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  A Rage for Revenge

  ( War Against the Chtorr - 3 )

  David Gerrold

  The War Against the Chtorr: Book Three

  A Rage for Revenge

  David Gerrold

  for Frank Robinson, with love

  Author's Introduction

  I am going to break Rule Two.

  Rule One is: Never bore the audience.

  Rule Two: Never explain your work. Especially don't explain it, before.

  I am now going to break Rule Two. Flagrantly.

  This particular episode of The War Against The Chtorr includes a number of chapters of heavily didactic material. I am concerned that some of this material may need to be annotated. I would hope that I am wrong, but for reasons that should become abundantly clear long before you get to the end of the book, I choose to err on the side of caution.

  This book is didactic. It needs to be didactic.

  There is nothing inherently right or wrong in a book being didactic-although some critics and reviewers have taken the position that didacticism in a work of fiction is only slightly more offensive than spitting on the Madonna. The truth is that didacticism is only a description, not a judgment; it is not a quality that can be assigned rightness or wrongness. The use of the didactic technique, however, can be judged either clumsy or exquisite, and that is a judgment that is always appropriate for people who need to have opinions about other people's opinions. My dictionary defines "didactic" this way:

  1. intended for instruction.

  2. preaching or moralizing.

  Both definitions of the word are appropriate to this work. This is your warning. This book preaches and moralizes. It is also intended for instruction.

  And therein lies the danger.

  (Bear with me. This is going to take some explaining.)

  In books one and two of this series, A Matter For Men and A Day For Damnation, the hero of the narrative, Jim McCarthy, has encountered several graduates of a course called The Mode Training. In the context of the stories, it is apparent that The Mode Training is a well-known and somewhat respected course, though not without its skeptical observers and detractors.

  In book three of this series, the book you are holding now, McCarthy participates in the six-week course called The Mode Training.

  I want this to be absolutely clear:

  There is no such thing as The Mode Training. It is a fictitious course.

  It does not exist.

  It is not based on any specific course of instruction that I know of that is available anywhere on Earth.

  The Mode Training, the name as well as the idea behind it, is copyright to me, David Gerrold, 1988. It is not for sale. It is not for rent. It is not for lease. The course is not available under any circumstances. I have no intention of authorizing such a course. It is a fiction and I intend that it remain so. This is the most responsible position that I can take in regard to a totally fictitious seminar series.

  I say that because I do not want anyone-especially unqualified charlatans-setting up any kind of course based on this work. I have extrapolated this "technology of consciousness" as a place for the reader to visit only so that he or she may consider its nature. By no means should anyone consider The Mode Training as a real or even as a possible event.

  (I particularly do not want to attend a science fiction convention and discover to my horror that someone has appointed himself a "Foreman" and is charging $5 a head to abuse an unsuspecting audience. Worse, I do not want anyone to think that such an experience validates them as an enlightened human being. If enlightenment were that easy-well, never mind; that's a whole other story.)

  Let me also take this opportunity to discuss the source material for The Mode Training.

  First, let me tell you what it is not bawd an,

  The Mode Training is not based on Lifespring, Summit, Insight, Esalen, The Experience, or any other workshop, course, or seminar series. It is not derived from Dianetics, Scientology, The Rosicrucians, Silva Mind Control, Science of Mind, or any other religious study.

  However, the extrapolation of such a course as The Mode Training is based on the fact that such courses as the ones listed above do exist. In fact, only a few years ago, the United States Army was investigating the possibility of adapting or including the est training as part of its basic training procedures for new recruits. That triggered this thought: What would a military version of est be like? No, forget est for a minute-that carries connotations that I don't want attached to this idea. But do consider this: What would a nation be like if its process of education was not one of indoctrination, but training? What if human beings could actually be trained to succeed-not only in their personal lives, but in their larger responsibilities to family, nation, and species? What would it be like to live among such people?

  I was fascinated with the thought, intrigued by the idea of a nation training itself to be responsible. It was a remarkable question to consider. What will the next step in the evolution of human consciousness look like?

  It was early in the writing of this book that I realized that it was not sufficient to extrapolate simply the alien ecology of the Chtorr; I also had to extrapolate a believable future for the Earth. It is unacceptable for a novel of the future to demonstrate only the technological advances that could occur in the next fifty years; a truly visionary novel must also explore the spiritual and psychological shifts that are possible, and how they might have come about.

  I have to acknowledge that the question demanded considerable research into a number of courses, seminars, workshops, and even a couple of cults. I was looking for the underlying principles behind their ability to produce results. I became fascinated by the philosophical as well as the psychological underpinnings of many of these courses, and the astute reader may notice the occasional sideways reference here and there; however, no specific influence should be considered the sole source material or foundation for The Mode Training.

  If anything, The Mode Training is nothing more than the study of Zen, as taught by a rather savage Socratic dialogue.

  I make no claims that The Mode Training is anything more than the extrapolation of a possibility. That's all that it has ever been intended to be.

  It is not an opinion.

  It is not a prediction.

  It is not a warning.

