This choice: Continue reading "The Puppetmasters: An Oral History" • Go Back...Chapter #26The Puppetmasters: An Oral History (2) by: Seuzz   Are Titans that are fresh from a nest intelligent? Do they have memories? I don't know, and to the extent that I've read about them, I'm not sure anyone else knows either.
They quickly become intelligent, though, once they are on a host. They are parasites, purely, borrowing not only nutrients but even the minds of those they ride. The difference is that they can accumulate the minds of more than just their host. Each cell in the great hive gradually comes to resemble every other cell as they pool their knowledge. Of course, once the cells are spread over a wide area it becomes hard to keep them all synched up. So some hosts act as messengers, traveling over great distances, accumulating the knowledge of each local cluster and carrying it to others.
That wasn't my job, even later, and in these early stages of the invasion I had other jobs to do. But I couldn't execute them until the Titan on my back had absorbed my own memories, and integrated them with those of the others the Titans had already seized. That took a little while.
I don't know how long I stood there, with my bare back pressed against George's as our two Titans merged for the exchange. Maybe it was only five minutes; maybe it was closer to an hour. I only stood and stared back at the barn door--which Vine had closed again, against prying eyes--content to be a receptacle.
And then I felt a little life--the kick of a heel against my flank--in me, and I pulled my shirt back on and buttoned it up. I walked back to the house and into the kitchen and without asking for permission from the puppets who were there I picked up the phone and called my dad. I told him I was at the McLains but that my bike had a flat and they were too busy to take me home and could he please come out to pick me up. He grumbled and I whined and he said he'd be out in an hour. My eyes grazed over those of Mr. McLain as I hung up, but I didn't have to say anything, for he could pick up from the clues that a new host would be along in a bit. Wordlessly, I returned to the barn and helped Vine and George. We never exchanged a single syllable as we broke open the nest one cell at a time, drawing out the Titans, putting them into an incubator to warm, and then transferring them to ordinary, terrestrial crates whose appearance, as they were carried into town, wouldn't draw attention.
* * * * *
I suppose we'd gotten at least a hundred or so packed for immediate distribution when I heard someone call my name from the barn entrance. It was Dad, and I'd only to look at his face to know they got him in the kitchen. I trudged over, and we briefly stripped to the waist for another Titan-on-Titan conference. When it was done, I went over to the incubator and pulled out half a dozen slugs and carefully arranged them all over my torso, where they'd be warm, and covered them back up again with my shirt. Dad had my bike in the back of his truck by then, and we drove home. I gave him one Titan to use on Mom, then pulled my bike down and pedaled off to the house of my best friend.
I found Brett out in his garage, kneeling next to the lawnmower. I felt a twinge of annoyance to see he was dressed only in long shorts and sneakers: no place to hide the slug on him. "Hey," I called. "You hear about the flying saucer?"
"Yeah," he said back sourly. "Idiots."
"Who's the idiots? The ones who made it or--"
"Yeah, them." He tilted the mower up to peer at the blade. "It's crap like that that makes it impossible for the rest of us, the real--"
"The real space aliens?" I grinned. "Mike Skinner teasing you about Uranus again?" I used the scatological pronunciation.
He glared at me. He was a genuine space freak, with a telescope and love of science-fiction stories and TV shows, and was always going on about how the universe had to be filled with extraterrestrial civilizations. He was serious enough about it that he'd get angry when anyone used the phrase "little green men." They're not gonna be like us, he'd shout.
"It was Vine and George," I said. "Can you believe it? Yeah, I just got back from their place, they've got this fake flying saucer in their barn."
"What's it look like?" he asked, his truculent tone leavened with genuine interest.
I shrugged. "Like a flying saucer. It's all balsa wood and tarpaulin. But if you're stupid TV reporter, and it's dark--" I laughed. "It's too bad the feed went out before they got close enough to see they'd been pranked. That'd be some really humiliating footage."
