Laumer, Keith - The Ultimax Man

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One

THE ULTIMAX MAN

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and

any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises 260 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10001

First Baen printing, June 1987

ISBN: 0-671-65652-X

Cover art by J.K. Potter

Printed in the United States of America

Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10020

A man walked slowly along a darkened street. He was a young man, conservatively attired in a dark

blue double-breasted blazer, gray bell-bottoms, and a bright blue shirt with a wide regimental

tie. But he moved like a man of eighty, holding his elbow pressed tightly to his side. His name

was Damocles Montgomerie and he had been shot at close range by a .32 caliber Beretta automatic

pistol, the bullet having broken two ribs and driven a dozen bone splinters into his liver before

coming to rest half an inch from his spine.

Reaching an alley mouth, he half-turned, half-fell into the shadowy space between corroded brick

walls. A garbage can lid clattered on oily cobbles. He braced himself against the wall, pushed

himself upright, and went on, deeper into the reek of garbage. Reaching the end of the cul-de-sac,

he turned, put his back to the wall. With his fingers, he explored the hot, damp area below the

ribs on the right side. There was a neat hole in the thick flannel of the coat, a hole that

continued on through the heavy silk shirt and the fitted undershirt into the flesh beneath.

THE ULTIMAX MAN 3

A step sounded softly from the direction of the alley mouth. The beam of a flashlight speared out,

traversed the pavement, played up the wall and across Montgomerie's chest, moved to his face. It

held there for a moment and then winked out.

"Where you want it, punk?" a soft, hoarse voice rasped. "Between the eyes suit you OK?"

"Better try a gut shot, Chico," Montgomerie said in a voice as thin and taut as a stretched wire.

"I don't trust your aim."

"Save it, rat. You got five seconds to square it with the man upstairs. One ..."

He listened to the count. It seemed to go on and on. Then it reached five. Light blossomed from

the muzzle of the gun, illuminating the scene with a warm yellow glow. The plume of flame

elongated, ringed with viscid smoke which slowed, stiffened into immobility. The killer stood,

feet apart, leaning forward, his left arm out, fingers spread, the gun in his right fist thrust

out before him. His lips were pulled back from his teeth; his eyes were half-closed, intent,

unmoving. . . .

Behind him, something stirred near the alley mouth. A slightly built man in a gray derby and a

dapper morning coat complete with ascot and bou-tonniere was picking his way fastidiously back

toward the little tableau so curiously arrested. His face—visible by its own pale glow—was narrow,

elderly, prim, with a neatly groomed hairline mustache. He swung a slim silver-headed cane from

one pigskin-gloved hand, glanced curiously at the immobile gunner as he edged past him, came to a

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halt before the injured man. He looked him over assessingly, his lips pursed in an expression of

mild disapproval.

4 Keith Laumer

You seem to have managed your affairs very badly, my lad, a perfectly clear voice spoke inside

Montgomerie's head.

He tried to speak; nothing happened. He tried to move: same result.

Tush, no need to grow excited. Nothing will happen to you that hasn't happened to uncounted

billions of other organisms in the short history of the planet.

HELP, Montgomerie yelled silently. GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Exactly my intention, my boy. Simply be calm. In fact. . . it might be as well if you'd just drop

off to sleep . . .

A heavy curtain of drowsiness wrapped itself around Montgomerie's thoughts. He was dimly aware of

the old gentleman stepping briskly closer, clamping him under an arm, and walking up into the air.

He caught one fading glimpse of tarred rooftops, ventilators, TV antennae, dropping away below.

Then he let it all go and slid, faster and fester, down into the bottomless vortex of

unconsciousness.

This, Damocles reflected contentedly, is what I catt living. Snoozing away in a first-class seat

on a luxury airliner bound for the hot spots of gay Paree. Out the window, the moon will be

shining down on the billows, and in a second or two the stewardess will ease up to me and say . .

"Care for a sandwich, lad?" said a ratchety male voice. Montgomerie's eyes flew open. He was in a

tiny room, seated in a semireclining chair before a curved surface of black glass. Below the glass

was a cluster of bright-colored knobs. On one of the

THE ULTIMAX MAN 5

knobs rested a thin, veined hand. The hand was attached to a crisp white French cuff which emerged

from a well-pressed black sleeve which led inevitably up along an arm to a gently smiling, wizened

face with thin white hair and a fingernail mustache.

