The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  Nick shrugged. “I'm afraid your timing's a bit off.” A faint smile touched Meridian's face. “Sappho's dead. She was disincorporated by the Os/Ka/Loq for her failures.” The Jeek paused. “Now, only you and Theophrastus remain ... the last of the Ash Ock."

  Empedocles felt a torrent of bitterness rising from within—a fierce eruption, born of intense frustration—blossoming outward to reach the flesh as a double cascade of red-faced rage. His quartet of hands tightened into fists. He fought back an urge to lash out with the Cohe.

  Since he had left the cell of the Os/Ka/Loq, every one of his carefully conceived plans—with maddening consistency—had collapsed into failure. And now ... Sappho...

  Meridian went on. “At this moment, events are in a state of flux. If I were you, I would be most wary of seeking sanctuary with one who served under the Ash Ock.” A wide smile filled the Jeek's face. “Even in the best of times, choosing sides can be dangerous proposition."

  The Lion glanced sharply at Meridian, then turned back to Empedocles. “May we speak with your tways?"

  Inez nodded vigorously.

  "My tways are gone,” Empedocles replied furiously. “They will not be coming back."

  Inez shook her head, unwilling to believe. “You're still Susan. A part of you must remain—"

  "She is nothing,” snapped the monarch through his female half. “Susan Quint has ceased to exist as a person. She is a mere amalgam, silenced and impotent."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Your beliefs are of no consequence. I am Empedocles. I am complete and I will remain complete. So bury your grandniece, Councilor. She is as good as dead."

  Inez swallowed hard, then fell back a pace. The Lion rested his hand on her shoulder. “Don't despair,” he whispered to her. “This is a creature of lies."

  Nick spoke softly. “Well, Empedocles, if what you say is true, then things are a bit simpler for us. If our friends, Gillian and Susan, have actually ceased to exist, then we can consider you our enemy without ... complications."

  "True,” said the monarch, allowing all tension to depart from the muscles surrounding the Cohe's slip-wrist holster. He turned his Susan/tway slightly sideways, prepped that body for whipping out the flash daggers from her flakjak pockets.

  But he did not fool himself—he realized that he was at a disadvantage for combat. Surrounded by more than thirty armed guards, his tways close together—poor positioning under the circumstances—and lacking even the element of surprise, fighting was obviously not the best option ... and there was a tway of Meridian to contend with as well.

  Still, his speed would allow him to strike first. With one slash of the Cohe, he knew that he could destroy the Council of Irrya. And the Czar.

  But Meridian was watching him closely. The Jeek could read his body signs. He understood.

  "It would be a shame,” said Meridian, turning quickly to the Lion and Huromonus, “if all were to end here, in a parking garage. Can the parties involved reach some sort of agreement?"

  "Sounds like a damn good idea,” offered Nick.

  The Lion glanced at the other councilors, then nodded. “I believe that ... the Council of Irrya would be willing to grant this Ash Ock full asylum."

  Losef and Inez frowned. But no one voiced any objections. The Lion continued. “If that is agreeable to you, this Council officially will provide sanctuary—"

  "—with one condition,” added Nick.

  "And what might that be?” demanded Empedocles.

  The midget licked his lips. “You see, mister monarch, I figure that if the Os/Ka/Loq decide to release their viral bombs and terminate the human race ... well, none of this is going to matter much. But should things go the other way—should the Colonies survive—we're still going to have big problems to deal with. And one of those problems goes by the name of Calvin."

  Meridian began to grin again.

  The Lion nodded with understanding. “Even as we speak, E-Tech Security is engaged in an intercolonial search for this tripartite assassin. Calvin will be located."

  "You want me to kill him for you,” replied the monarch calmly.

  "That'd sure be nice,” said Nick.

  Empedocles felt his faces grimace. “Perhaps the Colonies might be able to solve two problems simultaneously? Calvin and I could kill each other."

  "Gosh!” said Nick, “that thought never even crossed my mind!"

