Dwan shook her head. "No. Forget it. I'm disconnecting now."
"Randy-wait! If you do this for me, I'll tell you something you desperately need to know."
"There isn't anything that I desperately need to know. Certainly not from you. You flatter yourself."
"You're implanted," I said quickly. "If you don't believe me, hang up the phone. Go ahead-you can still hear me talking in your ear, can't you? Even though you've broken the channel? That's because the massmind is implanting my voice directly into your experience."
It was a gamble. Would the Telepathy Corps let him hear my words? Would the massmind cooperate? The Teep Corps had an agenda of its own.
Dwan looked terribly uncomfortable. She scratched her nose; then she started feeling her head.
My God. It worked. What was the Teep Corps doing?
"You can't feel it, Randy. You're touching your nose, you're scratching your head, I can see you-"
"You're peeking into my head!"
"No, I'm communicating to you through Dwan Grodin, the talking potato. Sorry, Dwan. The massmind is providing the connection. She's echoing your expressions, your movements, everything. We can use Dwan as the terminal for the prowler. Now, release it to me, please-"
"I don't believe this," said Dwan. She had both her hands over her ears. "This is amazing. This is fucked. I'm going to-I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Believe it, Randy. And stay on purpose. I need that prowler now."
"No, it's too late," Dwan/Randy said. "I could have done something before-but you disappeared."
"They had me drugged, Randy. Dr. Shreiber is going to pay for this, I promise you."
Dwan scratched her left tit. She looked momentarily puzzled. "This is a very curious sensation," she said. I wasn't sure if it was Randy or Dwan speaking. "Urnk," she said. Then, "It looks like one of our prowlers is having a problem -number fourteen-I'm pulling it off the circuit for a diagnostic check. If there's another attack, however, I'm putting it back on-line immediately."
"Thank you, Randy. I'm going to give you a big hug and a kiss when I get back-"
"You do and I'll court-martial you. I promise you. I don't want you ever touching me again." Coming out of Dwan's mouth, the words sounded eerie.
"I promise," I said. "Anything you want."
Dwan nodded curtly, and then Randy Dannenfelser was gone.
Opportunities for live observations of the workings of a mandala nest have been extremely limited. Most of our data has had to be gathered only after a nest has been scourged; the possibility of misinterpretation due to insufficient or incomplete information is considerable. Nevertheless, at the time of this writing, there is some evidence to suggest that the elder gastropedes continue to thrive and grow for some time after retirement.
This suggests that the reservoir chambers are not just dying rooms, but, in fact, may serve an additional purpose that aids the species and/or the survival of the mandala nest. What that purpose is, remains unknown to us.
Although there is no hard evidence to support the theory, it has been hypothesized that the retired gastropedes are not dying, but may in fact be metamorphosing into breeding queens, whose sole purpose is to produce eggs for the nest.
Corollary to this theory is the possibility that a young gastropede functions primarily as a male, mating enthusiastically with any willing female; but when it achieves a certain threshold size, it becomes itself a female, commanding a family and later a tribe of subservient males.
Perhaps, after a lifetime of success-surviving, feeding, growing, building, interacting, and of course, mating with other successful individuals-the queen gastropede is, carrying and storing enough sperms to fertilize hundreds of thousands of eggs.
This breeding strategy would guarantee that no individual gastropede can reproduce until it has earned the right. By firmly establishing a prosperous mandala, an individual not only demonstrates its personal success, it also demonstrates its leadership over all other individuals within its family and tribe. Its reward is not simply a decadent retirement, but the right to reproduce itself hundreds of thousands of times over, guaranteeing the prevalence of its genetic line.
If this is true-that Chtorran gastropedes reproduce by evolving into massive egg-laying queens-then the question must be asked:
How did the gastropedes reproduce before the appearance of queens in the mandala nests?
And if the gastropedes can reproduce without developing into queens, then why metamorphose into queens at all?
Proponents of the theory argue that the gastropedes have not been reproducing before the appearance of the queen form, that the infestation must have begun with a large enough reservoir of eggs to provide enough generations of individuals to guarantee the eventual development of queen gastropedes.
Opponents of the theory remain skeptical and point to a directly observed live hatching of an infant gastropede in a renegade camp as proof that eggs are being produced from a source other than a queen gastropede. Proponents regard that incident as inconclusive. The matter remains unresolved.
—The Red Book,
(Release 22.19A)
Chapter 79
Cyrano on the Ground
"Life isn't one damn thing after another. It's the same damn thing over and over again."
-SOLOMON SHORT
The electric potato was herself again, blinking and scratching and looking very confused.
"Dwan, listen to me-" I levered myself into a painful sitting position. "Come over here." I took both her hands in mine. "I need you to pretend something with me. Okay?"
"You're hurting m-me," she said.
"It's a game," I said. "A very exciting game. I want you to pretend that you're-a prowler. Prowler number fourteen. I want you to pretend that you're riding inside it, seeing what it sees, hearing what it hears, feeling what it feels. I want you to pretend that you can take it anywhere you want to go. Can you do that? Close your eyes, sweetheart-that's it-and just let yourself be inside prowler number fourteen. That's my girl."
Dwan's face puckered up uncomfortably. Her eyes popped open again, blinked, and widened in surprise. She looked around, her head swiveling back and forth in a movement that was both graceful and mechanical.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"I'm m-moving through the trees. Under a tent. It's the skin of the d-dirigible. I can -see"-she looked up-"the f-framework is all b-broken and crunched. Pieces of it are hanging in the f-forest."
"Where are you?" I repeated.
"I'm-under the's-stern. It's ripped very badly."
"Can you climb up into it?"
"I d-don't think so-"
"Remember, Dwan, you're a prowler now." i squeezed her hands in mine. "Remember, you have pincers on your feet. You can go up a tree, you can hang on to things that people can't. Now, look-is there a way for you to climb up?"
Dwan's head swiveled around and around. She looked up above us with a calculating eye. She frowned and squinted and worked her face through a series of strange contortions. At last, she pointed. "I c-can g-go up that way."
"Do it," I commanded.
"I'm's-scared," she said.
"Don't worry, nothing can hurt you. It's just a pretend game. And I'm right here with you the whole time."
"I d-don't want to d-do this anymore. It hurts."
"It's very important, Dwan. Do you like Lizard?"
"G-general T-tirelli is v-very n-nice. I l-like her."
"You have to do this for her."
"It h-hurts."
"Lizard's in trouble. You're the only one who can save her."