"You!" Dammy piped in a voice like a baby bird. "But. . ."

"You were perhaps hoping to see Chico?"

"Chico!" Dammy winced, and felt a pang in his side. He fingered the site of the bullet wound and

felt smooth, thick padding. "I thought—how— what—"

"Don't trouble yourself, Damocles. I've sealed the puncture and given you a temporary metabolic

hold to prevent further deterioration in your condition until I can whisk you into the automed. In

the meantime, a bite to eat will no doubt reinforce your sense of security."

"What sense of security?" Montgomerie chirped, and paused to rest. "I thought I dreamed you. While

I was dying, I mean."

"Ummnn, not precisely. You perceived me with a portion of your cerebrum not usually activated in

the waking state—but this is a side effect of the stasis field, no doubt."

"You're not—the Angel Gabriel or anybody like that?"

"Another branch of the service entirely. Would you prefer pastrami, corned beef, or Swiss cheese?"

"Wait a minute," Dammy expostulated. "Just hold on a minute. Who are you? Where am I? How did I

get here? And—"

"You may call me Xorialle. You're aboard my cycler. I brought you here."

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" 'Sorry Al.' That's not much of a name. I'll just

6 Keith Laumer

call you Al, OK?" Dammy closed his eyes tightly. "I got shot. That's definite, Al. It hurts." He

gave his side a prod to reassure himself. "After that, I was in an alley . . . and Chico ..." He

paused to swallow. "Funny, I never figured you'd have time to see the flash from the slug that

blew your brains out. But ..." He fingered his head. "At that range, how could he miss?"

"He didn't," Xorialle said. "That is to say, the bullet was projected along a path intersecting

the point in space occupied a moment before by your left eye and continuing, doubtless, to impact

against the wall."

Dammy's hand went involuntarily to his eye. It

seemed intact.

"Uh-uh," he said. "I don't believe in that life after death theory, Al."

"Of course," Xorialle continued, "by the time the bullet left the gun, you were no longer there."

"I ... ducked?"

"Not at all, my dear fellow. I removed you from the line of fire. If it weren't for my

intervention, your existence as a conscious intellect would have been terminated twelve minutes

ago."

"Yeah, but how could you? I mean, I saw you coming. And after that ... I was floating in the air;

and the gun ..."

"I suppose you're referring to the other side-effects of the stasis field. It was necessary, you

know. I don't have the facilities for reconstructing cerebra; I need you intact."

"Hold it right there," Dammy cut in. "If this is your idea of a job offer, forget it. I work

alone. If you had something to do with . . . what happened

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back there, OK, thanks. I don't get it, but that's OK too. So I'll just be on my way now, and ..."

"And be dead in six hours," Xorialle said casually. "Your liver, you know. Can't function very

well with a quarter-ounce of bone chips in it. Quite inoperable by local techniques, of course.

Your only hope is my automed."

"You a doctor?" Dammy inquired weakly.

"You may be assured your case is well within my competence."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"Ummnn. I've been suppressing the symptoms of your injury. Possibly that's given you a false sense

of well-being ..."

Someone lit a match in Dammy's gizzard. It flared up, ignited a large wad of excelsior someone had

left lying in the vicinity. He opened his mouth to yell, and the fire winked out and was gone as

if it had never been.

"That's how you'd feel if I weren't, er, handling your case," Xorialle said crisply. "Shall I

continue?"

"I was going to ask you how you did that," Dammy gasped, "but never mind. I wouldn't understand

the answer. Let's get going to the hospital."

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"ETA approximately forty-five minutes," the oldster said briskly.

"How do you get out of here?" Dammy was groping at the strap holding him to his chair.

"I wouldn't suggest releasing the harness," Xorialle said casually. "We're at five hundred

thousand feet, traveling at approximately Mach 7."

Montgomerie clutched for support. "I don't believe a word of it," he said, and swallowed hard.

"We're standing still. I'm scared of airplanes. That is, I would be if I'd ever been in one.

