The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  But Gillian knew that at its core, the fighting remained a way for him to keep his turbulent inner forces at bay, a way to temporarily relieve the tremendous mental/emotional pressure that relentlessly strove to devolve his consciousness. He fought not only because it felt good but because it helped to maintain his sanity.

  He turned to Buff. “We're wasting our time. These scuddies have been lying to us. I don't think they're smart enough even to know Faquod."

  Impleton sneered. “Not smart? Smarter than you, maybe. Smart enough not to wander into an alley with strangers, maybe."

  Gillian let out a harsh laugh, heard it echo up the canyon walls, heard his own heart beating with excitement, with the urgency of wild desire. A fresh assault of malodorous sewage drifted up from the sludge river. He inhaled deeply. The odor should have repulsed him, should have carried with it a hundred connotations: childhood naughtiness, genetically determined distaste, a manifest of internal responses, learned and innate. But it smelled good. The whole night smelled good.

  He spun to face Impleton. “You're right. You should never allow yourself to be alone with strangers. It's not smart. It's not safe."

  The smuggler with the sawed-off beard raised his thruster and pointed it at Buff. She held up her hands, pleading restraint.

  "Look,” she said softly, “we really don't want any trouble.” She glared at Gillian. “We just want to meet Faquod."

  "Then you pay,” said Impleton. “Meeting Faquod ... that is a privilege."

  Gillian pointed his finger at the muscle boy, four feet away. “Can this ignor fight? Whenever I see someone like this, I'm reminded of the value of contraceptives. If his parents had only known."

  "Oh shit,” muttered Buff.

  Muscle boy lost his smile. Saw-beard tightened his grip on the thruster and glanced at Impleton, waiting for orders. Impleton's mouth squirmed. The fat smuggler released a loud belch.

  The belch was a signal. Muscle boy hopped down from the ledge and took a step toward Gillian. “I'm going to—"

  His words ended in a choking gasp as Gillian's right foot lashed out, slammed into his belly. Muscle boy doubled over in pain.

  Saw-beard pivoted, aimed his thruster at Gillian. He was far too late. Gillian, biting down hard, ignited his defensive web, heard the near-invisible crescents—front and rear—hum softly as they came to life. Saw-beard fired. Gillian, braced against the ledge, was hit by the discrete blast of energy, feeling it as a gentle nudge against his front crescent.

  A single-tube thruster, thought Gillian. A one-second recharge interval before it can be used again.

  All the time in the world.

  Gillian flexed his right wrist and compressed his knuckles, launching the Cohe wand from its slip-wrist holster into his waiting palm. He squeezed the egg.

  The twisting black beam whipped up the side of the mech-wall, the leading fifteen to twenty inches of the hot particle stream disintegrating everything in its path, the remainder of the beam merely a trail of harmless light. The fourth smuggler, perched twenty feet above the alley, screamed as twill tubes, relays, and conduits exploded, showering him beneath a mix of hot liquids and pressurized gases. Live wires arced, the alley's gloom vanished in a sizzling display of electrical madness. The smuggler—along with a mélange of exploding flares—was jolted from the mech-wall—his arms flailing wildly, thruster rifle flying from his grasp, his crescent web turning the color of red wine as it soared to full power, trying to neutralize the thrashing high-voltage cables.

  The smuggler was still in midair when Gillian twisted his wrist and turned the Cohe's deadly energy on Saw-beard. For an instant, the black beam seemed to coil in upon itself, lancing into an expanding spiral as it hurtled high into the air. Gillian squeezed the egg harder and jerked his wrist; the Cohe's deadly energy stream performed a U-turn, plunged toward the ground. Saw-beard opened his mouth in astonishment as the Cohe's devastating energy sliced off the barrel of his thruster.

  Gillian released pressure on the egg-shaped wand. The black beam vanished just as the plummeting smuggler slammed onto the floor of the alley.

  Muscle boy, still clutching his guts, reached into his pants’ pocket. Gillian jerked forward, extended his left foot through the weak side-portal of his web, and slammed his heel into muscle boy's chest. The tattooed smuggler grunted hard, collapsed to his knees.