  It is only an extrapolation. I like to play with ideas. I was interested in the idea of a "Mode Training" and I took it as far as I could for the sheer fun of seeing how far I could take it. Anyone who tries to read anything deeper into the Mode chapters will only be making an ass of himself.

  Which brings me to my last point:

  Please do not assume that because something is written in this book or in this series, that I endorse it or that it represents my personal philosophy. It may; equally, it may not. I have deliberately written much into these books that I disagree with, if for no other reason than to confound critics and academics, but primarily because you cannot have an interesting argument unless both sides get a fair hearing. In either case, armchair analysts will be on much safer ground to assert that my characters have seized the responsibility of speaking for themselves and their own concerns.

  If you find the didactic parts of this book to be disturbing, troublesome, or annoying, then please consider them to be successful. They will have accomplished their job; because that is exactly what they were intended to do.

  --David Gerrold , Hollywood, 1988

  THANK YOU:

  Dennis Ahrens, Seth Breidbart, Jack Cohen, Richard Curtis, Diane Duane, Richard Fontana, Bill Glass, Harvey and Johanna Glass, David Hartwell, Robert and Ginny Heinlein, Don Hetsko, Karen Malcor, Susie Miller, Jerry Pournelle, Michael St.
Laurent, Rich Sternbach, Tom Swale, Linda Wright, Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Howard Zimmerman.

  Chtorr (ktor), n. 1. The planet Chtorr, presumed to exist within 30 light-years of Earth. 2. The star system in which the planet occurs; possibly a red giant star, presently unidentified. 3. The ruling species of the planet Chtorr; generic. 4. In formal usage, either one or many members of the ruling species of the planet Chtorr; a Chtorr, the Chtorr. (See Chtor-ran) 5. The glottal chirruping cry of a Chtorr.

  Chtor-ran (ktoi in), adj. 1. Of or relating to either the planet or the star system, Chtorr. 2. Native to Chtorr. n. 1. Any creature native to Chtorr. 2. In common usage, a member of the primary species, the (presumed) intelligent life form of Chtorr. (pl. Chtor-rans)

  -The Random House Dictionary of the English Language Century 21 Edition, unabridged.

  Mo-die (mo de), n., (colloq.) 1. Any person who has totally immersed himself in Mode Training Seminars. 2. A member of the American Modal Movement. 3. Anyone who is dedicated to quasi-religious, personal development seminars; generally used as an epithet. (pl. Mo-dies)

  -The Random House Dictionary of the English Language Century 21 Edition, unabridged.

  A limerick of classic proportion

  should have meter and rhyme and a portion

  of humor quite lewd

  and a frightfully crude

  impossible sexual contortion.

  1

  The Spider

  "Design flaws travel in herds."

  -Solomon Short

  "Don't move!" I said it very softly.

  "Huh-?" The kid came crashing through the bushes behind me.

  "And don't talk!"

  The spider was nearly twice as tall as a man. It looked confused. It stood in the center of a grassy clearing, turning itself hesitantly this way and that. It was a dark oblate shape poised motionless on six gangly legs. It hadn't seen us yet, but its big black eyes were swiveling back and forth in a restless, searching motion. It was looking for the source of the sound; we'd surprised it. I wondered if we could fade quietly back into the bushes. Alone, I could have done it

  "What is it?" the kid blurted.

  All four of the spider's eyes came jerking around to focus on us. "Shit." I touched the phonebox on my belt and punched CONTROL. "This is JIMBO. I've got a spider. I think it's rogue."

  The phone spoke instantly into my ear. "We copy. Stand by." The spider unslung a torch from beneath its belly and brought the nozzle around to bear on us. Its red lights came on with an angry glare and it spoke with a hard metal voice. "FREEZE WHERE YOU ARE!"

  The phone spoke into my ear again. "What model?"

  I replied as softly as I could manage. "I can't see the serial number. But it's one of the big ones. A Robinson. Vigilante, I think. Industrial chassis. Looks like a riot-control model; it's armored and it's got police fixtures. And . . . yes, military ordnance."

  "PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" the spider ordered. "TAKE THREE STEPS FORWARD!"

  "We copy that too," said the phone emotionlessly.

  "And it looks like it's been wounded. It's got scorch marks, scratches, and a couple bad dents. And it's moving slower than it ' should." I wondered who-or what-had put those dents in it. The phone didn't respond.

  "PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEADS! TAKE THREE STEPS FORWARD!"

  "Sir-?" the kid quavered. "Shouldn't we do as it says?"

  I nodded. "Very . . . slowly." I took a step forward. Then another. And a third. I brought my hands up slowly. I glanced sideways to see what the kid was doing. "Don't. Try. Anything."

  "Uh-huh," the kid gulped. He looked like he was about to faint. I hoped he wouldn't. It might be fatal.

  The spider was studying us with a full sensory scan. There was something wrong with its brain. It was taking too long and it kept repeating its movements.

  My phone reported, "Be very careful! You were right. It is a Vigilante-it's one of the hypered ones. It fell out of the net three weeks ago, we don't know why. And it won't respond to recall. What's it doing now?"