  Meridian laughed openly. “Ah, Empedocles—before you accept such an assignment, I would hasten to warn you that there are those who believe that Calvin is the deadliest assassin ever bred. Undefeatable, according to the true believers.

  "Yet it is also my understanding that the Ash Nar was most displeased by the humiliation he suffered at the hands of your Gillian/tway in Venus Cluster.” The Jeek shrugged. “Quite frankly, I don't believe you have much choice in this matter. If you don't go after Calvin, sooner or later he will come after you."

  Empedocles glared at them all, overcome by a diffuse anger aimed at human and Paratwa alike. When he finally responded, he alternated his words between tways.

  "It would—"

  "—appear—"

  "—that my choices—"

  "—have been determined."

  Meridian, still smiling, said, “You have made a wise decision."

  O}o{O

  There's a great deal of activity surrounding my tway, Gillian informed Susan. I'm not exactly sure what's happening, but I believe that my body has entered a near-weightless state. He strained to comprehend more. I'm leaning over. They're attaching something to my feet ... a strange kind of helmet is being put over my head. And there is a certain ... apprehension ... an anticipation within Empedocles. I believe that the crisis point is almost upon us.

  Susan acknowledged his percipience. Tension was undeniably intensifying. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen very soon. She steeled herself. When the time comes, I'll do my best—

  No! he countered, knowing that the monarch would not be able to reach much into that simple emotional response. But even if Empedocles could have deduced the underpinnings of such an outburst, the risk would have been necessary. Susan had to understand. She had to accept clearly that their successful escape from monarchy hinged upon the complete removal of any lingering doubts.

  You must believe that we can do it. If you don't, a part of you will fight the process. Anything less than your total faith will serve to defeat us.

  And remember—we have to catch him at the proper moment. We're probably only going to get one chance.

  I'll be ready, she solemnly promised. When the time comes, I'll be there for you.

  Gillian knew that she meant it. But whether she truly could endure the coming chaos remained to be seen.

  She asked, Why is it getting harder to ... sense what's happening outside our bodies? It wasn't this way in the garage ... and that was less than eight hours ago. What's happening to us? Does it have something to do with the fact that our tways are physically in very different locations?

  Gillian sensed a pale trace of fear riding beneath her words and he longed to provide a soothing answer. But if their one shot at freedom was to have any chance of succeeding, a level of absolute trust had to be maintained between them. He gave her the raw truth.

  We're being deliberately quarantined from the real world, but it has little to do with the separation of our tways. The simple fact is, the longer an Ash Ock monarchy remains intact, the weaker the tways become. And in our case, Empedocles is using every means available to repress us even further. Soon, we could become so dissociated that we won't have any chance of overcoming him.

  Susan turned her thoughts outward. It's getting chilly, she declared. My tway is in a place where the air is ... very cold ... damp...

  She could not actually feel the change in air temperature, of course. But the idea of coldness was still discernible, entering the amalgam of her consciousness upon swirling vapors, like the memory trace of some vague and distant dream. Aut
omatically, her imagination decrypted those vapors, reconstructing fresh mnemonic referents in their place. Whatever Empedocles's Susan/tway was experiencing now lay beyond her sensory capacity. Nevertheless, information from the real world—albeit heavily filtered—continued to penetrate this prison that confined and encompassed her spirit.

  She saw icicles, hanging from the upper lip of a railing. She heard men and women speaking harshly, their words unfathomable, but their tones clearly modulated into rhythms precursive of violence. Another mnemonic referent took shape and she recalled a pleasant taste from childhood: iced vanilla wobblies. Each wobblie—exquisitely crystallized in zero-G—had been mounted on a wafer stick; a baker's dozen were bundled together and set in a tiny edible vase made of reconstituted orange rinds.

  For a moment, she imagined herself as a young child again, delighted by that wondrous orange/vanilla taste. And then, abruptly, the recollection disappeared, and she was left with only a fading memory. That joyous intensity—that mimicry of authentic sensation—was gone.