"It's really strange that it cut out like that," Brett said in a serious tone. "It would take a big electrical or magnetic disruption to--"
"Maybe the cameraman clued in and turned it off," I said. "Guys like that got more brains than the people they put on TV. But come on, go with me back out to the McLains. They're gonna turn it into a roadside attraction."
"They're what?"
"Are you deaf today? They didn't mean to turn it into a giant publicity stunt, but that's what they got, and they figure they can make some money off it. So they're going to put it out in that field--"
"Isn't it already in the field?"
"That was something else." I waved my hand dismissively. "They got a full-scale model they're building, and they're gonna put it in the field and charge people a dollar to come look at, and another dollar to go inside it."
"What'll be inside it?"
"A lemonade stand or something. Maybe cookies and punch. Another way to make a dollar. And with all the publicity they got, they figure they can make a couple of hundred bucks, at least, before it all peters out. Or maybe-- You know that snake farm out on Highway 9? It's been there for years. Maybe they can make it something permanent, like those dinosaurs up in Minnesota."
He shook his head with disgust. "Like I said, idiots. Oh, that sounds smart enough," he grumbled, "but--"
"Come help 'em make it look real. I bet you could talk yourself into a partnership with them. Your expertise along with--"
"Huh. I could use a little extra money." He looked thoughtful.
"So put on your shirt and tell your folks you're--"
"They're not home," he said. "They--"
"Good," I said. "That makes it easy. Put the mower down and--"
As he turned back to the mower, I reached under my shirt and gently detached one of the Titans. Brett hasn't got a lot of back--he's a tall and skinny one--and the knobby ridges were slick with sweat. But the slug stuck well enough. He reared back hard, and I had to grab him and lower him to the cement floor. While he lay there, shuddering, I closed the garage door and put on the light. I felt worry as I looked down at him--it looked like he was having an epileptic attack--but the fit soon passed, and he sat up with a dazed expression. I pulled up my shirt and pressed my rider to his.
* * * * *
We didn't go back to the McLains--things were already well in hand out there--but instead went into his house. Brett called Ken Short out, and we jumped him in the bedroom. Slouched on Brett's unmade bed, we stripped to our waists and let our riders make a three-way connection. There was no need to speak amongst ourselves after that, and Ken quietly took two of my remaining stock back home with him while Brett and I waited for his parents. We greeted them, and after Brett's dad sat down to watch TV, we cornered his mom in the kitchen and put a Titan to the back of her neck; while Brett supported her, I took the last one into the living room and quietly ambushed his dad from behind. We had another conference--four-way, this time--and I rode my bike back home.
* * * * *
There was a flurry of comings and goings at my place that night. The Titans were in a great hurry to establish themselves, but they also had to bury their presence. The landing had made a very big splash. One of the all-news channels had picked up our local station's reporting while it was on-going, so much of the nation had seen the news that space aliens had landed in Iowa. Nor had the subsequent exposure of the "hoax" dampened it. Someone--one of the Titans' borrowed brains--had miscalculated in trying to pin it on "kids," for it tickled people to think that a couple of hick teenagers had taken in the news media, and it was fodder for television comedians and serious pundits alike. Controls had to be established before anyone realized that something very sinister had actually occurred.
The reporters at the site of the initial landing had been the first victims, of course, followed quickly by TV station management. They got the media sewed up pretty quickly, along with the top people in the police force. I suppose the hospitals were also a high priority, but I wasn't involved there. There were also some "internal national security" types who had swept onto the scene in the first hours after the broadcast, and it was a stroke of luck on the invaders' part that they were co-opted so quickly. I only knew about them because I had to deal with them a little at the McLains when I went back out there on Sunday. They put me to work moving supplies to a makeshift "flying saucer" in a field a couple of miles from the actual craft, so that anyone who saw would think it really was the work of kids. Vine and George and Brett and Ken and I quickly erected the balsa-wood framework and silvery tarpaulin for our "hoax". We moved crates and incubators into the interior. One old fella trudged into the field as we worked and jawed a bit before we grabbed him.
Monday was when we really began to move.
* * * * *
To continue investigating the room: "Disposing of Lucy"    indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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