  "Looking us over. But it's taking too long."

  "It can't make up its mind if you're friend or foe. It probably can't read your dogtags."

  "Shit. Have you got an override code?"

  "We're not sure when it went down, so we don't know what its codes were at the time of the event. It might still be updating-or it might have locked down when the channel broke."

  "And the bad news is . . . ?" I prompted.

  "You get to choose which code you want to try. You only get one guess."

  There wasn't time to think. I said, "Give me the override cod operative at its last contact."

  "Right."

  "LOWER YOUR WEAPONS SLOWLY!" the spider bellowed. The phone spoke syllables into my ear.

  "Say again?"

  "LOWER YOUR WEAPONS SLOWLY!"

  I unhitched my rifle from my shoulder and slid it very slowly to the grass. I shrugged out of my backpack too and stepped carefully away from it. . . .

  The phone was repeating the override code a third time. "Did you get that?"

  "Got it." If the spider was still talking, we had a chance.

  I took a step forward. The huge machine rebalanced itself, refocusing and readying its weaponry suspiciously. I spoke loudly and clearly. "Code: Zero. Niner. Charlie. Apple. Six. Emergency override. Priority Alpha."

  "STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

  I repeated the code. Louder this time. "Emergency override. Priority Alpha."

  The spider beeped. It clicked. Then it requested in a more courteous tone, "Password?"

  My mouth was so dry it hurt. We'd gotten first-level recognition-but that didn't mean anything, not if we had the wrong password. I cleared my throat.

  "Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

  "Password?" the spider repeated.

  "Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

  "What is the password?" the spider asked impatiently. "You have ten seconds."

  Oh, God. What if its recognition functions were damaged? I stretched the middle finger of my right hand across the back of my left toward the panel on my wrist. "Eternal vigilance-" I nudged the arming button. "-is the price of liberty."

  This time the spider hesitated. Thinking about it? One touch of my finger . . . and I might be able to make that spider really angry. Damn. It was too heavily armored. The rockets in the backpack might stop a worm; they couldn't handle this. The best I could do was wound the thing-and maybe buy enough time for an escape.

  The question was--could I outrun a four-meter Vigilante spider in hot pursuit?

  I did not feel lucky.

  Abruptly, the spider beeped and said, "Password accepted."

  "Command:" I said. "Disable for inspection. Now."

  The spider hesitated. "What is the password?" it asked. "You have ten seconds."

  Huh?

  "Sir-?" asked the kid. "Is it supposed to do that?"

  I shook my head. "Shut up." I raised my voice again. "Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty."

  Again, a long hesitation. "Password accepted."

  I thought hard for a moment. The spider would accept the password. Maybe. But it wouldn't accept any other commands. To the phone, I said, "Are you getting all this?"

  "We copy," said the voice in my ear. "Stand by. We're looking at options."

  "Terrific. So am I." The spider had three flame-throwers, two rocket-launchers, and assorted other frightfulnesses all slung neatly beneath its belly-several of which were targeted at us.

  "What is the password?" the spider demanded.

  Dammit! The bloody thing was stuck! It could recognize the password, but it couldn't pass that recognition back-so it couldn't get out of the loop. How long did we have before its internal monitor realized it was stuck? Once that happened, it would go on to the next option and no password would be effective.

  "Try the next password," whispered the phone.

  My nose itched. I wanted desperately to scratch. I didn't dare. I
shouted at the giant spider, "Hell hath no fury like a pacifist." The spider swiveled sideways and stopped to consider. "Password accepted," it said. "What is the password?"

  The kid said, "Sir-?"

  "Shut the fuck up." I was getting angry. On a hunch, I shouted, "Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at!"

  The spider thought about that one too. "Password accepted." Right. It was worse than I thought. The spider recognized everything as a password. But when the accepted phrase didn't match up with the phrase stored in its memory, it had to start all over. It would have been funny-if there weren't two lives at stake.

  "What is the password?"

  An unlikely thought occurred to me. No, it was a very stupid idea. Still . . .

  I called out to the spider, "There was a young man named O'Quinn-" and took a step backward.

  "Password accepted. What is the password?" Maybe, just maybe . . .

  "With inordinate interest in skin!" I took another step backward. So did the kid. Sideways and backward. Away from the pack. The spider swiveled its cameras to follow us, but said only,' "Password accepted."

  "His singular goal--" Sideways and backward. "What is the password?"

  "When he found a hole .." Sideways-"Password accepted."

  "Was to do what he could . . . to get in!" -and backward! It was working!

  I glanced at the kid. His face was white. "Easy," I whispered. He gulped and nodded.

  My phone asked, "What are you doing?"

  I ignored it. How far back were the bushes? "There was a young fellow named Howard-" Dare I risk two steps? No. The spider took longer to accept this one. Maybe it knew someone named Howard? And why hadn't the monitor kicked in? "Who was thought to be magically powered-"

  "Password accepted."

  I glanced backward. Not too much farther. "His dick was so short-"

  "Accepted."

  "It looked like a wart-" One more step. I looked to the kid. "Get ready --- "