by Dan Simmons
Explosions ripped through the jungle behind him. For a second Saul thought that the lightning strikes had come closer, but then he heard the whap-whap of rotors and realized that the searchers must be dropping explosive charges from the he li cop ter. The discharges were too powerful to be grenades; Saul could feel the vibration of each explosion through the deep sand and the quivering branches of the cypress. The tremors grew stronger as the explosions grew louder. Saul guessed that they were walking the charges up the beach, perhaps twenty or thirty meters into the jungle, at sixty-or eighty-meter intervals. Despite the drizzle, the smell of smoke drifted to him from down the beach to his right. If the storm was still coming in from the southeast, Saul realized, the direction of the smoke confirmed that he was near the northern tip of the island but still around the northeast point, not yet to the Cessna’s take-off point and more than a quarter of a mile from the tidal inlet.
It would take hours to hack his way through the beach-edge jungle to the inlet and any shortcut through the swamps all but assured his becoming lost again.
An explosion ripped the night not two hundred meters south of him. There came an incredible screeching as a flight of herons broke cover and disappeared into the dark sky, and then a more prolonged and terrible scream as a human being cried out in pain. Saul wondered if a surrogate would do that. Either that or there were ground patrols moving in behind him and someone had been caught in the blast from the helicopter’s bombing.
Saul could hear rotor blades more clearly now, high and to the south but coming closer. There was the rattle of automatic weapons as someone in a boat moving along the surf line fired randomly into the wall of jungle.
Saul wished he were not naked. Cold rain dripped on him through the leaves, his legs and ankles were in agony, and every time he glanced down the storm light showed him his wrinkled, emaciated belly, bony white legs, and genitals contracted with fear and cold. The sight did not fill him with confidence and make him want to rush out and do battle. Mostly, it made him want to take a hot bath, dress himself in several layers of warm clothes, and find a quiet place to sleep. His body had been tugged by the tidal pull of adrenaline rushes for hours now and was suffering from the ebb tide of aftereffects. He felt cold, lost, and terrified, a husk of humanity devoid of almost all emotion except for fear, and of all motivation except an obsolescent, atavistic urge to survive for reasons he had forgotten. In short, Saul Laski had become exactly the person he had been as he worked in the Pit forty years earlier, except now the stamina and hopefulness of youth were gone.
But that was not the only difference, Saul realized as he raised his face to the increasingly violent storm. “I choose to be here!” he shouted in Polish toward the skies, not caring if his pursuers heard him. He raised a fist but did not shake it, merely clenched it on high, whether as a sign of affirmation, triumph, defiance, or resignation, even he did not know.
Saul ran through the screen of cypress, turned left past the last of the sea grass, and sprinted onto the open beach.
“Harod, come in here,” said Jimmy Wayne Sutter.
“Just a minute,” said Harod. He was the only one left in the monitor room. While the ground-based cameras no longer showed anything important, there was a black and white camera on one of the patrol boats off the north point and a color one aboard the chopper that had been dropping shaped charges and napalm canisters into the trees. Harod thought that the camera work was shitty— they needed a Steadicam for the aerial shots and all the pitching and yawing on both monitors was making him nauseated— but he had to admit that the pyrotechnics out-budgeted anything he and Willi had ever done and were getting close to Coppola’s orgasm-by-fire at the end of Apocalypse Now. Harod had always thought Coppola was nuts to have cut the napalm scenes out of the next-to-final version, and he had not been mollified much to see them slipped under the credits in the final cut. Harod wished he had a couple of Steadicams and a dolly-mounted Panavision unit preset for this night’s work— he’d use the footage for something even if he had to write the fucking film around the fireworks.
“Come on, Tony, we’re waiting,” said Sutter. “In a minute,” said Harod, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth and taking a sip of vodka. “According to the radio chatter, they’ve got this poor schmuck cornered at the north end and they’re burning the fucking jungle down to . . .”
“Now,” snapped Sutter.