There's

Keith Laumer

nothing holding them up. And I don't know much about it, maybe, but I know they make plenty of

racket, and—"

"At one hundred miles altitude there's no air to speak of, hence no turbulence, no rush of wind.

And since the cycler's engines are silent, quite naturally you hear nothing."

"Where's my p-parachute?" Dammy inquired in a voice that had a distressing tendency to slip into a

falsetto.

"My boy, if you should, through some malfunction of the safety interlocks, manage to eject

yourself from the cycler, you'd be shredded into ribbons and toasted to a crisp before you fell

hallway to the surface. I'm afraid a parachute wouldn't help."

"That makes me feel a lot better," Dammy said in a tightly controlled voice. "If it wasn't for a

couple things like Chico's gun and that little trick you did with my insides a minute ago, I'd

call your

bluff."

"No bluff, my lad. Simply accept the fact that your life has been fortuitously extended, and

conduct yourself accordingly."

"Where are we going? We must be halfway to the North Pole by now."

ETA 42 minutes and 12.4 seconds, to be precise," Xorialle said. "You'll see it shortly. In the

meantime—what about a Bavarian ham on rye and a cold glass of Pilsner?"

The rock thrust up out of the Arctic Sea—a hundred-yard-high boulder all alone in the vast

whitecapped sweep of frigid ink-black ocean, crowned by a cluster of lights that sprang into

THE ULTIMAX MAN 9

being in response to a button poked by Xorialle as he maneuvered the cycler down from the heights.

"Kind of isolated, isn't it?" Montgomerie inquired rhetorically, noting the slow wash of breakers

at the base of the outcropping.

"My work requires a certain exclusiveness," Xorialle explained ofihandedly. "Far better to choose

a spot where one is unlikely to be disturbed than to be put to the bother of disposing of

intruders, which frequently leads to more trespassers in search of the original ones and more

disposals."

Dammy gave Xorialle a searching look.

"Disposals, huh?"

"Quite humanely, of course—to employ the word in its theoretical sense." Xorialle gave Montgomerie

a friendly smile. "No offense intended to your race, of course."

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"What's my race got to do with it? I'm as blue-eyed and sandy-haired as the next guy."

"Everything, my boy, everything. But I'll make all that clear to you very soon, after I've

attended to repairing your hurts."

The craft settled smoothly toward a circular opening that irised wide to receive them. Walls rose

around them; the cycler touched with a faint jar and was still. Xorialle touched a button and the

hatch popped open. Dammy, braced for an icy blast, felt only the soft caress of a tropical night

laden with the aroma of frangipani and magnolias and a faint melody of Hawaiian guitars. He

stepped down, favoring his punctured side, gazed around mutely at the flower beds, pool, terraces,

and palms. Above him spread what appeared to be an ordinary Tahitian night sky.

Keith Laumer

"Do you find the environment congenial?" Xori-alle said with a note of concern.

"If you mean do I like the layout, yeah, it's

OK."

"Splendid; now we'd best hurry along to the laboratory. That metabolic hold won't keep you alive

forever."

Dammy started to ask a question, but at that moment his words were cut off by a twinge probably

resembling the sensation experienced by a vampire when impaled by a stake. He suppressed a groan

and followed the old man across the patio through a wide, doorless arch and along a green-tiled

passage to a walnut slab door which opened on a chamber asparkle with white enamel and polished

chrome.

"You find the decorative scheme reassuring, I trust?" Xorialle said with a note of pride. "I

assure you no effort has been spared to reproduce an authentic setting, complete with full sensory

stimuli."

"At least it doesn't smell like a hospital," Dammy

commented.

"Eh? Oh, to be sure." Xorialle turned and touched a button. The acrid reek of ether, carbolic

acid, poached eggs, and deodorant sprang instantly into being.

"Soothing, isn't it, my boy? In such surroundings, associated with the infallibility of your

surgical experts, all your primitive fears are laid to rest. Now this—" Dammy's host punched

another button, and an assembly resembling a morgue slab under attack by a week's production of a

cutlery factory deployed from the wall. "This is the automed, a masterpiece of ingenuity,

adaptable to

THE ULTIMAX MAN

a vast variety of life-forms, including your own— and entirely physical-based, you understand. No

subjective input required, making possible its use with subaware forms, luckily. Just stretch out

here, and we'll soon have you right as rain."