  Bitter disappointment nearly overwhelmed her. But when the aching loss of those sensory retrospects hit home, fresh determination spilled into her. I will have my body again, she vowed. When the time comes, I'll be ready.

  Gillian sensed the outlines of her newfound inspiration. Now I believe that you mean it. Now I believe we're ready to take back what was stolen from us.

  * * *

  The Lion stood huddled with the others, shivering in the cold late-afternoon gusts that swept down from the upper reaches of Pocono's perpetually frigid—and somewhat unpredictable—atmosphere. He pulled the collar of his jacket even tighter up under his chin and leaned over to notch his boot heaters up another five degrees. How anyone could actually live in such a place year-round was beyond his imagination. A thermometer on the oak-paneled wall behind him indicated a Fahrenheit temperature nearly ten degrees below freezing. Two centuries ago, when the new orbiting cylinders were being assigned nomenclatures, it must have been someone's idea of a sick joke to refer to Pocono as a leisure colony.

  "Most unpleasant,” affirmed Huromonus, turning his body in a vain attempt to shield himself from another blistering swirl of icy winds.

  The Lion nodded, regretting that he had not opted for one of the full-body shapers, complete with sealed helmet and filtered breathing mask. But the crack team of first wave assault troops—two dozen strong—who occupied the spacious front porch of the Ballistic Mystic Hotel along with himself, Huromonus, and the Susan/tway of Empedocles, all had rejected shapers in favor of lightweight ski garb. And there were Costeaus from the Lion's own people—the Alexanders—assigned to this E-Tech Security force. Clan pride alone dictated that the Lion emulate their toughness.

  Nevertheless, he knew he could not stand much more of this intense cold. If Empedocles did not begin the assault soon, the Lion was going to retreat to the comfort of the hotel lobby. The monarch's Susan/tway stood apart from the others, at the tip of the porch, studiously observing the output screen of a small terminal. As the Lion watched, Empedocles's female half removed a frozen stick-mounted confection from her flakjak pocket and slid it into her mouth. She bit down hard, lopping off a sizable chunk.

  Empedocles, from his peripheral vision, caught the Lion staring at him. He smiled and held the remainder of the frozen confection up in front of the Susan/tway's face, contemplating its icy perfection. “They're called orange creamsicles,” the monarch offered. “They sell them inside."

  The Lion shivered. And as if to further taunt him, the hotel's front door slid open. A soothing wave of heat—all too short—caressed his race. Two men emerge from the inner warmth.

  Vilakoz, the Lion's towering security chief, barely could fit through the door. He looked like some bizarre version of a pre-Apocalyptic specialty android. Like the other troops, he wore skintight ski pants and a white jersey, but mounted on his back was a huge rectangular unit, nearly twice the girth of a zero-G constructor's pak. Gray cables trailed from the device, connecting the unit to a monstrous seven-foot-long rifle cradled in the Costeau's gloved hands. A second set of cables slithered from the rifle's trigger scope, rose upward to attach to Vilakoz's matte black targeting helmet. The Costeau's face was mostly hidden by the helmet. But the bridge of his nose, where the black skin bore the scars of his previous encounter with Calvin, remained visible.

  "That looks extremely heavy,” said Huromonus, with a nod toward the massive rifle. “I was not aware that the geo cannon came in a portable model."

  "It doesn't."

  Huromonus arched his eyebrows.

  Vilakoz stared grimly across the snow-covered field surrounding the porch. “A clean shot with this,” he promised, “and crescent web or not, one of those bastards will go down."

  "Just remember,” uttered the second man, stepping out from behind Vilakoz, “that we're not going after ... bastards. The proper word is bastard—singular.” Inspector Xornakoff raised a four-fingered hand, called for everyone's attention.

  "Don't forget what we're dealing with here,” he warned the troops. “This is a creature capable of existing in three separate locations simultaneously. Watch your back."

