Invader on My Back

by Philip E. High

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

In the far future, the world has fallen to chaos with the criminal elements controlling the cities and vast police forces ruling the unknown wilderness beyond. Only one man, unknowingly, holds the key to the state in which society finds itself - a man named Craig. Craig, however, is an outcast, a pariah, feared by organised crime and despised by the police who, despite themselves, are compelled to use him. This is the tale of how Craig fights back - against forces unknown - and of his attempts to reinstate himself into a society that has rejected him.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 173

Sample

THE NORMS had long since moved from the cities, so had the police. Those who remained were jubilant to a degree—it was a pity to lose the police. Cop-killing had been, if not materially rewarding, a considerable boost to prestige. Now they must find other ways of impressing their fellows.

The police themselves, once clear of the cities, formed—according to city opinion—an unholy alliance with the Armed Services. Between them, they built enormous forts, reminiscent of the ancient prison camps, which they surrounded with lights, weapons and lethal invisible barriers. Wiseacres asked if the forts had been built to keep the bad elements out or the police in.

Periodically, however, the police made savage punitive raids on the cities—this was when the cities began to get ideas about the Norms.

The Norms, generally speaking, built their rural communities near the forts for safety reasons. Centuries ago, of course, there would have been no room for rural communities but a great many people had died in the early days of the Troubles and left room for expansion. Again, only the hubs of the great cities remained. The once sprawling suburbs had, long ago, been pounded to dust in countless clashes of arms.

Besides rearranging the social structure of the race, the Troubles had also brought about sharp caste divisions which had nothing to do with wealth, heritage, colour, creed, or any previously known cultural factor. All these castes were known by commonplace and often slightly vulgar terms of reference.

There were, of course, the police, the Norms, the Scuttlers—every community has its Scuttlers—the Delinks, who could be sub-divided into various categories, and the Stinkers.

The Stinkers were few and unique because a Stinker didn’t develop into a Stinker until late adolescence. Once developed, he was exceedingly lucky if he survived a year—usually Stinkers ended up in some quiet place with a lot of holes in their backs.

If, however, by good fortune or singular ability, he lived a year, his chances of survival were good. If he lived two years, he would probably die of old age, no one but a madman would try and take an experienced Stinker.

A Stinker learned survival the hard way, it became his stock-in-trade, creed, religion and a way of life.

An experienced Stinker developed a sixth sense for ambush, could smell booby traps a mile away and knew more about poison substances than a research laboratory. Usually he surrounded himself with a large variety of subtle and ingenious weapons and could draw faster and shoot quicker than any other living man. Not even a Father-Assassin in one of the cities would consider one—

“A Stinker, Patron! Are you mad? Look, my good friend, to take a Stinker I must use sixty men, of these sixty men I shall, at a conservative estimate, lose half. If I lose thirty men, I am below survival level, I am vulnerable, I am gunned down by a bigger guild before I can draw breath. However, Patron, rather than appear ungenerous, I will compromise. I will tell you, without charge and in exquisite detail, just what to do with your five million offer—”

The police, too, stood clear. The Stinkers never did anything indictable and they killed only in self-defence. Lose a couple of squads picking one up—for what?

The Stinkers, therefore, if they could keep their sanity—which was a hard enough job in itself—lived comparatively untroubled lives. That is, if they could stand being virtual lepers, living like hermits and actively and violently hated. Stinkers were not called Stinkers for nothing!

Craig was a Stinker, an experienced Stinker and survival-wise to the point of near-clairvoyance. He was also a philosophical thinker and highly intelligent into the bargain.

In his early days he had been almost an infant prodigy and, at fourteen, had majored in cybernetics. At seventeen he had acquired degrees in six sciences and his future had seemed assured.

Regrettably, at the age of eighteen, he began to Stink and his associates, colleagues and odd members of the general public went to considerable lengths to dispose of him.

Perhaps it was his innate genius which saved him, that, coupled with his courage and physical strength.

As soon as he began to notice the growing hostility of those around him, he realised his caste and took precautionary measures. These measures—he had a high degree of technical ability—he had improved upon with the passing of time. In truth, they were now the true companions of his isolation but, in those early days they had saved his life many times over.

Now, at the age of thirty-three, Craig was a big man with hairy arms and a brown, sort of unfinished, but not unhandsome some face. He kept his dark hair short and he had the sort of chin which non-Stinkers described as aggressive but in another age would have been called determined. The dark eyes were almost gentle and the mouth sensitive.

Craig did not like an untouchable and his well-balanced mind had saved him from a sense of persecution. If you were a Stinker, you were a Stinker. You had to accept the fact or go under because there was not a damn thing you could do about it.

Craig was fortunate in starting with money. He bought equipment, work robots and a deceptively battered-looking flyer which now, thanks to his technical skill, could make a police pursuit ship look as if it were in reverse.

The robots constructed him a comfortable home on an inaccessible mountain top and with his technical ability and the ship, he traded.

It was a tribute to his ingenuity that he had not only succeeded in creating trade but turned it into a highly lucrative business. All negotiations, prices, requirements and orders had to be conducted in writing. There was no other way, any other form of contact would, but for his reputation, have exploded into violence.

Craig described himself mentally as a ‘flyer tinker.’ He was much more than that but there was a basis of truth in the idea. The police always grabbed the best men and skilled technicians were, therefore, in short supply. Craig went around fixing things, highly technical things, like converter-tubes, Malpras thermonuclear reactors and the highly unstable Bibnal-Siefert energy accumulators.

