Alan Dean Foster - Jed the Dead

Jed the Dead

Alan Dean Foster

An Ace Book

Ace edition / January 1997

Cover art by Gary Ruddell.

ISBN: 0-441-00399-0

ACE®

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

DEDICATION

FOR MUDDBONE…

Brock Lacock

Whit Mercer

Billy Edmonds

Thanks for the friendship, the music, and for bringing bock the girl I married.

ONE

It's a toss-up as to whether the dullest stretch of interstate highway in theUnited States is the section of

I-10 inTexas between Van Horn andEl Paso or Van Horn and Midland-Odessa. Either one makes the

badlands of theDakotas look positively verdant.

Ross Hager had opted off the interstate long before, so that he wouldn't have to drive the mind-numbing

monotony of either segment. Highway eight-two shot straight throughHobbs ,New Mexico , and on to

Artesia before crossing the Sacramento Mountains and dropping down intoAlamogordo . He'd have to

hook back up with I-10 eventually, but not until it entered the more scenic country to be found

aroundLas Cruces .

Meanwhile he delighted in the green foothills which gave rise to the eastern slopes of the Sacramentos,

lush with spring snowmelt. Old gray barns listing on their sides stood lazy sentry over orchards spotted

with spring color. Cattle cropped new grass amid mesquite-posted fields. Food hadn't been a problem,

not with each little town boasting its own kindred Dairy Queen. He'd been told that once he

reachedArizona , Dairy Queens would become scarce, a notion difficult for any son of theLoneStarState

to grasp.Texas health food such as fries and gravy and steak fingers would be hard to find.

Well, he'd get by somehow. Where food was concerned, Ross Ed Hager's concern wasn't quality so

much as it was quantity. At six-foot-six and two hundred fifty pounds, he needed a fair amount of fuel.

He was used to hunting down his own food. The only kind of gun his family wasn't familiar with was a

salad shooter. Mention bok choy to Mama Hager and she likely would have reached for a map instead

of a cookbook.

For someone who'd been raised in the country tradition of fried cholesterol, Ross Ed had turned out just

fine. His mom and dad were still cruising on a lifelong diet of fried chicken, fried steak, fried crappie and

catfish, fried corn bread, fried okra, fried potatoes, fried corn-on-the-cob, and fried cheesesticks. Just

about the only food in the Hager family that wasn't regularly deep-fat-fried was dessert, whose signature

dish was his moth-er's hog-lard coconut-cream cake.

Yessir, he told himself, you couldn't beat down-homeTexas country cooking for good health. Everything

else, his daddy insisted, was rabbit food. In consequence, Ross Ed had grown big enough to terrorize

more than a few opponents both on the football field and on the basketball court, making honorable

mention all-state in the former.

Too easygoing to play college ball, he'd gone straight to work in the oil fields, where his good nature,

size, and strength had served him well and assured steady work in an industry noted for the

capaciousness of its employment practices.

The heavily laden pickup that appeared in front of him was making slow work of the steady grade.

Biding his time until they reached a straightaway, he depressed the accelerator and leaned left on the

wheel. The massive V-8 block under the capacious hood of the '72 Fleetwood growled softly as he

passed the pickup with a friendly wave. The driver's return wave was visible in the rearview mirror.

"Atta girl." He gave the steering wheel an affectionate pat. He'd bought the big white Caddy years ago

from an old rancher on the lookout for a new one. A few bucks here, a little tuning there, and he had a

car that not only ran splendidly but that almost fit him.

It was cooling off nicely outside and he lowered the window, letting his arm rest in the opening. The

peaks ahead loomed loftier than any he'd ever seen, much higher than the buttes down in the Hill Country

aroundAustin . A few teased ten thousand feet. On the other side of the range would

beWhiteSandsNational Monument , another local highlight he'd been advised not to miss.

Except for the pickup he'd had the road pretty much to himself all the way from Artesia. Late spring

preceded the summer tourist season and schools were still in session. It was a good time to be traveling.

