by M S Murdock
A searchlight careened crazily through the haze then steadied as the last remaining Terrine got control of it. He cut a swath through the night, picking up the fleeing figures. He raised a gyro pistol, aimed, and fired. The shell charged after Kane and Wilma, following them through the fog.
They rounded a corner, evading the beam of light. “What was that?” asked Wilma sharply.
Kane shook his head
“Listen.”
Kane picked up a faint high-pitched whine. ”Run,” he said. “Run!”
“Too late!” called Wilma as the shell exploded.
Kane remembered wondering why he felt no impact, then he realized the Terrine had used a stunner as he succumbed to the chemical cloud that the exploding gyro shell freed.
“Talk!” Khrebet’s lash punctuated his memories in vicious strokes.
Chained spread-eagle between two posts, Kane sagged in the restraints. He could no longer raise his head, but he still managed a reply. “Only what I please,” he said.
Crack! The whip stung the air before it descended, adding the terror of anticipation to pain. With an immense effort Kane forced his head up. He was compelled to challenge Khrebet’s eye. Kane was human, pure human, unadulterated by the cybernetic gadgets that creatures like Khrebet affected. He could not allow Khrebet to win. Through the blood that clouded his vision, through the slits that were all the opening his swollen eyes allowed, he memorized Khrebet’ s blunted features.
The square face was sliced in two by a band of metal and plastic. From the bone above his eyebrows to the top of his cheekbones his face was alien, for Khrebet had cybernetic eyes-not just the eye itself but the entire structure of cavity and surrounding tissue. Shiny metal eyelids devoid, of lashes blinked over the implanted mechanical orbs, cleaning them with monotonous regularity. The eyes had no expression. His broad face accepted the implant, molding itself around it as if it were a pearl instead of a blemish Scars from the surgery ran down his cheeks in white lines. The thick mouth beneath the implant was a satisfied curve.
Oh, yes, Kane remembered Khrebet. He remembered also-as he knew he was meant to-the hand that stayed Khrebet’s lash.
As he felt the adrenaline draining from his system and knew he could not remain defiant, an authoritative voice sounded above his head. “That will be enough, Khrebet. There are some men for whom your methods are inefficient. This one will die before he reveals half the information we seek. Take him down, clean him up, and let him sleep. Then bring him to me.”
Kane lost consciousness as Khrebet let him down. His next memory was waking to unaccustomed cleanliness, his mind clear his back and shoulders raw. Within an hour he was standing in front of a thin man in a conservative, dark suit, a man who was carefully anonymous. Kane’s instincts for danger were instantly alert.
“Sit down, Mister Kane.” The voice was as anonymous as the face.
“Courtesy,” commented Kane lightly. “What a welcome surprise.”
“There may be other surprises in store for you.”
Kane’s left eyebrow rose. In spite of his swollen and discolored eyes, the gesture managed to be rakish. “At east this will be interesting.”
“Imminently. You were captured with a woman, one Wilma Deering.”
Kane remained silent.
“Quite a prize for us,” continued the man. “Two of NEO’s top pilots at one blow. Your relationship is common knowledge. Miss Deering is scheduled as was you yourself-for a complete mind scan. It will tell us all she knows, but, unfortunately, it will leave her nothing. You can prevent it.”
Kane did not waste time on games. “How?” he asked.
“Very good, Kane, you have not tried useless denials when you know they will gain nothing. I am impressed by your Judgment-and flattered. You may spare Miss Deering’s life by working for RAM.”
Both Kane’s eyebrows went up. “What? RAM wants me in its camp? It’s willing to trust me?”
“RAM trusts no one, Kane. That is the principle upon which the most efficient organization in the history of man is based. We have a thorough profile on you. There are any number of ways to control your actions.”
“The man’s confidence rankled, but Kane Covered his irritation. “My freedom to prevent a mind erase. Not good enough. I want more. The man smiled, and Kane knew he expected this. His irritation grew.
“Just what is it you want?” said the executive softly. “I am sure you already know.” Kane’s tone was sardonic “I want Wilma Deering’s freedom. She is to be allowed to escape, and she is not to be pursued for seventy-two hours.”
The man’s smile grew. “It is gratifying to see you know us as well as we know you. That is the maximum I could allow before the whole network of RAM security descended on Deimos and on me. I congratulate you.”
“There is something else.” The man’s surprise was instantly veiled, but Kane saw it, and a little of his irritation was salved . . . . .
“Yes?”
“If I am to become a part of RAM-however briefly, will know the names of those I do business with.”
For the first time the man’s eyes showed expression.
They lit with amusement. “I will indulge you. My name is Marc Angelo.”
Kane chuckled.
The computer terminal uttered a strident beep, and Kane forsook his memories. Barton Emmerich’s face appeared on the screen. “You’re awake,” he said.
“What an astute observation,” replied Kane.
Emmerich ruffled up like a turkey cock. He was a small man with pale thinning hair, pale skin, and washed-out blue eyes. His features were too small for his face, clustered at the center of it like travelers at a crossroads. He drew his thin mouth to an even thinner grimace of disapproval. “I am the administrator of this facility,” he said pompously.
Kane read the man’s identification badge. “Barton Emmerich,” he said. Emmerich’s pale eyes showed momentary surprise, and Kane realized the man thought Kane knew him. “I make it my business to collect trivial information,” he quipped.
Emmerich decided not to be baited. “You will be Treasury’s guest for an unspecified length of time. I suggest you cooperate.”
Kane chortled. “I can see you don’t know me.”
“On the contrary? Responded Emmerich. “I have your complete file from Deimos.”
“My dear sir, I will endeavor to cause you all the difficulty I can muster. Good day,” said Kane royally, dismissing the man.