"Where's the nurse?" Dammy demanded, hanging back.

"Ah, yes, the presence of a nubile female of your species would be useful to inspire a show of

manly stoicism."

"Skip it," Dammy muttered. He was beginning to feel dizzy and weak. The warm, numb feeling in his

side was wearing thin, allowing the sharp edges of something beneath to jab at his vitals in a

tentative way.

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Xorialle's hand swam out of the gathering mist to grip Montgomerie's arm. He allowed himself to be

led forward, was vaguely aware of lying down on his back, of the touch of metal—not cold, but at

body heat.

Then blackness as soft as soot and cobwebs folded down on him and blanketed out all thought. . . .

Two

This time his awakening was more leisurely. He lay for a while savoring the sensation of crisp

sheets and a soft mattress, aware of the scent of broiling bacon and percolating coffee—a general

feeling of utter well-being. Then his sense of reality rallied.

Yeah, I'm probably lying on my back in that alley with a slug in my skull dreaming all this, like

I dreamed the little guy with the magic airplane and the carnation in his buttonhole. My best bet

is to just lie easy and not make a wave and hold onto the hallucination as long as I can, because

when it wears off. . .

"Awake, I see," a cheery, elderly voice spoke close at hand. Xorialle stood beside the bed

casually attired in a lemon yellow terry-cloth jacket and shorts, a large Gene Autry watch with a

wide yellow plastic band on his skinny wrist.

"Hey," Dammy said weakly, "you're real. . . ."

"We've already been over that," the old fellow said with a touch of severity, "as you know quite

well. But I suppose it reassures you periodically to reinforce your self-image of nongullibility."

"How did . . . the operation go?"

THE ULTIMAX MAN

"Why, as programmed, of course. Why do you ask? You feel well, I assume?"

"Not too bad," Dammy said weakly.

"I thought we'd start the day with a swim," Xorialle said briskly. "Not only refreshing, but a

useful opportunity to assess just what it is I have to work with, coordination and endurance-

wise."

"Are you kidding?" Dammy said with a break in his voice. "I'm good for at least two weeks flat on

my back with radio music, artificial flowers, meals in bed, and pillow-fluffing once an hour."

"Yes, I'm sure you'd find those rituals comforting; but unfortunately time is of the essence. I'm

sure you're rational enough to dispense with some of your traditional ceremonials."

"Ceremonials, my Uncle Gertrude! I've been shot and sliced open and sewed up, and the Confederate

cavalry wouldn't get me out of this bed for at least, say, ten days!"

"Tsk. Old ideas do die hard. Pull up your nightshirt, Damocles, and examine your wound."

"Skip it. I can't even watch when I get a vaccination."

"See here, my boy, you have to make some minimal effort to discount the purely instinctive element

in your behavior. Kindly do as I request."

"Or you'll give me an ulcer, I guess," Dammy said sullenly; but he complied with instructions. The

smooth hide over his ribs was unmarred by so much as a mole.

"Uh ... I guess it was the other side," he said, and pulled the garment away to expose a matching

expanse of unblemished skin on the left.

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"Well?" Xorialle said with studied patience. "I trust you're satisfied?"

Keith Lawner

Montgomerie rubbed his chin ruefully. "That was the realest dream I ever had," he said. "I would

have sworn I took a slug in the short ribs, walked two blocks, got ambushed in an alley, and—

well, after that it gets kind of silly." He managed a wry smile. "So maybe I've been working too

hard. The laugh's on me." The smile faded, metamorphosed into a frown. "Either I've gone nuts, or

all this is really happening. If I'm nuts, I'll be the last to know. So I might as well act as if

everything is just the way it looks."

"Come, Damocles. Your pretense of imagining me to be a figure of fantasy wears thin. Accept the

situation; don't fight the problem—solve it."

"Yeah. If I dreamed the whole thing, who does that make you? And how did I get here, wherever here

is? And where's my clothes?"

"Suitable garments have been provided." Xorialle slid back a closet door to reveal a number of

neat tunic-and-shorts outfits.

"I mean my real clothes. I can't go out of here in a pink kimono."