It was around noon when Craig came in over Tucker’s place. Tucker ran a rural general store, replacement office and a small, three-tier autofactory turning out a variety of goods such as furniture, clothing and unflavoured food basics. He did quite well out of it, so well that he not only employed men but could afford guns and guards. In consequence, the nearest police fort was, discreetly, just below the horizon. Tucker could afford a limited independence.

Craig gave his usual call sign but did not descend, experienced Stinkers took nothing for granted. With instruments, he checked for concentrations of chemical explosives, for the tell-tale blue spots of programmed booby traps or flick-guns and the surrounding terrain for concealed sharpshooters.

Tucker sent a recognition signal (recorded) and a list of the things he wanted fixed (also recorded). On the receipt of Craig’s call sign, he and his staff immediately took short-time Comalysers. Thus, while Craig went about his business, everyone was blissfully out to the world. It had to be that way, no one could conduct his normal affairs within a hundred yards of a Stinker without becoming hysterical, violent or both.

Craig brought his ship down slowly, still checking and, one hundred and fifty feet from the ground, said: “Recky, have a look round.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a plop as Recky dropped through his special exit lock.

A few seconds later he reported an all clear. “Green, sir, lovely and green.”

Craig put the ship down.

“Gun, cover my back. Screen, procedure three—”

When Craig reached his last job, there was a letter perched on a low shelf directly in front of him. Clearly the letter was not from Tucker but it was addressed to Michael Craig.

Craig did not touch it, the letter had obviously been sent to Tucker for delivery and the man had left it in this obvious place for his attention. It had, therefore, come from someone who knew his movements. It might be another customer and it might not.

When he got back to the ship, he sent a remote-controlled device back for the letter. The device slit the envelope, unfolded the letter and beamed back the contents to one of the vessel’s receiving screens.

In his early days as a Stinker, Craig had received some ingeniously unpleasant letters and had, long ago, ceased to open them personally. He had received letters covered in impregnating poisons, letters which exploded or fired microscopic missiles, letters which, if laid casually on certain common substances abruptly and violently ignited—no, he was taking no chances on a letter from an unknown source.

Words appeared on the screen and the source of the letter was a distinct shock. It was from the Police Research Institute, Parapsychological Section and it read:

Dear Craig,

This letter will, no doubt, come as a surprise as will the existence of the above research establishment.

In the troubles of the last three centuries, research into the obscurer sciences had to go by the board but with the slowing—not halting—of the race’s cultural decay, it was felt that investigation had to begin somewhere. No sane man can honestly believe that the present situation is due to natural causes alone.

The present unbreakable caste system, for example, is clearly inspired by circumstances outside normal psychological behaviour patterns.

Why are you a Stinker? You do not know and, to be frank, neither do we. We can, however, provide you with additional data.

(1) In the last fifty years, seven hundred and forty-three Stinkers have developed. Of these, including yourself, only twenty-five have survived.

(2) As far as we are aware, none of these Stinkers have ever met. Do Stinkers stink to each other, Craig? Would you care to find out for us?There is, we agree, in view of your untouchable caste, no reason whatever for you to help us, none the less we should appreciate your co-operation.We have addressed a precisely similar letter to another Stinker in central Africa—would you consider a meeting?As we have stressed, there is no reason why you should. You are an outcast and, on direct contact, as detested by us as any other member of the community. We deplore it but, without data and your cooperation, we can do nothing about it.Returning to the proposed meeting, although you are no doubt aware of the dangers, we must, in fairness, point them out.We do not know if such a meeting will prove explosive. It could well be a reaction resulting in the deaths of one or both of you.There is also another danger of which you may not be aware. Since the inception of this department, attempts have been made against the lives of its personnel and considerable ingenuity employed in the attempted destruction of our research and records buildings.It could well be, Mr. Craig, that with your involvement similar attempts may be directed against your life and property. Further, we are not dealing with crackpots but a highly efficient organisation with considerable scientific backing.

Should you decide to interest yourself in this proposed, you will be placed immediately on this department’s payroll at the proposed rate of $15,800 per annum plus ail relevant expenses.

Kindly notify us within three days of your decision.

Please note that all communications must be made on the 6/4 band. This is an official police link and automatically ‘scrambles’ all messages in transit.

Sincerely,

Relton T. Gammon,Director of Research.

Craig recorded the contents of the letter and lifted the ship. He was frowning thoughtfully as he did so, not so much at the contents of the letter but the subtlety of its implications. ‘They have had a go at us, now with your possible involvement, they may take a crack at you too’. A very neat piece of pressure-persuasion that. On the other hand, he was curious, just what did happen when two Stinkers met?

He had the uncomfortable feeling that despite the obvious dangers he was going to accept. There were too many question marks, too much left up in the air.

He realised abruptly that the letter had been deliberately slanted to rouse his curiosity and he felt a grudging respect for the writer. Money might not buy him but curiosity might.

Probably due to his precarious early years, Craig was a man of quick decisions.

His reply was characteristically abrupt: “Accept. Kindly give African address, call sign, etc.”

The answer was back within five minutes, he studied it and frowned. Jungle country, not a happy choice, he was entering no jungle to meet a man with a survival instinct as acute and over-developed as his own. Better make arrangements.

He drafted out a long letter, three-quarters of which was devoted to safety precautions designed to protect both parties. Let’s see now, what was the man’s name—ah, yes, Hastings. Geo Hastings—Geo? Funny name that, short for George presumably.

When he set out two days later, he . . .