Harod looked at the evangelist. The other four had been in the Game Room for the better part of an hour, talking, and from the look on Sutter’s face, something was very wrong. “Yeah,” said Harod. “I’m coming.” He looked over his shoulder as he left the room in time to see a naked man running along the beach in clear view of both cameras.
The atmosphere in the Game Room conveyed as much tension as had the carnage on the television monitors. Willi was seated directly opposite Barent, and Sutter moved to stand next to the old German. Barent’s arms were folded and he looked very displeased. Joseph Kepler was pacing back and forth in front of the long window The row of drapes was pulled back, rain streaked the glass, and Harod caught glimpses of Live Oak Lane when the lightning rippled. Thunder was audible even through the multilayered glass and thick walls. Harod glanced at his watch; it was 12:45 A.M. He wondered tiredly if Maria Chen was still in custody or if the aides had been released. He wished to hell that he had never left Beverly Hills.
“We have a problem, Tony,” said C. Arnold Barent. “Sit down.” Harod sat. He expected Barent, or more likely Kepler, to announce that his membership had been terminated and that he would be too. Harod knew that he had no chance at a test of Ability with Barent, or Kepler, or Sutter. He did not expect Willi to lift a finger to help him. Maybe, Harod thought with the sudden epiphany granted to the condemned man, maybe Willi had planted the Jew on him so he would be discredited and removed. Why? wondered Harod. How was I a threat to Willi? How does my removal benefit him? Except for Maria Chen, there was not a woman on the island he might use. The thirty or so security men Barent allowed south of the Security Zone were all highly paid Neutrals securely in the billion-aire’s employ. Barent would not have to use his Ability to eliminate Tony Harod, merely push a button. “Yeah,” said Harod tiredly, “what is it?”
“Your old friend Herr Borden has come up with a surprise for the evening,” Barent said coolly.
Harod blinked and looked at Willi. He thought that the “surprise” would be at his expense but was not sure how Willi figured in it.
“We have merely suggested an amendment to the Island Club agenda,” said Willi. “C. Arnold and Mr. Kepler do not agree with our suggestion.”
“It’s goddamned insane,” snapped Kepler from his place by the window. “Silence!” commanded Willi. Kepler silenced himself. “We?” Harod said stupidly. “Who’s we?”
“The Reverend Sutter and myself,” said Willi. “It turns out that my old friend James has been a friend of Herr Borden’s for some years,” said Barent. “An interesting turn of events.”
Harod shook his head. “Do you guys know what’s going on up on the north end of your fucking island?”
“Yes,” said Barent. He removed from his ear a flesh-colored earphone smaller than a hearing aid and tapped the bead microphone attached to it by a fine filament of wire. “I do. It is of little import compared to this discussion. Absurd as it appears, in your first week on the Steering Committee you seem to have the deciding vote in your hands.”
“I don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about,” said Harod. Willi said, “We are talking about an amendment to widen the Island Club’s hunting activities to . . . ah . . . a more appropriate scale, Tony.”
“The world,” said Sutter. The evangelist’s face was flushed and filmed with sweat.
“The world?”
Barent showed a sardonic smile. “They wish to use surrogate nations instead of surrogate players,” he said.
“Nations?” repeated Harod. A bolt of lightning struck somewhere beyond Liv
e Oak Lane, darkening the polarized window.
“Goddammit, Harod,” yelled Kepler, “can’t you do anything but stand there and repeat things? These two idiots want to blow it all away. They’re demanding we play with missiles and submarines rather than individuals. Whole countries burned up for points.”
Harod leaned on the table and stared at Willi and Sutter. He could not speak.
“Tony,” said Barent, “is this the first you have heard of this proposal?” Harod nodded. “Mr. Borden never raised the issue with you?”
Harod shook his head. “You see the importance of your vote,” Barent said quietly. “This would change the tenor of our annual entertainment to a significant measure.”
Kepler laughed a strange, broken laugh. “It’d blow up the entire god-damn son-of-a-bitching world,” he said.
“Ja,” said Willi. “Perhaps. And perhaps not. But the experience would be fascinating.”