One Saturday morning it had just up and hit him that he was about to turn thirty without ever having been

outsideTexas andLouisiana . He'd been sprawled in his easy chair in front of the TV. Some dumb

artificial sports show was on between games. It had been shot inSouthern California , which seemed to

be populated entirely by people under the age of twenty-four. All had perfect bodies and sprayed-on

complexions and hair that was never out of place. From what he could see there was no natural dirt

inSouthern California ; only asphalt, sand, and landscaping.

It wasn't the people who caught his attention, however. Not even the pretty girls, of whomTexas had

more than its fair share. It was the ocean. He'd worked oil rigs out in the Gulf, but this different. Dark

green and slightly dangerous, far more wild and undisciplined,.it touched something deep inside him.

Going to be thirty and I still ain't seen thePacific Ocean , he'd thought to himself. Whereupon he'd called

in to his current place of employment and given notice.

That had been… let's see now… four days ago. So far he'd had no reason to regret his decision. He'd

bade farewell to a few close friends, listened politely to their suggestions and admonitions, checked out

the Caddy, tossed his few belongings in the trunk, and set out from Abilene.

Now, for the first time in his life, he found himself in real mountains, climbing a road flanked on both

sides by trees taller than the more familiar oak or mesquite. He considered the loaded boom box on the

passenger seat, decided to leave it be and listen to the air for a while longer yet.

Though he'd never been farther west than Sweetwater, he wasn't worried about getting lost. Pick any

highway heading west, keep going that direction, and sooner or later you'd hit the Pacific. The longer he

could avoid the frantic, monotonous interstates, the more of the country he'd be able to see. Like these

beautiful, uncrowded mountains, he told himself.

Twenty-nine and traveling, he thought. Just because you came from a poor family didn't mean you

couldn't see the country. You just ate cheap, slept simple, and got a job when your money ran out.

He accelerated to pass another vehicle. The car was new, streamlined, and just a little too big to fit in his

trunk. Ponderosa pines and the occasional fir hugged the paved shoulder. It wasn'tMaine orMontana ,

but it was the closest he'd ever been to a northern forest.

Slowing, he passed through the quaint mountain community of Cloudcroft. Ten minutes past the last

building he pulled off the highway into a well-marked picnic area. Ignoring the black-ened,

industrial-strength public steel grills and soot-stained barbecue pits which marked assorted pullouts like

so many fossilized robots, he drove to the farthest parking space and killed the engine. Birdsong replaced

the a cappela rush of moving air.

From the trunk he extracted a gurgling plastic ice chest and a cardboard bucket filled with deceased

fowl (fried, of course). Except for a couple of battered, transient trailers whose semi-permanent

occupants regularly tried the tolerance of the Park Service, the picnic pullout was deserted.

He was considering the most isolated of the concrete picnic tables and its accompanying oil-drum trash

cans when a brand-new minivan pulled up and parked not twenty yards from him. Via multiple doors it

explosively disgorged two brightly dressed adults and three hyperkinetic children.

He could tell from their footwear as well as their demeanor that they were from the city. Not a normal

city, either, likeFort Worth orAustin orLubbock , but some overly urbanized coast city. Instead of work

boots, the father wore imitation Tevas probably purchased from Kmart or Wal-Mart or some other

discount mart. The kids boasted designer sneakers. Mother wore combat boots.

Then there was the slick tablecloth, carefully spread out to separate sustenance from Nature. Expensive

plastic picnic uten-sils followed, laid out as neatly as scalpels in a surgery. Meanwhile the children raced

after each other, threw whatever they could pick up and kicked what they couldn't, and squealed

nonstop.

Ross quite liked rugrats, but in their place. These quiet mountains weren't it. With his size he could easily

have intimidated the family into leaving, but it was a public picnic area and besides, that wasn't Ross Ed

Hager's nature. Grimacing in resignation, he turned and started up a gentle slope that led deeper into the

woods.

Before long the sounds of children contesting inconsequenti-alities faded, sponged up by stone and tree

and distance. He kept moving, searching for just the right place to park himself, wanting to ensure' that he

was far enough away so that his prospective midday idyll would not be disturbed.

Finding himself facing a steep granite outcropping, he scruti-nized the gradient before starting up. With

his long legs the slope was not an obstacle for him, but it would be sufficient to discourage any inquisitive

children who happened to come bounding in his direction.