"I suspected the items would have emotional attachments. They've been cleaned and repaired and

placed in your permanent quarters."

Dammy threw back the light blanket, walked to the curtained window, and looked out. A vista of

blue-black ocean, white-flecked, stretched to the far horizon. There was nothing else in view.

"I'm really here—at the North Pole—and you really patched a hole in my side without even a scar?"

"That's more or less correct, Damocles."

"How long was I out? I'll bet I've been under

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drugs for a couple months while you did plastic surgery, or . . ."

"Approximately seven hours and twenty-five minutes—since the repairs to your liver, that is."

"Nobody heals that fast," Dammy said without conviction.

"You did," Xorialle pointed out. "And while you were comatose, I gave you a thorough purging.

You're healthier than you've ever before been in your life. Come along; I'll show you around the

place. I think you'll find it interesting."

It was a spacious oak-paneled lounge with a magnificent view of the Arctic Sea. Wall shelves were

filled with books; there were low tables and big soft chairs, handsome paintings on the walls.

Double doors at one side opened into a dining room complete with long mahogany table and

sideboard, crystal chandelier, ornately carved chair-backs, and silver candelabras. The kitchens

lay beyond—a symphony of gleaming stainless steel and pale yellow cabinet tops, bright with

sunlight and potted flowers.

"Class," Dammy acknowledged. "Where's the hired help?"

"I have no servants; none are needed. All necessary functions are performed automatically."

"You live here alone?"

"I'm not affected by such problems as loneliness or ennui, I'm happy to say," Montgomerie's host

pointed out the pantry, its shelves well stocked with familiar canned and bottled goods, its

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capacious freezers loaded with meats and fruits.

"None of this is essential, of course," he conceded. "The foodstuffs might more efficiently be

Keith Laumer

stored out of sight or, more logically, synthesized as needed; but it amuses me to live in native

style—and, of course, I was expecting a guest."

"Guest, huh? Funny, I don't remember getting an invitation."

"Dammy, kindly don't attempt to dramatize the situation by imagining sinister overtones. I've

shown you nothing but kindness; I tended your hurts, you can't deny. Just relax and let's be

friends."

"OK, doc. Shake." Xorialle took Montgomerie's proffered hand.

They descended a handsome spiral staircase to the level below, which was given over to offices and

what looked like small classrooms, each equipped with specialized apparatus of curious design.

"Training aids," Xorialle explained succinctly. "You'll be seeing more of this soon."

The next level was devoted to sound-muffled rooms with capacious chairs, racks of what appeared to

be tape cassettes, film reels, and other objects, of unfamiliar shape.

"The library and data facilities are as complete as any outside Data Central," Xorialle said with

a note of pride, "and are updated continuously with inputs both from local sources and, ah,

others."

"A library with no books," Dammy said. "It's a switch. What's that?" He pointed to a small hooded

apparatus occupying a niche of its own. Adjacent to it were vertical channels in which glossy half-

inch cubes were stacked like gum in a dispensing machine.

"Foreign-language technical data of no interest to you," Xorialle said shortly. "Don't take

offense, my boy," he added sternly, "but on no account must you tamper with this section. I

emphasize:

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off-limits, Dammy. Don't touch! If you wish anything to read, my boy, you'll find it here," he

concluded more mildly, and led Montgomerie across to an alcove with a row of buttons above a

frosted glass plate.

"All your familiar literary treasures are here, from The Wind in the Willows to the Congressional

Record, current as of this afternoon's session. Merely select from the catalog—" He pressed a

button and a list of titles appeared on the screen, moving downward with increasing speed as he

twisted a control knob—"and the work will be either projected here, or a copy produced for your

use." He poked buttons, the machine whirred softly, and a handsomely bound copy of Forever Amber

dropped from a slot.

Dammy grunted.

A small elevator took them to the level below. There were no windows here, Narrow corridors led

between blank walls, ending at massive doors.

"Utility functions are handled here," Xorialle explained. "The various units are sealed and

perform their functions, including self-repair, without supervision."

"Where's your power plant?"

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Xorialle shot Dammy a thoughtful look. "Below," he said. "A small fusion cell using sea water."

"Let's take a look."