Harod sat down. “You’re shitting me,” he managed to say in a cracked voice he had not used since puberty.
“Not at all,” Willi said smoothly. “I have already demonstrated the ease with which even the highest levels of military security can be circumvented. Mr. Barent and the others have known for decades how simple it is to influence national leaders. We need only to remove the restraints of time and scale to make these competitions infinitely more fascinating. It would mean some travel and a safe place to convene once the competition gets . . . ah . . . heated, but we are sure that C. Arnold can provide these details. Nicht wahr, Herr Barent?”
Barent rubbed his cheek. “Undoubtedly. The objection is not resources— nor even the inordinate amount of time such an expanded competition would consume— but the waste of resources, human and otherwise, accumulated over such a lengthy period of time.”
Jimmy Wayne Sutter gave the rich, deep laugh that was familiar to millions who watched him on tele vi sion. “Brother Christian, you don’t think you can take all this with you now, do you?”
“No,” said Barent softly, “but I see no reason to destroy it all simply because I will not be here to enjoy it.”
“Ja, but I do,” Willi said flatly. “You entertained new business. The motion is on the floor. Jimmy Wayne and I vote yes. You and that coward Kepler vote no. Tony, vote now.”
Harod jumped. Willi’s voice was not to be resisted. “I abstain,” he said. “Fuck you all.”
Willi slammed his fist into the table. “Harod, goddamn you, you Jew-loving piece of shit. Vote!”
A great vise seemed to clamp on Harod’s head, sinking steel clamps into his skull. He clutched his temples and opened his mouth in a silent scream.
“Stop!” snapped Barent and the vise was ripped away. Harod almost screamed again in relief. “He has voted,” said Barent. “He has the right to abstain in any vote. Without a majority, the motion is defeated.”
“Nein,” said Willi and a blue flame seemed to have ignited behind his cold gray eyes, “without a majority we are in stalemate.” He swiveled toward Sutter. “What do you say, Jimmy Wayne, can we leave this issue in stalemate?”
Sutter’s face was slick with sweat. He stared at a spot above and to the right of Barent’s head as he said, “Now the seven angels who had the seven trumpets made ready to blow them. The first angel blew his trumpet, and there followed hail and fire, mixed with blood which fell on the earth; and a third of the earth was burned up . . .
“The second angel blew his trumpet, and something like a great mountain, burning with fire, was thrown into the sea; and a third of the sea became blood . . .
“The third angel blew his trumpet and a great star fell from heaven, blazing like a torch, and it fell on a third of the rivers and on the fountains of water . . .
“The fourth angel blew his trumpet and a third of the sun was struck, and a third of the moon, and a third of the stars . . .
“Then I looked and I heard an eagle crying with a loud voice, as it flew in mid-heaven, ‘Woe, woe, woe to those who dwell on the earth, at the blasts of the other trumpets which the three angels are about to blow!’
“And the fifth angel blew his trumpet, and I saw a star fallen from heaven to earth, and he was given the key of the shaft of the bottomless pit . . .” Sutter stopped, drained the last of his bourbon, and sat in silence.
Barent asked, “And what does that mean, James?”
Sutter seemed to snap out of his reverie. He mopped his face with a lavender silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white suit coat. “It means that there can be no stalemates,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “The Antichrist is here. His hour has come ’round at last. All we can do is carry out what is written and witness as best we can as the tribulations descend upon us. We have no choice.”
Barent crossed his arms and smiled. “And which of us is your Anti-christ, James?”
Sutter looked from Willi to Barent with wild eyes. “God help me,” he said. “I don’t know. I have surrendered my soul to serve him and I do not know.”
Tony Harod pushed back from the table. “This is too fucking weird,” he said. “I’m out of here.”
“Stay where you are,” snapped Kepler. “No one’s leaving this room until we get this settled.”
Willi sat back and clasped his fingers across his stomach. “I have a suggestion,” he murmured.
“Go ahead,” said Barent. “I suggest that we complete our chess game, Herr Barent,” said Willi. Kepler stopped pacing and stared first at Willi and then at Barent. “Chess game,” he said. “What chess game?”