  Get up, Gillian urged, feeling the excitement race through his body, unrestrained, as if his inner skin were being tickled, as if there were feathers in his bloodstream. His breath came in short intense gasps and he could feel tremendous waves of heat coursing up and down his chest. Full-body flush. Full-body hard-on.

  "Cohe wand,” whispered Impleton, the words echoing his fright. Buff grabbed the smuggler by the neck and yanked him forward so violently that he fell to his knees.

  Saw-beard dropped the useless remnant of his weapon and backed away, his eyes wide with fear. The man from the mech-wall remained prone on the floor of the alley, moaning softly.

  Gillian stared at muscle boy. “Get up!” He slithered into a combat crouch, turned sideways toward the tattooed smuggler, ready to lash out with hand or foot through the web's portals.

  Muscle boy raised his head. A defeated face met Gillian's. Hard contours had been transformed into quivering patches of fear, humiliation. There was no more fight left in him. Eyes like those of a beaten puppy stared up at Gillian, begging forgiveness.

  "No!” Gillian screamed, lunging forward, grabbing muscle boy's ankle and elbow, lifting the terrified smuggler overhead. With one violent twist, he sent him cartwheeling over the ledge. Muscle boy's shriek lasted until the youth plowed into the net-covered sludge river, fifteen feet below. There was a loud muffled splash, and then steaming gray geysers sprayed Gillian, bringing with them fresh wafts of the foul odor.

  Gillian felt cheated; the fight had ended too soon. His left sleeve was damp with sludge, and he rammed the garment against his nostrils, sucked in the odor, wanting it to overpower him, hoping sensory overload would occupy consciousness, take his mind away from the reality of his damaged psyche. But the smell was a poor substitute for the cathartic power of violence. In a rage, he started toward Impleton.

  The fat smuggler was on his knees, quaking in fear, his head pivoting wildly between Gillian and Buff. “Won't tell what I saw!” he pleaded. “Please ... won't tell—"

  Gillian grabbed the front of Impleton's coat and rubbed the protruding needle of his Cohe into the thick flesh of Impleton's neck.

  "Won't tell,” repeated the terrified smuggler, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes blinking like a set of short-circuiting status lights.

  "Let's talk about Faquod,” suggested Buff.

  Impleton, with an overly vigorous nod of his head, managed to scratch himself on the needle of the Cohe.

  "Oww!” he screamed.

  "Calm down,” ordered Buff. “And maybe you'll survive this night."

  "Faquod,” urged Gillian. “Where is he?"

  The smuggler's lips began to quiver uncontrollably until finally the words exploded from his mouth.

  "You're a Paratwa!” His eyes panned back and forth between Gillian and Buff. “You're tways!"

  Buff laughed. “And you're a shitpile with maggots for neurons! Now talk! We want to find Faquod!"

  Ten feet away, Saw-beard started to inch forward. Gillian glared at him. It was enough of a warning. Saw-beard froze in midstride.

  "Don't want to die,” whimpered Impleton.

  "Faquod!” shouted Buff. “Where is he?"

  Gillian pressed the Cohe's needle tip deep into a fold of flesh on the smuggler's neck, until it almost broke the skin.

  "Fin Whirl in center-sky,” babbled Impleton. “Fin Whirl—tomorrow night. Faquod—he is always there. He never misses it."

  Gillian glanced at Buff. “You know where this place is?"

  "Yeah, I know where Fin Whirl is.” A deep frown settled on her face. “Where else?” she asked Impleton. “Where else
can we find him?"

  "Don't know,” whispered Impleton, his eyes begging. “It's the truth! Fin Whirl—that's all I know."

  Gillian leaned down, pressed his mouth against the smuggler's ear. “If you're lying, I'll come back for you. I'll slice off your head and put it in my trophy case."

  "Fin Whirl,” cried the smuggler. “It's the truth—I swear!"

  "Fin Whirl's a big place,” pressed Buff. “Where exactly?"

  "He has a private booth—BS-four."

  Gillian believed him. He nodded to Buff, and she laid her palm on Impleton's forehead. The smuggler jerked once. His eyes glazed over, and he fell forward into her arms, unconscious. She let him slide off her body onto the damp paving and opened her palm, exposing the tiny white neuropad attached to the skin. She crooked her finger at Saw-beard.

  He came quickly, almost eagerly, obviously finding a few hours of deep sleep via synaptic scrambling preferable to any further encounter with Gillian's Cohe wand.

