The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  Timmy smiled. “You are truly whole."

  "I am whole."

  Timmy blinked erratically. “My wetware eye ... it's been giving me circuit problems for a long time now. Sporadic malfunctions. Very annoying. I'd be better off without the silly thing."

  Empedocles ignored the display of self-condescension. He shifted his speech to the Susan-tway, feeling more comfortable in his new half with each passing moment.

  "Does anything of Jalka—or Aristotle—remain within you?"

  "I am Timmy,” reaffirmed the bloated creature. “What I once was, is no more. Of course, there are usable memories. Data from the past. But the true consciousnesses of both tway and monarch are gone. They died making me into Timmy. The pain of having lost my tway—"

  "I am not interested in your pain,” interrupted Empedocles. “Why did you bring me back? What was so important about my restoration? Decades of effort to achieve this moment? Why?"

  A tear formed on the lip of Timmy's remaining eye. “You truly don't know?"

  "If I knew, I would not ask."

  "You are Ash Ock,” whispered Timmy. “You are my last brethren."

  Empedocles considered the words. Then: “I am not the last of the Royal Caste. There is Theophrastus. And Sappho."

  "They betrayed me."

  Empedocles detected a faint trace of stiffness in Timmy's tone. “Perhaps you seek to settle an old score? Did you bring me back so that I could become your avenging angel?"

  Timmy shook his head. “No, that's not it at all."

  "I am puzzled. Enlighten me.” Empedocles spread his four arms, palms upward, in a gesture of friendship. “This vessel—this cell of the Os/Ka/Loq, resting on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean ... you must have great knowledge of its purposes."

  "I do. I know why it is here."

  Empedocles permitted a warm smile to play across his faces. He was beginning to understand the drives of this obese remnant of the Royal Caste. Such knowledge could prove useful.

  "Timmy, I wish to become your student. I wish to learn all that you know. Will you be my teacher?” He paused for effect. “Will you instruct me as I was once instructed by your ... predecessors?"

  Timmy looked ready to burst into tears. “Yes, Empedocles! Yes, I will be your teacher!"

  Empedocles continued to present a friendly and eager facade. A fat fool, a prancing shadow—all that remains of the majesty that once was Aristotle. Theophrastus and Sappho betrayed you, so you say, but perhaps it was you who betrayed them. Either way, I will learn the truth of it. I will allow you to educate me, and then I will decide whether you are worth keeping alive.

  Timmy stepped out into the corridor. “Come with me,” he implored. “We will go to my private chambers for discourse. And then I will show you things that you have never imagined!"

  "I am yours to lead."

  * * *

  Susan felt coldness arising from where she imagined her shoulders to be.

  He's a monster! she cried out. Timmy made him whole and now he considers murder as repayment!

  Gillian was not shocked. Now he remembered how it was when his own consciousness was reduced to an amalgam, when Empedocles controlled his body. He is an Ash Ock Paratwa. There is a certain ... arrogance.

  Susan steeled her emotions. All right—he's an arrogant bastard. So what can we do about it? How do we become tways again?

  We must wait for the proper conflux of circumstances to dissolve the interlace. We must stay alert, ready to take advantage of the onset of such circumstances.

  Susan hesitated. He's not going to want to permit that, is he?

  Not willingly. Empedocles will strive to maintain his monarchial wholeness for as long as possible.

  Not acceptable! snapped Susan. Gillian felt the heat of her anger blast across the face of his awareness.

  Be careful, he warned. I said before that we are like mere corpuscles in his body, but there are situations where he can indeed perceive us. Strong emotions call out to him. He cannot read our thoughts per se, but he can analyze violent outbursts of emotion. And through our displays of feeling, he may be able to comprehend our intentions.

  Susan forced calm. Yes. I see that he is very good at understanding the emotions of others.

  Gillian continued. If we maintain a purposeful tranquility, the depths of our tway-thoughts will remain hidden from his perusal. We can freely communicate without his knowledge. The tways always have their little secrets.