“Yeah,” said Tony Harod. “What chess game?” He rubbed his hand across his closed eyes and saw the image of his own face carved in ivory.
Barent smiled. “Mr. Borden and I have been playing a game of chess through the mails for some months now,” he said. “A harmless diversion.”
Kepler sagged against the window. “Oh, Jesus Christ God Almighty,” he said.
“Amen,” said Sutter, his eyes unfocused once again. “Months,” repeated Harod. “Months. You mean all of this shit’s been going down . . . Trask, Haines, Colben . . . and you two’ve been playing fucking chess the whole time?”
Jimmy Wayne Sutter made a sound somewhere between a belch and a laugh. “If any man worship the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand, the same shall drink the wine of the wrath of God,” he muttered. “And he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb; and the smoke of their torments ascendeth up for ever and ever.” Sutter made the sound again. “And he causes all, small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a MARK in their right hand, or in their foreheads . . . and his number is six hundred, threescore and six.”
“Shut up,” Willi said amiably. “Herr Barent, do you agree? The game is nearly done, we need only to play it out. If I win, we enlarge the . . . competition . . . to a larger scale. If you win, I will content myself with the current arrangement.”
“We were adjourned in the thirty-fifth move,” said Barent. “Your position was not . . . ah . . . enviable.”
“Ja.” Willi grinned. “But I will play it. I do not demand a new game.”
“And if this game ends in stalemate?” asked Barent.
Willi shrugged. “You win if it is a stalemate,” he said. “I win only with a clear victory.”
Barent looked out at the lightning. “Don’t pay attention to that bullshit,” cried Kepler. “He’s totally mad.”
“Shut up, Joseph,” said Barent. He turned toward Willi. “All right. We will finish the game. Do we play with the pieces available?”
“That is more than agreeable,” said Willi with a broad smile that showed perfect dentures. “Shall we adjourn to the first floor?”
“Yes,” said Barent. “Just a second, please.” He picked up his headset and listened for a moment. “Barent here,” he said into the bead microphone. “Put one team ashore and terminate the Jew immediately. Is that understood? Good.”
He set the headset on the table. “All ready.”
Harod followed them to the elevator. Sutter, walking ahead of him, suddenly stumbled, turned, and grasped Harod’s arm. “An in those days, men will seek death and will not find it,” he urgently whispered in Harod’s face. “They will long to die and death will fly from them.”
“Fuck off,” said Harod and pulled his arm free. Together the five descended in silence.
SIXTY-SIX
Melanie
I remember the picnics we used to have in the hills outside Vienna: the pine-scented hills, meadows of wildflowers, and Willi’s open Peugeot parked near some stream or scenic overlook. When Willi was not dressed in his ridiculous brown shirt and armband, he was the picture of sartorial splendor with his silk summer suits and a broad-brimmed, rakish white hat given to him by one of the cabaret performers. Before Bad Ischl, before Nina’s betrayal, I took plea sure in simply being with two such beautiful people. Nina was never lovelier than during those final summers of our contentment, and although both of us were entering the years where we were no longer girls— nor even young ladies by yesterday’s standards— merely watching Nina in her blond, blue-eyed enthusiasm kept me feeling and acting young.
I know now that it was their betrayal at Bad Ischl, even more than Nina’s initial betrayal with my Charles years earlier, that marked the point where I began to grow old while Nina did not. In a sense, Nina and Willi have been Feeding on me all these years.
It was time for this to stop.
On the second night of my strange vigil with Nina’s Negress, I decided to end the waiting. Some demonstration was due. I was sure that even with the colored girl removed from the scene, Willi would be able to tell me of Nina’s true whereabouts.
I confess that my attention was divided. For days as I had felt the youth and vitality returning to by body, as the paralysis slowly yielded its twisted grip on my left arm and leg, I felt a commensurate slackening of control in dealing with my family and other contacts. Sometime after Miss Sewell watched Jensen Luhar, the one called Saul, and the other three depart the cell area, I said to the colored girl, “They have your Jew.”