An overhang near the top kept part of the mound in perpetual shade, allowing winter snow to linger. He

considered climbing farther, but the slight chill didn't bother him and there was a natural seat formed by

the junction of two slabs of stone where he could dine in comfort. Set into the flank of the modest cliff, it

offered a pleasant prospect across the gently undulating treetops.

Might as well soak up some cool before heading down into the desert, he told himself as he laid down

his burden.

Just past his chosen bower a narrow cleft in the rocks beckoned inward. It wasn't a very big cave, but

he decided he'd better check it out. He'd never seen a bear outside a zoo and didn't want his first wild

encounter to occur while he was seated on a bare hillside above a fifty-foot drop.

Bending, he peered cautiously into the opening and sniffed. No animal smell emanated from within.

Would a bear still be hibernating this late in the spring, with most of the snow hereabouts already melted?

He doubted it.

Satisfied that he was safe from marauding bruins and screech-ing kids (or screeching bruins and

marauding kids), he settled back to enjoy his lunch. Cracking the cooler, he popped the cap on a Lone

Star and excavated an unidentifiable section of chicken from the cardboard bucket. Having cooled to the

consistency of a used tire, the drumstick was just right. Blissfully attuned to his surroundings and at peace

with the world, he washed down huge bites of greasy fowl with long drafts of ice-cold suds.

A second beer soon followed the first, with a third for dessert. Sitting the empty bucket aside, he

snugged down between the rocks and let the brooding sun warm his legs. Three beers wouldn't affect his

driving, Ross Ed's capacity for Lone Star being proportionate to the rest of him.

Always something of a loner, he luxuriated in the solitude. It was a characteristic which had driven more

than one lady friend to distraction… or to other men. Not that he was in any hurry to get married. In fact,

Ross Ed had never been in much of a hurry to do anything, unless it was watch a Cowboys' game. There

was no sign of the invading suburbanites and the only sound was the occasional querulous squawk of a

scrub jay.

After an hour or so of enthusiastically doing nothing he thought it might be fun to have a last look at the

little cave. The sun now illuminated part of the interior, but to see all the way in he'd need the flashlight

from the car. The possibility of encoun-tering a bear no longer concerned him, but rattlers did. Still, it was

mighty cold for rattlesnakes, and early in the season. If there were any slumbering inside, they'd like as

not be pretty torpid.

Taking out his car keys, he switched on the mini Maglite he kept on the steel loop and directed the tiny

beam inward. It revealed a broken, stony floor and little else. Smooth-sided walls of gray granite, coyote

droppings, and a few old, gnawed bones. No beer cans, a few abandoned cobwebs, and no sign of

snakes, musical or otherwise. Turning to leave, his light glinted off something in the far depths of the

recess.

He frowned. Could some fool have dumped bottles or cans all the way in the back? He'd fancied himself

the first traveler to picnic on the isolated ledge and didn't like the idea of having been preceded by some

indifferent, littering slob.

He could depart secure in the knowledge that few would make the same distressing discovery. But what

if it was a bottle and some poor bear stepped on it? Or worse, a busted can with sharp aluminum edges?

He hesitated, torn between the need to get back on the road and a desire to do the right thing.

What the hell, he muttered to himself.

Using the compact light to illuminate the way, he entered the cave on hands and knees. Occasionally he

would pause to locate his target. The nearer he got, the less it looked like a can or bottle. The reflective

portion appeared to be attached to a much larger, nonreflective mass.

Gallon jug, he thought, with a shiny cap. Or a busted picnic cooler with metal handles. Traveler's trash.

Whatever it was he'd drag it out and dump it in one of the fifty-five-gallon oil drums that served the picnic

area as trash containers. It would be his good deed for the day.

The cave narrowed and when he whacked his head against the shrinking ceiling he had a few choice

words for Mother Nature's imperfect design, both of the tunnel and his own hulking, ungainly body.

Feeling gently of the bruise and coming away with dry fingers, he shuffled on.

It looked like glass, but he still couldn't make out the nonreflective remainder. Though bright enough, the

mini Mag-

- lite's beam was very narrow. He lowered it slightly and picked out what appeared to be a bundle of

old clothes on the cave floor.

