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dull their mind powers. The Human Purity League hacked off the tendrils of the advocates,

then hung the victims from lamp posts or trees as an example “for all good humans to follow.”

These terrifying acts drove many slans into hiding. Slans went to back-alley clinics to have

their tendrils surgically removed so they could live quietly among human society. Entire

networks and underground railroads sprang up to give these “neutered” slans new identities in

safe places.

Saddest of all, Anthea thought, was one small article reporting (with no particular

significance) that a large percentage of those shamed slans who had chosen the illicit

tendril-amputation surgery exhibited an extremely high incidence of suicide afterward.

Approximately eighty percent of those desperate enough to take such measures chose not to

survive with dulled senses and mental blindness; they killed themselves within months.

The Human Purity League began to sport clean-shaven heads as proof of their tendril-free

scalps. Flagrantly bragging about their actions, the Purity League insisted that anyone with long

hair—male or female—had to be hiding something. Their thugs knocked down people in the

streets and forcibly shaved their heads. Very few of their targets turned out to have tendrils,

but this did not stop their antics.

Anthea felt a tightening in her gut as she continued reading. She already knew how history

would turn out, and now she could see the events escalating toward a full-scale war between

slans and normal humans.

Pushed into a corner, slan activists began to fight back more aggressively. They formed

support groups and protective societies. They met openly where they thought their large

numbers would guarantee them safety. But in a particularly appalling incident, the Human

Purity League surrounded one such hall where they claimed the evil slans were plotting the

overthrow of Earth. They barricaded the doors, barred the windows, then set the whole

building on fire, burning to death over three hundred slans.

That had been the tipping point that turned slans entirely against their human persecutors.

From there, it had only grown worse and worse.

Trembling with all she had learned, Anthea realized that very few people alive knew this

truth. Humans still exhibited an undiminished hatred toward the mutant race. No wonder the

true slans (if any of them still remained) lived in desperate hiding.

Weary of the sickening reports, Anthea stretched her legs and moved along the shelves,

pulling down boxes and poking among the other paraphernalia. She found dusty devices,

strange laboratory equipment that looked antique while at the same time futuristic. The sealed

items were labeled merely “unknown slan weapon” or “dangerous slan mind-control device.”

In one cabinet she found an old-fashioned video viewer and canisters of tapes. “S. Lann

recordings: Original statements. Highest Security Access.” Doctor Samuel Lann, the first

investigator—some said the
creator
—of the slans! She knew she had to watch the tapes.

She lifted the viewer and brought it back to the table where the baby still lay, wide awake.

She spent several minutes deciphering the player and loading the old and brittle tapes. She

feared the tape might snap as it rattled through the viewing mechanism, but she had to learn

what Samuel Lann had said in his own words.

Once she activated the power switch and heard the wheels clattering, jumpy images began

to flicker on the screen. She saw a handsome man with dark-brown hair, wide-set eyes, high

cheekbones, and a square jaw that denoted confidence and trustworthiness. He seemed defiant

yet patient as he faced his questioners. She realized that this was Lann and that these were

interrogation tapes. Even back before the Slan Wars, there must have been an organization

equivalent to the secret police and the slan hunters.

“Why do you fear my children?” Lann said. “I love them. Two fine daughters and a

son—triplets—who happen to have been born with an unusual birth defect. They’re no threat

to you.”

The interrogator said in a gruff voice, “Anyone with powers such as theirs is a threat to us.

Anyone who has the ability to control minds must themselves be controlled before they harm

our government or our population.”

“But they’re just children, barely fifteen,” Lann said mildly. Even Anthea could tell he was

hiding something.

“They are
weapons
, living weapons that could be turned against us if we do not control

them.”

Another voice, a woman’s, spoke up from outside the field of view, “And how many others

like this are there, Dr. Lann? How many children have tendrils? We’ve heard reports from

other countries—countries that
you
visited. Wouldn’t you like us to bring together these other

mutants, just so we can give them proper medical care?”

Lann wasn’t falling for it. “Ask the other parents. How can I judge how many have been

born?”

“Born? Or
created
, Dr. Lann?” said the male voice.

“What are you suggesting?”

“In your laboratory we found and confiscated many devices, strange machines that had the

ability to alter human brains.”

The woman continued in a soothing voice, “Your research is well-known, Doctor. You are

quite prominent in the field of mental enhancement.”

“Yes, I have made a career of studying the nature of the human mind, of memories and

knowledge. My dream is to record and share those components that make up a person’s

history and personality.”

The male interrogator seized on the comment. “And did those diabolical machines also

expand the brains of your children, mutate them into these powerful creatures who can

manipulate thoughts? You could be manufacturing enhanced humans, putting your own

fingerprints on the evolution of the race.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Lann laughed at first, then saw that the others were serious.

“We know you have the capability,” the woman added.

“No one has that capability. I may be a genius in my field, but not even my children—who

are far smarter and more imaginative than I am—could concoct such a bizarre conspiracy of

using mind machines to produce a whole new race of human beings. Surely you can see that’s

ridiculous?”