  "You may as well be comfortable,” suggested Buff, pointing to Impleton's prone form. Saw-beard sat down beside his partner and rested the back of his head on Impleton's ample gut. Buff gave a quick touch with the neuropad. Saw-beard's eyes glazed over as he entered induced sleep.

  "Let's go,” said Gillian.

  They began to jog up the alley, around the bend, retracing their path, toward the huge gate that Impleton had keyed open for them, toward the sanctuary of the street. Their boots splashed against puddles, spraying the canyon walls with the foul conglomeration of liquids, like twin-rotored boats leaving overlapping wakes.

  "What's Fin Whirl?” asked Gillian, picking up the pace. It felt good to run hard, run fast, keep the body stimulated.

  "I don't think you should go there,” said Buff, the distaste in her voice easily discernible.

  "We have to."

  Buff did not reply. She was a Costeau, and she would do what was necessary. They had been partners for over a month now, ever since that Venus Cluster debacle in Irrya. Their near-fatal encounter with Slasher and Shooter—two tways of the vicious tripartite assassin who had been ravaging the Colonies—had provided a commonality of cause. Buff needed to avenge the death of her friend Martha; Gillian needed to keep his inner turbulence under control.

  "What's Fin Whirl?” he repeated.

  "It's a place where games are played ... dangerous games."

  She paused. “I don't think you should go there."

  They reached the end of the alley, jogged to a halt in front of the massive service gate. Gillian found the control panel on the left wall, pressed the button. Silently, the gate slid open.

  They emerged onto the narrow side street, deserted except for an old man seated on a stoop across the way, his head encased in a metallic shroud—a ree-fee—a self-powered programmable holo, providing a sensual experience as rich as the wearer's darkest fantasies. The man was muttering to himself:

  "Now, silky—onto the floor. Onto your knees. Give us what we've been asking for. Ground it, silky. Ground it good. Make it earth, silky. Make it wet as the world..."

  Behind them, the gate closed automatically. They headed quickly up the street toward one of the main boulevards, three blocks away, to a place where Sirak-Brath began to lose its shadows, where its fantasies became accessible to all.

  "Is Fin Whirl an entertainment complex?” probed Gillian. “A fantasy club?"

  "It's no fantasy. It's very real."

  "But a place of enjoyment, nonetheless?"

  Buff grimaced. “I don't think you should go there."

  O}o{O

  The message decoded itself. On screen, the weird blending of darting icons—spheres, triangles, bubbling spirals—erupted into words and sentences.

  PERPS A WHITE MALE AND BLACK FEMALE. NO POSITIVE ID, BUT WEAPON USED ON SMUGGLERS DEFINITELY A COHE WAND. INTERVIEW WITH INJURED SMUGGLER SUGGESTS THAT MALE DISPLAYED EAGERNESS FOR CONFLICT. PERPS WERE OSTENSIBLY TRYING TO CONTACT A HIGH-TECH WEAPONS DEALER NAMED FAQUOD. PROBABILITY EXTREMELY HIGH THAT PERPS WERE GILLIAN AND BUFF.

  The Lion of Alexander scanned the intelligence report a second time, then turned off the monitor, an action which automatically sent the Sirak-Brath report into the obscurity of the Costeaus’ secret files. Not that secrecy seemed so important in this instance. The Lion had a feeling that Gillian's actions would soon be discussed throughout the cylinders. No one had seen a Cohe wand used in over fifty years.

  He recalled Gillian's parting words, weeks ago.

  "If something should happen to me, Jerem ... if I should become someone—something—that you no longer recognize as Gillian ... and you're sure that I can't be brought back...

  Send your Costeaus out to find me."

  "To bring you back?” the Lion had asked.

  "No. Not to bring me back."

  Gillian's meaning had seemed clear: before I become something monstrous, uncontrollable—before my monarch, Empedocles, becomes master of this body—kill me. At least that was how the Lion understood it.

  Was it time to obey Gillian's wishes?

