For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [72]
What soulless people these are, Mother Mastiff thought as she slumped helplessly in her chair. What dead, distant shadows of human beings.
“I promise you that we will not try to force the boy to do anything against his will, nor will we harm him in any way.”
“What do ye mean to do with him, then?”
“We need to guide his future maturation,” the woman explained, “to ensure that whatever abilities he possesses are developed to their utmost. It’s highly unlikely he can do this without proper instruction and training, which is why his abilities have not manifested themselves fully so far. Experience, however, has shown us that when the children reach puberty, they are no longer willing to accept such training and manipulation. We therefore have to guide him without his being aware of it.”
“How can ye do this without his knowing what is being done to him?”
“By manipulating him through a third party whose suggestions and directions he will accept freely,” the woman said. “That is where you become important.”
“So ye wish for me to make him do certain things, to alter his life so that your experiment can be proven a success?”
“That’s correct,” Nyassa-lee said. “All this must be carried out in such a way that he cannot suspect he is being guided by an outside force.” She gestured toward the far end of the room, past transparent doors sealing off a self-contained operating theater. In the dim blue and green light of the instrument readouts, the sterile theater gleamed softly.
“We cannot allow the possibility of interference or misdirection to hamper our efforts, nor can we risk exposure to the Commonwealth agencies which continue to hound us. It is vital that our instructions be carried out quickly and efficiently. Therefore, it will be necessary for us to place certain small devices in your brain, to ensure your complete compliance with our directives.”
“Like hell,” Mother Mastiff snapped. “I’ve spent a hundred years filling up this head of mine. I know where everything is stored. I don’t want somebody else messing around up there.” She did not add, as she glanced surreptitiously toward the operating room, that she had never been under the knife or the laser and that she had a deathly fear of being cut.
“Look,” she went on desperately, “I’ll be glad to help ye. I’ll tell the boy anything ye wish, have him study anything ye want and avoid whatever matters ye wish him to avoid. But leave my poor old head alone. Wouldn’t I be much more the help to ye if I did what ye require voluntarily instead of like some altered pet?”’
Brora folded his hands on the table and regarded her emotionlessly. “That would certainly be true. However, there are factors which unfortunately mitigate against this.
“First, there are mental activities you will be required to carry out which involve complex processes you are not conversant with but which can be stimulated via direct implants. Second, there is no guarantee that at some future time you would not become discouraged or rebellious and tell the subject what you know. That could be a catastrophe for the experiment. Third, though you may direct the boy with surface willingness, his abilities may enable him to see your inner distress and know that something is amiss, whereas I do not think he can detect the implants themselves, as they are wholly mechanical. Lastly, I think you are lying when you say you would be willing to help us.”
“But I don’t want an operation!” she cried, pounding at the arms of the chair with her fists. “I tell you ’tis not necessary! I’ll do anything ye ask of me if you’ll but leave the boy alone and instruct me. Why should I lie to ye? You’ve said yourself that he’s not my true child, only an adopted one. I’ll be glad to help ye, particularly,” she added with a sly smile, “if there be any money involved.”
But the man Brora was shaking his head. “You lie forcefully, but