook like a gun and those brass coloured things were certainly not cannon balls or chain-shot.
In truth he suspected that the gun was some kind of sorcery. It was rumoured that the Monarch had
made a pact with the devils who dwelt in the dark mountains. Devils whose dancing lights could be seen
from the high towers of the keep on a dark night.
He realized abruptly that it was growing light, it would of course be some time yet but—It did not seem
like some time, it seemed to come all too quickly with the great yellow sun rising rapidly above the
sloping green land of Terrentis.
To the left of the harbour a thin column of black smoke began to climb skywards to be joined almost
immediately by another on the right.
Signal fires! Already the intruder had been sighted, the bright scarlet sails determining its identity. Enemy
vessel approaching under full sail!
Even as he thought, the booming of warning gongs rolled faintly to them across the water. The garrison,
the town and the entire fleet were now alert and waiting. So much for the advantage of surprise.
They sailed on steadily and, in the harbour, sails began to climb the masts of the Royal fleet. He could
imagine winches turning and anchors rising from the green water.
More important, at the moment, however, were the coastal and harbour defences. Black powder being
poured into squat cannon, naked men ramming down ball and chain shot with long poles.
“Heave to!"
Kern stiffened. Heave to? Had he heard aright? Yet the sails were coming down and sea-anchors were
being tossed over the side.
They needed another four hundred lengths at least before they could begin to fight. Worse, three Royal
men-of-war were breasting the harbour side by side, vessels which out-ranged and out-gunned their own
by a good twelve lengths.
It was then that the sky seemed to split. Kern was hardened to the noise of cannon but not a sound such
as this. It was like someone striking an enormous gong with an iron hammer too quickly to follow.
Open-mouthed he saw the leading man-of-war literally fall apart in a geyser of red flame and black
smoke. The mainmast, complete with sail, rose high in the air and fell with a splash into the green sea.
Before he could take it in, fire and smoke ripped the entire side out of the second vessel which
immediately keeled over and began to sink. He saw nothing happen to the third vessel but, when he
looked for it, it was a mastless wreck, down by the stern and blazing furiously.
Maynard woke slowly and was surprised to see that the three experts had increased to ten.
They began to fire questions at him before he had fully reoriented himself.
“How big was this vessel? Describe, if you can, the appearance of the stars."
Even as he answered, he could hear others talking quickly: “Cisterine, undoubtedly, it explains the
additional stocks ofCuderium, no wonder shares fell by twelve points. Our friends have been mining it
wholesale."
“How did they get past the patrols?"
“Your guess is as good as mine. What riles me, however, is the fact that they had to play God to pass the
time."
Another, rather ageing voice, said: “Oh, indeed, no, not merely to pass the time, take a look at this—"
One of his original questioners came over. “Well, Maynard, undoubtedly, you have blown the roof off
something as you can see. In the meantime, a few words in private, this way, please."
He led the way into a small, sparsely furnished room and indicated a chair. “Do sit down, Mr.
Maynard—help yourself to cigarettes, they are on your left."
He sat down himself and looked at the other thoughtfully. “I am pleased to inform you that you passed
your test. Your recorded answers to a rather rough questionnaire were checked by our Institute of
Psychiatry and found to be satisfactory. Computer analysis confirmed the findings of the Board. In short,
Mr. Maynard, you have been screened, psycho-checked as potential agent and registered as suitable."
He paused and smiled. “On a less formal footing, irrespective of your suitability, you have a talent which
we can use. One point remains, however, we cannot compel you to join us. The job, despite its urgency,
is too exacting and too dangerous for such methods. An enforced operator is no operator at all and the
enemy is highly skilled in the exploitation of minor weaknesses. The final decision is, therefore, yours."
Maynard frowned at him. “Where do I sign?"
“There is nothing to sign, verbal confirmation is enough."
“Then take it as said, I'm with you."
“Excellent. You will be given intense courses in various branches of the service quite apart from our
normal battle training. During this period, you will be appointed to an instructor—himself a veteran
operator—whose sole purpose is to mould you into an operator capable not only of survival but
initiative."
He pressed a section of his chair. “Send Reed in, please.” The door opened within a few seconds and
there were hurried introductions.
“Well, I can leave you two alone now. Mr. Reed has been fully briefed on you, Maynard."
Reed was tall, lean, long of feature and slightly stooped. The faded, tired-looking blue eyes appeared to
be completely without expression. He looked, to Maynard, anything but an experienced operator.
Reed extracted a single cigarette from an inner pocket and appeared to hang it from his lower lip. It
straightened when he puffed it alight and then he let it hang again.
He inclined his head slightly. “Can't begin too soon—this way."
They ended up at a high, wide window far above the street.
Reed tapped it with his finger. “Transparent steel, opaque on the outer side. Has to be, this is an area
control building and a fortress."
He puffed briefly at the cigarette. “What I am about to tell you may sound over-dramatic but it is not an
exaggeration, merely a point of view. A point of view which you must never forget if you want to stay
alive. Look down there at the streets, the buildings, the people, that is your battleground. Down there is
the enemy, an enemy who wears no uniform and cannot be identified from friend or neutral. He walks
behind you in the street, sits with you when you eat and perhaps swims beside you in the public pools.
He may ask for a light, bow you into an hotel, try and sell you a flyer or, in another form, leave the smell
of perfume on your pillow.
“The enemy is young and old, male and female and he is everywhere. He watches you from the
micro-speck on the wall and he tracks you in the street, across skies and, should you visit one of the
stellar colonies, he will be there, waiting.
“When you enter a restaurant, night club, place of entertainment or house of chance, his instruments pry
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