"I'm sorry. Off-limits. Radiation, you know. Well, that's about it, my boy. Shall we go up?"

"Quite a layout, doc. It must have cost some real bread to hollow out the whole rock and pack it

full of machinery."

"The project hasn't been without expense," Xorialle agreed.

Keith Laumer

"What's it all for?" "Later, my boy, later."

Back in the lounge, Xorialle dialed for drinks, which promptly slid into place on the bar. The

wind had risen; it boomed against the wide glass areas, transmitting a feel of chill in spite of

the comfortable temperature of the luxurious room.

"What happens when a blizzard hits?" Dammy said. "This place sticks up like a cherry on a sundae.

These Arctic winds top a hundred and eighty, I heard someplace."

"Have no fear, my boy. The structure has withstood the weather for over three hundred years; I'm

sure it will serve as long as it's needed."

"Air conditioning and all, huh?" Dammy glanced sideways at his host. "Pretty fancy for the

seventeenth century."

"Don't trouble your head, my boy," Xorialle said ofihandedly. "It will all be made clear in due

course."

Dammy sampled his drink.

"This place is more than just a little weekend hideaway, right?"

"Quite right."

"You're a funny guy, Doc. You don't say any more than you want to, do you?"

"Do you?"

"Not if I can help it." Montgomerie shook his head. He frowned at Xorialle. "Why'd you bring me

here, Doc?"

"To save your hie, of course, in the first instance."

"How'd you know my name?"

"Research."

"Why research me?"

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Xorialle spread his hands appealingly. "There was nothing personal, my boy. I required a subject

in the early adult years, of average endowments, one whose disappearance from his usual haunts

would attract a minimum of notice. My survey turned up a number of possibilities. I selected you."

"For what?"

"As a test subject."

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"You with the government?" Montgomerie frowned darkly.

"Not exactly."

"What kind of test?"

"Oh, a standard wide-band evaluation—in your case with the emphasis on potential, of course, since

your exploitation of your most recent evolutionary quantum jump has hardly begun."

"Why is it every question I ask you just gives me more questions to ask?"

"May I offer a word of advice, lad? Don't bother your head at this point. As we go forward with

your development ..."

"What's that mean?"

"Why, merely that there would be no point in attempting an evaluation based on your present

physical and mental condition. We already have your unfortunate culture as ample evidence of your

kind's ineptitude at this stage in solving even the most elementary societal problems. What is of

interest is the magnitude of the impact you may represent on the Galactic Consensus at your point

of maturation."

"Look, would you do me a favor? Talk ordinary American?"

Xorialle waggled his hands in an exasperated

Keith Laumer

gesture. "I can't quite see what it is you find so difficult to grasp. Naturally, the Concensus

monitors developments within the Tessasphere. When a new species emerges onto the psychostratum,

it's necessary to assess its potentialities in order to determine what, if any, role it should be

permitted in galactic affairs, and in what direction its development should be guided for optimum

convergence with Concensual goals."

"That's what I mean," Montgomerie said. "It sounds kind of like American, but it doesn't seem to

tell me much."

"Accordingly," Xorialle ploughed on, "an average specimen is selected and his innate abilities

explored, thus supplying data on which to base extrapolative calculations."

"That word specimen—I thought that was something you gave the lab technician or stuck a pin

through for your butterfly collection."

"Your simple language," Xorialle said sourly, "is rich in encumbering connotations. In this case

you, my boy, are the specimen." He held up a hand to forestall Dammy's comment. "And by

determining the extent of your latent capabilities, I acquire in microcosm a measure of your

kind's potential destiny."

"What do you mean by 'my kind'?" Dammy said suspiciously. "Is that some kind of crack?"

"Your kind, my dear lad: your race, tribe, breed, species, call it what you will." "You mean

American?"

"American, Russian, Zulu, Indio—you're all minor substocks of Homo sapiens, as you so naively term

yourselves."

THE ULTIMAX MAN

"You talk," Dammy said carefully, eyeing Xorialle gingerly, "as if you weren't included."

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file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/Keith%20Laumer%20-%2The%20Ultimax%20Man.txtOneTHEULTIMAXMANThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©1978byKeithLaumerAllrightsreserved,in...

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Laumer, Keith - The Ultimax Man

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