Sure enough, there was a cache to it. Isolated from prowling kids and forest rangers, the cave wouldn't

be a bad place for some transient to spend the summer while scavenging the leavings of hundreds of

picknickers. It certainly beat a shelter inAlbuquerque or a flophouse inEl Paso . The only drawback was

that its occupant would have to shift to warmer climes during the winter months, perhaps leaving a few

simple possessions behind in the process. Ross searched for the expected wine bottle.

Instead of glass, his light glimmered on a curved faceplate. This was attached to the bundle of clothing.

And both were inhabited.

This time when he hit his head on the ceiling he drew blood.

Too startled to utter an oath, he sat down heavily on the peeling granite, gaping at the thing behind the

transparent visor. It was clear and unmarred and the Maglite picked out ample detail within. Aware that

he was breathing much too hard and fast, the way he sometimes did when he was working on top of a rig

in bad weather, he forced himself to keep calm.

Easy now, he told himself. The most likely explanation was that he was the victim of an elaborate

practical joke.

But by whom? Besides the family that had arrived after him he'd seen only the couple of old trailers.

Their probable occupants didn't seem the type to concoct such an intricate gag. Or such an expensive

one.

No giggles reached him from outside the cave and there was no sign of hidden cameras. He was

precisely as alone as he imagined.

So if it wasn't a gag, then what the devil had he found, and how had it come to be here?

Advancing slowly, he leaned over his discovery and played the narrow flashlight beam across the strange

shape, stopping at what he'd originally believed to be a glass jug or bottle. Behind the gently curving

transparency a face stared back up at him. The eyes were shut tight. All three of them. The lids were

shiny and slightly iridescent, like mother-of-pearl, and the sockets smaller than those of a human child of

comparable size.

From the top of the faceplate to the bottom of the brown, crinkly fabric the figure was barely three feet

in length. Trian-gular in shape instead of flattened like a human, it boasted three arms and three legs along

with the triple oculars. The face featured a prominent bony ridge or keel down the center, with concave

cheeks or depressions on either side. The middle eye occupied a depression on this ridge, and was

positioned slightly higher than its two counterparts.

Below lay a narrow slit about an inch in length and below that, a slightly wider, longer slit framed by a

pair of fleshy protuber-ances like silvery cockscombs. There was no evidence of external ears. The head

itself was a rounded dome divided by the continuation of the facial ridge, which in turn was a continuation

of the unseen spine.

The facial keel was matched by one that ran the length of the body. An arm emerged from the upper

portion and a leg from the base, each duplicated by counterparts at the back portions of the skeletal

triangle. Though they were hidden from view by stiffened pads that were an integral part of the suit, he

could feel tripartite toes or hooves at the end of each leg. Similarly, each arm ended in a gloved,

three-fingered (or at least three-digited) hand.

The suit itself was nonreflective and ribbed with embedded wires and cords. These terminated in a

lumpy metallic backpack of some kind that appeared to flow seamlessly into the material of the suit itself.

Similar lumps and bumps embellished the front of the suit and the three arms. The rear half of the

faceplate or helmet was opaque.

Upon concluding this preliminary inspection, his reaction was one of pity rather than disgust. He knew

men who'd been caught in oil fires or rig collapses who looked a whole lot worse.

As to what it was, unless it was an exceptionally clever fake placed here for who knew what

incomprehensible purpose, Ross Ed figured that it had to be an alien. Though not an especially

imaginative individual, he'd seen enough television and movies to know that much. It wasn't a very

impressive-looking alien, either. Certainly not intimidating. Ugly, yeah, but pretty sensibly put together if

you thought about it. That tripod-leg setup ought to provide a lot of stability, and the three-eye

arrangement good visibility. He wasn't sure how the arms worked together.

Both the suit and the creature within looked to be in an excellent state of preservation. Enough dust and

dirt had accu-mulated on and around the body to suggest that it had been lyingin situ for some time.

There was absolutely no sign of life, not when he had felt of the arms and legs nor when he began to

brush away the accumulated grime. Exactly how long it had been resting there, in the back of the little

cave, he couldn't begin to estimate.