  Two men at the outer edge of the porch mumbled something. Xornakoff stepped forward. “I didn't quite hear that?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  Xornakoff smiled and raised his other arm, the one broken in the battle at the Lion's retreat. He gently laid the fractured limb—still held rigid in a clear cast—across the man's shoulders. “If you have some doubts, please share them with us."

  The Security man glanced at several of his friends, then shrugged. “The strategy here, sir ... it seems a bit ... off-base."

  "Off-base?"

  Another trooper jumped in. “Sir, this chalet that we're going to hit—we know the Paratwa's in there, right?"

  "That is correct."

  "And we're not looking to take prisoners."

  "Paratwa are not partial to surrendering."

  "And we're not faced with a hostage situation."

  The inspector lowered his arm from the first man's shoulders. “Get to the point."

  The man stared grimly. “Sir, most of us were wondering ... why not simply take out the whole damn chalet with slo-mo missiles?"

  A female trooper nodded in agreement. “Yes, sir—that house is so isolated that we could use heavy-duty vapor grenades—blow it right off the side of the hill. There'd be little chance of casualties."

  "Military or civilian,” added another man.

  "Those are good questions,” admitted Xornakoff, glancing at Huromonus. “But I'm afraid that I'm not the one with the answers. Your orders are clear. The chalet is to be assaulted via conventional means. Explosives will be limited to windows and walls."

  Empedocles finished his creamsicle and hurled the stick into the snow. He allowed a sultry passion to underlay the Susan/tway's words. “If you're afraid of what's going to happen ... then don't come."

  "It's not a matter of being afraid,” growled one of the troopers. A chorus of agreement erupted.

  "Enough!” commanded Xornakoff. “All of you volunteered for this mission. The parameters of this attack were made clear—"

  "—But you do deserve an explanation,” said the Lion. He started to pace back and forth—another vain attempt to ward off the numbing cold. “By now, all of you know about the Biodyysey and the alien Os/Ka/Loq and their threat to release these deadly viruses. And you know that this tripartite was the one responsible for actually hiding the skygene suitcases throughout the cylinders.

  "We can't be certain, of course, but the possibility exists that there will be information hidden within this chalet which might help us deactivate these viral bombs."

  Another blast of frigid air swept across the porch; an uncontrollable shiver escaped the Lion. He turned away from the troops, put his back to the wind. Huromonus took over the reins of his story.

  "We cannot risk indiscriminate destruction. After the assassin is elimina
ted, the chalet will have to be searched from top to bottom."

  "After the bodies are removed,” whispered Empedocles, so that only the Lion could hear his words. The Lion glanced at the Susan/tway's face, saw that it wore a mocking grin.

  Huromonus continued. “Remember, the element of surprise remains in our favor. With Gillian—and Susan—leading the assault, you have a good chance. Both of these individuals have gone up against this assassin. They are ... experienced fighters."

  Empedocles restrained an urge to laugh aloud. Huromonus and the Lion are frightened old men! They cannot even admit to their forces that I am Ash Ock, that they are sending Paratwa to fight Paratwa!

  A few skeptical grimaces came from the troops, but the majority of the men and women appeared to accept the Lion's story. That made the Lion feel bad. He hated lying.

  The story was a fabrication. No one entertained any real hopes of finding something in the chalet that might spare the Colonies from the threat of the viral plague.

  It had been Nick who had demanded that Empedocles lead a conventional assault on the chalet. As always, the midget had been most convincing in pleading his case.

  "Look—we know that Corelli-Paul Ghandi and the tway identified as Calvin were brought to this chalet some ten hours ago. And we're ninety percent certain that the other two tways, Slasher and Shooter, are inside as well. Yet despite today's events—in particular, the Council's announcement of Sappho's death—Ghandi and the assassin have made no attempts to leave.

  "Think about that,” urged the midget. “I mean, why the hell are they holed up in there after all this time? They must know about Sappho—every intercolonial channel has been blasting the story of her death. If they had any sense, they'd be looking for a better hiding place, one that can't be traced back to CPG. The bottom line is this: there must be something in that chalet that we don't know about. Which means that we can't just blow the house to smithereens."