  For a time they were silent, entering an even deeper state—a wellspring far below the level of dreams.

  Susan was the first to return to the realm of thought. She projected herself carefully, allowing no sadness to color her words. I didn't think becoming a tway would feel so ... empty.

  You did not know how it would feel, answered Gillian. And I did not remember.

  O}o{O

  The Lion had never been this far south in the Capitol cylinder. He stood with Nick at the corner of two gloomy and deserted streets, behind a smashed cement wall with plastic reinforcing strips splaying from its shattered top. Beyond the wall, row upon row of small grimy houses, mostly deserted, fell away into the dense fog. Southern Irrya remained one of the most blighted areas in the Colonies, rivaling even the slums of Sirak-Brath.

  The target house, a two-story structure with a glimmering green terrapane facade, squatted in the middle of the block. According to records, the house was one of the few in this sector still boasting valid occupational permits.

  The Lion shivered in the chill breeze that swept down from the polar plate—the massive wall capping this end of the cylinder. Irrya's southern terminus was a mile and a quarter away, rising majestically from the swirling ground fog, like a dark sentinel smudged with patches of light. The smaller areas of illumination marked the location of industries on its vertical surface; the larger splotches defined the perpendicular cities.

  In most of the colonies, polar-plate real estate remained relatively cheap. Although most citizens were not eager for vertical housing under variable gravitational conditions, many deemed it superior to living below the fogline, preferring the odd geometries of the perp cities to the dankness of circumpolar streets.

  "Some things never change,” muttered Nick. “Poor on top of the mountain is better than poor down in the valley."

  "I suppose,” said the Lion, razoring the flaps of his thin jacket up to his neck—a futile attempt to keep the penetrating dampness away from his body.

  Nick shivered. “Christ, it's nasty down here. Reminds me of old London on a bad day."

  "I should have known to dress warmer,” said the Lion. “Southern Irrya ... it still suffers from an old-style climate. This area has not yet benefited from nom-normalization upgrading."

  "Say what?"

  He explained. “Originally, it was always wet near colonial polar plates ... something to do with the air current flows and natural condensation processes within cylinders. But in the past thirty years or so, they've developed techniques for combating the problem. They call it nom-normalization."

  "Ah, I get it,” said Nick. “In other words, up near the northern plate, where your retreat is, funding was found for this ‘nom-normalization.’ Whereas down here, it's ghetto life as usual."

  "Something like that,” admitted the Lion.

  The midget gave a philosophical shrug. “Still, I guess that says something about Costeau social integration. At least your people are no longer at the bottom of the economic heap."

  "A few of us have escaped.” The Lion pointed a finger at the fog-shrouded plate. “But more than sixty percent of the people living up there, in those perp towns, come from the clans."

  Nick wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Are you trying to do anything about that?"

  The Lion glared at him. “I did not choose to become a councilor of Irrya for the prestige."

  Nick grinned and tightened his collar. “Ya know, you're starting to sound like your old self again. Pissed off and almost a
s righteous as a Church of the Trust recruiter."

  My old self, mused the Lion. Nick was right about that, at least up to a point. He was feeling much better: his stomach pains had retreated, and he could not deny a newfound optimism, a sense that the Paratwa might actually be defeatable. But on a deeper level, internal conflicts remained. The Lion knew that he had yet to come to terms with the primal source of his turmoil.

  In the face of death, I was a coward.

  At least now he was able to confront the feeling a bit more directly, admit its veracity without hiding behind other emotional reactions: shame, anger, and the defamation of surrendering to a supposed fate. But whether he could ever truly overcome that deep feeling of cowardice remained to be seen.

  "Ya know,” said the midget, “we're not too far from a historic site. Over fifty years ago, a few blocks from here, Gillian and your father first tangled with Reemul."

  The Lion nodded. “I know.” Aaron, his adoptive parent and the only father he had ever known, had been gravely injured in that battle against the liege-killer; Aaron's sister and another Costeau had perished.