“What we see, Dr. Lann, is that your three children have powers we do not understand.

We’ve already received reports from our counterpart agencies that an alarming number of

others just like them have begun popping up in the most unlikely places. Children born with

tendrils—”

The woman interjected, harsher now, “Or perhaps innocent babies were exposed to

unusual rays produced by your machines, which caused the tendrils to grow. Are you seeding

them around the world, Dr. Lann, trying to create a quiet revolution?”

“Of course not.”

There was a long silence, and finally the interrogators decided to let him go. “You watch

yourself, Dr. Lann—because we’ll certainly be watching you.”

With a shudder, Anthea removed the tape and put in the next one. Beside her, the baby

was fully alert. When she looked at her little boy, she experienced a poignant understanding of

how Dr. Lann must have felt upon seeing his own three children born with strange tendrils.

Was he surprised, or intrigued?

There was no record of the woman who had been mother to those first three slan children.

Had the mother been normal, or a secret slan all along? Maybe the race had existed far longer

than anyone suspected. Had that long-forgotten woman—or Dr. Lann himself—been exposed

to some strange chemical or mutagen? She doubted she would ever know.

In the next interrogation tape, Dr. Lann looked haggard. Purple bruises surrounded one

eye, and a bandage covered his forehead. His clothes were rumpled, even torn, but his face

held a murderously defiant spark that hadn’t been there before.

“By being so outspoken, you call attention to yourself, Doctor,” said the interrogator, a

different one than before. “If you don’t want to be singled out for our special attentions, then

you shouldn’t speak on the behalf of these dangerous mutants.”

“Someone has to,” Lann snapped back. “Someone needs to be the voice of reason.

Obviously, it won’t come from your new secret police organization.” A stiff gloved hand struck

him across the face. Lann spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at his interrogator. “You have no

right to hold me here. I have committed no crime.”

“You have attempted to destroy the human race. That’s a significant crime in our book.

Mutants are cropping up everywhere—it’s a veritable plague! I doubt we could possibly stop

the spread now, even if we exterminated all of them before they have a chance to breed. They

keep appearing even from seemingly normal parents.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” Lann said. “It’s the next step in evolution. Why fight it?

Embrace it, for the betterment of the human race.”

“There’s nothing natural about it. Everyone knows of your machine for transforming

babies into telepathic monsters. You use your rays on pregnant mothers and newborn infants,

causing them to develop tendrils.”

“That is absurd propaganda. Everyone ‘knows’ about it only because of the lies you and

your organization have spread.” Another slap across his face. Dr. Lann didn’t even seem

rattled.

“We know your son and daughters have barricaded themselves inside your fortress lab.

One can only guess what they’re doing in there. Is it true both daughters are pregnant? Who is

the father?”

“None of your business. We have done nothing wrong.”

“Then why won’t they let us come in and inspect?”

Lann sneered at the interrogators. “Because you’ve already proved yourselves to be

prejudiced oafs. You wouldn’t understand what you find. You could easily plant evidence.”

“If you cooperate, Dr. Lann, perhaps we’ll be merciful.”

“I think this interview is over.” Lann struggled to stand up, but the gloved hands shoved

him back down into the chair.

“It’s over when we finish asking you questions.”

But Lann clenched his jaws, crossed his arms over his chest, and refused to say another

word. The tape ran for several long minutes. The interrogator prodded and provoked him, but

he would not answer. Finally the recording ended.

Anthea could only stare. This information had been kept from the public! How could the

government have sealed away such details from everyone? It was as if someone—someone in

control—
wanted
the slans to remain hated.

«
^
»

While the chicken was roasting in the oven, sending savory smells throughout the house,

Granny showed the fugitives their separate rooms and allowed them to clean up and rest. But

she had other business with Jommy.

As he followed the old woman, he suspected that she had a scheme up her sleeve. Even

though he had worked to adjust her corrupt attitudes over the years, she could easily have

reverted to her villainous old self. At the moment, however, he had few other choices.

Spry with eagerness, Granny walked around to the back of the house, where she pulled up

the wooden door to the root cellar. Instead of the traditional smells of dirt, cobwebs, and old

vegetables, Jommy saw bright lights, tiled walls, and metal stairs leading to one of his

underground chambers. “I thought you might like to see this—I salvaged a few scraps.

Important scraps.” Her eyes glittered. “I’m sure it’s worth something to you.”

Jommy looked around in amazement and confusion. “But I triggered the self-destruct

myself, just before I led the tendrilless away from here on a wild-goose chase! I gave you a

hypnotic instruction.”

“Yes, you did, but Granny’s mind found a way around it.” She propped her hands on her

bony hips. “And I had a devil of a time saving some of your papers and blueprints and designs.

I had burns and blisters on my face and hands for weeks!”

“But why would you do that? It was dangerous, and foolish.” He stepped ahead, amazed to

see so many intact boxes and shelves. He had expected it all to be destroyed, and he couldn’t

keep the appreciation and admiration out of his voice. “You saved so much of my work.”