A cluster of mushrooms grew from the blown-in soil that had nearly buried the left arm. As he shook and

brushed it clean he saw that their filaments hadn't penetrated the space suit. Or Earth suit, he corrected

himself. Though thin, the material did not stretch or tear under his sometimes clumsy ministrations.

When he'd finished he sat back and stared afresh at his find. "Howdy." His voice echoed slightly in the

confines of the cave. He didn't feel especially foolish, and there were no snickering onlookers to mock

him. "How're you feelin'?"

There was no response, no reaction whatsoever. The other-worldly figure lay as he'd left it, still and

unmoving. A raven complained somewhere outside. A bumblebee whizzed past the cave entrance,

uninterested in the extraordinary confrontations taking place within. Otherwise it was dead silent in the

dead cave with the dead alien.

Where had it come from? he wondered. Was there a ship tucked away back in the trees or buried

beneath the seemingly undisturbed rocks? He'd spotted no signs during his short climb. While the cave

itself was difficult to reach, the surrounding mountaintops frequently played host to hikers and horseback

riders. Even a small ship or the fragments of a damaged one would surely have been seen by now.

But if there was no ship, how had the alien come to be here? Had it been abandoned in a moment of

haste or confusion like the proverbial E.T.? Ross could only theorize.

One thing that did not surprise him was his continuing calm. After all, he'd seen plenty ofStar Trek and

X-Files andTwilight Zone reruns. The reality of the alien was not shocking so much as it was poignant.

Poor little critter, he found himself thinking.

Lost or marooned here to die all alone and abandoned in this cold, dark place.

He certainly couldn't just leave it. While the alien hardly qualified as litter, it begged to be removed. And

while Ross Ed wasn't the owner of a particularly vivid imagination, unlike many of his friends, at least he

had one. The alien corpse embodied certain… possibilities.

Surely scientists would want to examine it, he mused. As its discoverer, he would be famous. That didn't

interest him, however, as much as the financial potential. Roughnecking was a tough life dominated by

uncertain prospects and a short future. He could use a couple of easy bucks.

As he reached for it he considered again the possibility that it might be nothing more than a clever fake,

like those phony Bigfoot footprints they kept finding up in Washington and Oregon. An elaborate hoax

placed in the cave for some gullible country boy like himself to flash on national TV.

Bending low and using the flashlight, he found he could see porelike pits in the drawn skin of the

triangular face. If it was a fake, it was a mighty good one. He wondered at the color of the eyes

concealed by the opalescent lids.

With the remaining two fingers of his left hand he gently stroked the vitreous, transparent material of the

faceplate, wishing he could feel of the skin beneath. The material felt more like metal than glass. It was

surprisingly warm to the touch and slightly roughened.

As rough as the surface of the planet he found himself gazing down upon.

TWO

Stately white clouds swirled above patchy blue oceans, more numerous and smaller than those of Earth.

The continent in the center of his vision seemed almost familiar. Isolated from the other landmasses, it

straddled the equator in tropical splendor. A chain of large, high islands trailed in majestic procession

from the eastern shore like a disembodied tail. Ross Ed's knowledge of geography was rudimentary, but

he knew he wasn't looking at Africa, orSouth America .Australia , perhaps, flipped upside down and

nudged northeastward. No, he decided. This landmass was too rounded, too green across the middle.

His perspective tipped and three moons swung into view. Two were jagged and irregular in outline while

only the third formed a gleaming disk like Luna. Outward his perception rushed, past a triple-ringed gas

giant whose bright pastels put the bands of Saturn to shame.

Other worlds rushed by in bewildering succession, to be replaced by visions of gigantic nebulae and

clusters of multihued comets. In one system a dozen separate asteroid belts separated an equal number

of planets, while in another the gravitational wrestling of twin worlds generated enormous tides on each

other's surface. There were astronomical objects for which he had no name: titanic, tenuous red suns and

minuscule black spots around which inconceivable energies raged, parallel bands of incandescent gas

ejected by an artificially shaped supernova, lines of force which strained mathematical probabilities, and

most spectacularly of all, a triple-sun system that somehow managed to sustain half a dozen worlds in

comparative stability, a grand cosmic juggling act in which gravity performed tricks unsuspected by the

finest theorists. Two of the six planets supported carbon-based life-forms so bizarre and specialized that

they could not have survived anywhere else, despite the most stringent and careful preparations.