  Memories of his father cut to the heart of the Lion's distress. What would Aaron have thought of my cowardice? Would he have been disgusted by my actions? Would he have been ashamed to call me his son?

  A sudden warmth suffused the Lion, driving away the emptiness of the past days. Aaron had been too much the realist to have condemned an only son to eternal damnation for one cowardly act. The Lion smiled, imagining what Aaron's exact words would have been:

  You messed up but good, boy. You shafted yourself. Don't do it again. Next time, get it right!

  He promised that he would.

  From a dilapidated and deserted building at the end of the next block, Edward Huromonus and an eight-person squad of helmeted E-Tech Security personnel jogged out into the street. The assault group wore gray field uniforms, transceiver helmets, and active crescent webs. Each carried a heavy-duty thruster rifle. They ran in pairs, following Huromonus's quick pace.

  The E-Tech director halted his squad in front of them. Huromonus instantly leaned over to clench his knees and suck down great gobs of air.

  Nick chuckled. “Eddie, you're getting too old for this shit."

  Huromonus straightened. “You and the Lion are not exactly models of youthfulness."

  "Yeah, but we can still kick ass.” Nick grinned fiercely at the Lion.

  The leader of the squad, a tall, olive-skinned woman, stepped forward. “Sir, we have confirmation. The final units are in position."

  Huromonus nodded. “There are now approximately seven hundred and seventy-five Security troops within an eighteen block radius of us, plus two dozen airborne assault craft with enough scanning gear to track a stray microbe. If the tripartite does show up, we should at least have a fair chance of stopping it."

  Nick's abrupt frown indicated what he thought about their chances.

  They all understood. It was not so much a matter of numeric odds as it was the sheer speed of the tripartite assassin, its ability to be in three places simultaneously, and its use of unknown weaponry far beyond colonial state-of-the-art.

  The midget shrugged, then gave a nasty smile. “Oh, hell—if our Ash Nar friend does show up, we'll make it one bitch of a fight.” He turned to face the squad leader. “Isn't that right, Sergeant?"

  The woman twisted her rifle's sprocket lock to the FIRE position and stared gravely at Nick. “I lost a friend at the Alexanders’ retreat."

  Huromonus picks his people well, thought the Lion.

  "All right, Sergeant,” said Huromonus. “Give your signals. And remember—we're looking for information. If there's anyone in there, make every effort to take prisoners."

  The sergeant nodded.

  "But,” added Nick, “if something aims a weapon at you, blast the shit out of it!"

  The sergeant lowered her visor and leaped out from behind the wall. Her squad followed.

  They covered thirty-five yards in five seconds. When they were less than twenty feet from the house, a high-circling jet assault craft, hidden in the fog, launched a slo-mo missile. The rocket drifted lazily from the mists, targeted the doorway, then lunged forward at attack velocity.

  The doorway and its surrounding superstructure exploded inward. The sergeant and her unit charged through the opening.

  Huromonus, monitoring via transceiver, provided rapid updates.

  "They're in the entry hall ... sweeping the downstairs area ... scanners reading negative ... no targets..."

  A second explosion sounded from the back of the house.

  "Squad Two just hit the rear door,” intoned Huromonus. “Still no targets ... no discernible equipment masses..."

  Nick shook his head grimly. “There's got to be a terminal in there."

  "Nothing on scanners ... wait! They've located a target ... upstairs...” Huromonus tensed. “Target is armed!"

  The Lion held his breath.

  "Got him!” shouted Huromonus. “They've neutralized the target ... he's alive..."

  Nick charged out from behind the wall. The Lion and Huromonus jogged after him. By the time the three of them had reached the destroyed entrance, the whole street had erupted into a wild melee of noise, light, and motion. E-Tech Security troops poured from surrounding houses; others charged from bleak alleyways or came streaking out of the mists on skysticks. Assault craft hovered above the street, their optic scanners gouging reverse shadows in the dense fog as they sought enemy targets.

  Nick raced into the house and up the stairs. The Lion and Huromonus stayed right on his heels. They turned a corner, passed through an empty bedroom, and entered a windowless chamber with white fabric walls.