  The Lion rose from his seat and slipped an arm around his waist, kneaded his palm across an aching muscle in the lumbar vertebrae. It was an old injury, acquired in youth, stirred to prominence by the ravages of late adulthood. He wished his wife was here right now; Mela was an expert masseuse, but she remained in the Alexanders’ home cylinder—the Colony of Den—with some of their children and grandchildren. Den was one of the three so-called new colonies, all Costeau places that had been admitted to the Irryan federation in the past twenty years under the auspices of the mainstreaming movement.

  I am Jerem Marth, the Lion of Alexander. I am sixty-eight years old, and today I am feeling my age. He would have liked nothing better than to hop on a shuttle and make the short journey home. But duty demanded his presence here.

  He marched from the communications room, down a long wide hallway, and out the back door of the A-frame, into his small secluded garden at the rear of the house, where wildly sprouting azul rosebushes in twenty-six shades of blue encircled a genetically stunted white birch. Overhead, the great green forest, dominated by soaring pines, rose up and vanished into the heavily clouded skies of Irrya. It was the gloomiest day the Lion could recall in many a month: damp and cool, with sharp gusts sweeping down from the cylinder's central core, lacing the tall trees, showering the ground with fresh pine needles. Perhaps his aching muscle had been stimulated by the morning's abnormal ecospheric conditions.

  Irrya's weather programmers, despite a wealth of opposition, had fought a hard political battle to make today gloomy, as per their complex schedule, formulated months in advance. That schedule indicated to them that the sociopsychological well-being of the populace required periodic alterations in the status quo. Despite notable opposition, the weather programmers had been most insistent that the local Irryan government not hinder today's onslaught of unpleasant skies.

  Local freelancers had been covering the spirited debate. Fine weather advocates remained in the majority, most of them virulently opposed to sun blotting. Even though the Irryan governor herself had publicly reasoned that today's shrouded skies had been the only such atmospheric alteration in the past two and a half months, her statements had failed to win the majority. The fine-weather advocates demanded the continuation of the Irryan norm—seventy-two degrees, low humidity, near-cloudless skies.

  In these times of impending crisis, they argued, Irrya, our seat of intercolonial government, needs the consistency of pure undaunted sunshine in order to function at its highest level. This is not the time to go mucking around with the weather, not with the Ash Ock servant, Meridian, soon to arrive in the Colonies, harbinger to the as-yet-undetected fleet of returning Paratwa starships. For all we know, our 217 cylinders are about to be invaded and conquered by our ancient enemy.

  But another faction in the weather struggle argued just as vocally that a little change in day-to-day routine was good for the soul, that some overcast skies might
serve to remind people that their ancestors on the planet had been forced to live without any potent forms of weather control throughout most of Earth's history. The pro-change advocates also suggested that too many days of perfect weather could lull people everywhere into false feelings of immunity. Some of them were even lobbying for more extreme atmospheric alterations, such as thunderstorms.

  The Lion recalled a memory from childhood: a T-storm in his home colony of Lamalan, he and his mother huddled on their front porch, watching a pair of figures creeping along their neighbor's yard. That had been Jerem Marth's introduction to the creatures who had forever altered his life. On the day of that thunderstorm, he had met two men who were not really two men. He had encountered his first Paratwa.

  The Lion knelt beside one of the bushes, checked for tiny pinch bugs on the underside of the azul roses—one of Irrya's unique, difficult-to-eliminate, garden pests. With his other hand, he continued to knead the aching muscle in his lower back.

  A sigh escaped him. As Nick had pointed out weeks ago, people everywhere seemed to be focusing more and more on negligible issues in order to avoid the one that scared them the most: the imminent return of the Paratwa starships. The intercolonial entertainment index had reached an all-time high; everyone sought escape, however nebulous and temporary, from the grim reality that a race of violent creatures, who might just possess enough technology to destroy the Colonies, were on their way back. Clubs and taverns everywhere were jammed; touring dramusicals were opening to record runs. For the astute businessperson—for the citizen capable of ignoring the threat of future decimation—it was a time of great profit potential. In the field of public diversions, new fortunes were being made every day.

  The Lion realized that the majority of the Irryan populace did not truly believe that the state of the weather was an important issue. But many of the billion-plus colonists seemed unable to deal directly with the return of the Paratwa. The reality of it filled them with inexpressible dread, and arguing about the weather served as a catharsis for those hidden feelings. The Lion only could hope that if and when a day of true crisis was upon them, people would maintain sight of the pertinent issues.