Outward again, racing at physics-defying velocity through the galaxy in search of additional wonders to

unveil to his startled eyes. Whirling, twisting, and plunging down into another sys-tem, uncataloged and

unrecognizable. Everything spinning, a universe gone mad, sucking him into a whirlpool of forces beyond

his understanding or control.

The throbbing in both legs made him blink. He was back in the cave, still kneeling before the alien body,

his left hand having slid off the faceplate to lie limply at its side. A check of his watch revealed that he'd

been kneeling thus for nearly an hour. The pain in his thighs came from badly cramped muscles.

Wincing, he sat back and stretched both legs out straight, wriggling them to restore the flow of blood.

The resultant tingling was momentarily unbearable. He kneaded the muscles with both hands and the fiery

prickling gradually faded.

The dead alien hadn't moved.

Ross Ed was now completely convinced it was not a hoax. No one could have faked what had just

happened to him. He'd heard of virtual reality, but knew you had to don special equipment to experience

it. He didn't think it could be projected into some-one's head through simple hand contact. What he'd just

experi-enced was unreal reality, initiated when he'd made contact with the suit's faceplate.

As soon as he felt that his legs would cooperate again, he crawled forward. It was time for decisions.

The light from the mini Mag was fading and he had no desire to be caught out in the dark.

In case the experience he'd just undergone was repeated, he assumed a comfortable sitting position next

to the alien. Tenta-tively, he reached out and touched the faceplate for the second time. Because of what

had happened to him, the proximity of that alien face to his tracing fingers made him a little nervous.

This time there was no distortion of reality, no breathtaking tour of unseen worlds and distant plenums.

He caressed the faceplate with his fingers, feeling the alien material. After a little of this he allowed his

hands to trail off the transparency and down onto the suit. He could neither see nor feel a seam, buckle,

zipper, or any other type of connection. The material of the faceplate seemed to flow into and become

the dark brown fabric of the suit.

Nothing reacted to his touch or played with his head. He might as well have been inspecting a common

cadaver in theAbilene morgue. There was no way he could know that any astronomer on the planet

would gladly have traded a year of his life for Ross Ed's past hour.

Tilting his head back, he tried to see through the tons of rock above his head. No new visions enhanced

his view of the universe. If mere touch could generate such revelations, what would happen when he tried

to move the body? Something equally apocalyptic but more personal? Something perilous instead of

enlightening?

Might the body be protected against movement, and was he about to disturb a grave? Would aliens

booby-trap a burial site?

He tried to see it anew; as a small, unimpressive, inhuman corpse jammed in the back of a nondescript

cave high in a range of little-visited mountains. Using the Maglite, he examined the body from all sides.

There was nothing to show that wires, leads, or connection points attached it to the ground, or to

anything else. It appeared wholly self-contained.

Wasn't anything else to do but to do it, he decided laconically. He'd worked most of his adult life in a

dangerous profession and knew that sometimes you just had to throw the valve and see what resulted.

Gripping the mini Mag in his teeth, he slowly slipped his right arm beneath the corpse. Nothing arose to

contest the gesture and he felt only cool dirt beneath the dry suit. His left hand went beneath the three

legs. He lifted, and the body came up easily in his arms.

The alien felt light but might have been more of a burden to someone smaller than Ross Ed. It weighed

no more than fifty, sixty pounds, he estimated. Certainly nothing he couldn't handle with ease.

Crouching low, he turned and started back toward the en-trance. Once through the cleft he was able to

straighten. Cradling the alien against his chest, he slipped the Maglite and keys back in his pocket.

The three legs and three arms lay slack, but the head remained upright. Whether .this posture was a

consequence of alien anatomy or some internal support mechanism he didn't know and couldn't tell.

Rigor mortis, maybe, he told himself. Did the alien even have a skeleton? Feeling of the dangling legs, it

was hard to tell.

Returning to the picnic site, he found no sign of the boisterous family which had impelled him to climb the

granite outcropping. That suited him fine. He had no desire to encounter them or anyone else, lest he

Alan Dean Foster - Jed the Dead

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