  The sergeant and three of her troops were there, surrounding a chair occupied by a bearded man in plaid shirt and pants. Nearby was a desk with a built-in terminal. The screen was still active, displaying a set of jagged patterns. The Lion recognized the pastiche as a distinct aftereffect of archival decimation. It barely hinted at the enormous loss of stored data.

  On the far side of the room, the wall bore several dozen erratically spaced shelves, which appeared to have been quickly snapped onto the white fabric with little concern for neatness. Each shelf was crammed full of ancient telephone directories in protective wrappers. A few separate covers, also sealed in translucent preservation envelopes, had been framed and mounted in a tight cluster beside the shelves.

  "Pacific Northwest Bell,” Nick read. “Bell of Pennsylvania. Wisconsin Bell. Bell Atlantic.” He faced the seated prisoner. “Thinking of calling someone?"

  The man gave a weary smile. “I've a weakness for twentieth-century telephonic materials. I've been collecting this sort of thing since I was a boy."

  "His name's Lester Mon Dama,” provided the sergeant. “He's the only one here. He was working at the terminal when we came in."

  "Booby traps?” asked Nick.

  "Nothing our scanners can pick up. The terminal's clean ... at least in terms of specific detonatable devices. Whether he's planted programming traps—"

  "We'll handle those,” promised Nick.

  Lester Mon Dama spoke. “You're the Czar. I should be honored.” He pointed to the distorted monitor. “This massive archival destruction. It was your doing, wasn't it? Very ingenious. An act of such temperament—such utter desperation—simply was not considered a viable possibility. My master made no preparations to guard against such madness."

  "Who is your master?” asked Huromonus.

  "He calls himself Jalka."

  "Who is Jalka?"

  "He is my master."

  Nick scowled. “You've got a firestorm of trouble coming your way, priest. I strongly suggest cooperation."

  "I would have it no other way."

  "Good. How about some real simple stuff. Where's Gillian?"

  "And Susan Quint?” added the Lion. “Is she still alive?"

  "I do not know."

  "Where is this Jalka?” asked Nick.


  "I cannot say."

  "Perhaps,” offered Huromonus, “we should define cooperation.” He stepped to the back of the chair, out of the priest's field of vision. “I wish for you to understand that there are no criminal charges against you at this time. The authorization for this raid falls under the provisions of the E-Tech Security D&D3 Act—"

  Lester Mon Dama held up his hand. “I waive all rights. Further discussion of legalities will not be necessary."

  "And you understand that you may be charged with future violations arising from our search efforts?"

  "I understand."

  Two of the archival cheerleaders burst through the doorway—a male and a female, with portable terminals attached to their chests. They looked incredibly agitated, their eyes flicking back and forth, their heads darting madly across the breadth of the chamber. One of them locked his gaze on the side of the sergeant's helmet, moved in closer to study some particular detail. The Lion had the impression that the pair did not get out of the vaults very often.

  "Over here,” instructed Nick. “Don't waste any time."

  The cheerleaders scampered to the desk. The female began attaching color-coded bungee feeders from her portable terminal to the back of Lester Mon Dama's computer.

  The male zeroed in on the keyboard. Fingers smacked noisily.

  Huromonus came back around to the front of the chair. He knelt in front of the priest, so that they were eye to eye.

  "There is a story,” began the E-Tech director, “being told by the freelancers. It regards the mysterious deaths of three friends of yours, some twenty-four years ago. They were obstetricians. One of these doctors not only cared for Susan Quint's mother during her pregnancy, he actually delivered Susan. She was altered in the womb, turned into a genejob."

  The priest stared at the floor.

  "In fact, a slew of female babies were fetally modified by your three obstetrician-friends.” Huromonus paused. “Was that the reason Jalka ordered you to kill these doctors? So that no one would ever find out that they were responsible for creating hundreds of illegal genejobs?"

  A tic seemed to come alive in Lester Mon Dama's neck. He twitched violently. “I do not recall these events."