“If you wish to be foolish, I cannot stop you, but I promise you will regret your decision,” said Emmerich, and the screen went blank.
“I hardly think so,” said Kane to the empty air. He turned away from the terminal and stared out the barred window. Hot Australian sunshine sparkled on the dusty green foliage of the eucalyptus trees. He punched one list into the palm of the other hand. He would have his freedom. He would win.
He needed victory. He had always needed it. The sweet taste of superiority was an addiction stronger than Doxinal, a driving hunger. He remembered his first taste vividly.
Langles Urban Reservation was a rough town, built on war between rival gangs. Survival outside RAM’s central complex was a constant battle. He was eleven years old, tall, but not heavily built for his age, and surrounded by a pack of juvenile rats who called themselves the Killjacks, with good reason. Kane faced their leaden He was four years older than Kane, a good six inches taller, and heavier, The onset of adolescence gave him an extra edge. He looked down on Kane, his thumbs stuck on his back pockets “Girlie” he said. He watched the anger blaze in Kane’s eyes, then said it again. “Girlie.”
“Take it back,” said Kane.
The boy shook his head “Can’t. You’re too pretty for words.” He looked around the group. “What’cha say? We could sell him to Bobico for a lot of cash.”
Knowledge came early on the streets Kane knew Bobico. He was a panderer supplying those who could pay with the vices they desired.
“Aw, Benny, let him go
, said a skinny girl with a thick topknot of white-blond hair.
“Why? We could make good money-easier’n the lifts we been pulling.”
“Not easy,’ ’whispered Kane He rubbed his palms with his fingertips.
“What was that, Girlie?”
“I said,” returned Kane in a louder voice, “it won’t be easy.”
“Who’s gonna stop us? You?” Benny laughed and pointed at his victim.
Without warning, Kane doubled over and launched himself at the most vulnerable part of Benny’s anatomy. Hands grabbed for him, but he was too quick, the move too unexpected. As he jumped, he grabbed for the knife inside his jacket. He hit Benny in the stomach, and the gang leader doubled up, falling backward with Kane somewhere in the middle of him. The others followed as he went down,“ expecting a speedy end to the conflict, for Benny’s body count was twenty.
“They were right, but the outcome was not what they expected Curled at the center of his opponent, Kane drove the knife into Benny’s vitals He tasted Benny’s blood. The Killjacks’ chief screamed, flailing for the knife at his hip. Kane kept hacking at his opponent, and the hand went limp. Like lightning, Kane rolled from Benny’s body, rising to his feet in a whirling blur. He faced the Killjacks, covered with blood. “Anybody else want to call me ‘Girlie’?” he asked. The boy at the front of the group spread his hands and shook his head “Killer” whispered the blond girl.
Kane nodded slowly “Yes”
“You took out the chief”, said the boy. “Rules say the job goes to you.”
Kane shook his head again. “I go alone. You keep out of my way”
The boy raised his hands; palms toward Kane. “Sure whatever you say.”
The rush of relief, of triumph, of safety, was a feeling Kane relished, even in remembrance. He had repeated it many times, in many ways, from the simple triumph of personal combat, to the more intricate pleasure of intrigue. As he grew Older, the handsome face and figure that were a youthful trial came to be assets he enjoyed, for they gave him power over women. He had fought and clawed for his survival in Langles, both physically and intellectually, hoarding his take, for Kane had a dream; He wanted to fly. To be the pilot of a hot spacecraft was the ultimate experience of power.
At the age of sixteen, he applied for entrance into RAM’s Langles Flight Academy, where the company trained pilots. He was summarily rejected, no explanation and no court of appeal. At the time, he was dumbfounded, but now he knew exactly why RAM refused him. He was too much of an individual. If he had been a gang member or leader, he might have passed. RAM viewed individuals as sticky wheels in the gears of their machine. He sought another avenue.
Whatever money he got above living expenses went into the pockets of the shuttle pilots at Sonics Air Terminal. He stole their flight manuals, picked their brains, and bargained for lessons In the meantime, he had fallen with NEO. The New Earth Organization gave him Wings. He had to credit them with that. Once they discovered his aptitude and interest they put him in the hands of two flight leaders. Kane did every dirty chore there was to be done around a spacecraft before they let him climb into a cockpit, but he learned how the ships Worked, learned their idiosyncrasies and the basics of repairing them Once he began to take them up, his talent as a pilot surfaced. In a year, he was the hottest pilot NEO had, and he kept getting better.
It was inevitable that the best should meet. His first encounter with Wilma Deering was an exploding gyro shell that knocked him flat, and terrified him. Since his day of independence at eleven, he had been the master of his life. Women were convenient toys he could control. Not Wilma. She was nearly his equal. He looked into the shadowy depths of her hazel eyes and drowned He did not regain his emotional balance until he realized she was as speechless as he. From that moment on, he knew no other feminine conquest would satisfy him. As he knew her better, he came to respect Wilma’s ability and passionate character as well as her beauty. But, in spite of his attempts to advance their relationship, it remained a series of explosive encounters, passionate, exciting, and leaving him hungry for more. Kane raked his hands through his thick, dark hail.
”He stretched, suddenly aware 'of cramped muscles.” He was as tired as if he had fought a pitched hand-to-hand match. He kicked off his shoes and threw himself down on the narrow bed, one hand over his eyes to shut out the late afternoon sun. Outside his window, a kookaburra uttered its maniacal call, its unconscious laughter a mockery of his confinement He shut it out along with the sun. "Wilma moved softly into his mind, as she never would into his life Her actual presence had a kick like a Helm rifle, but the thought of her was warmly comforting, like the arms he dimly remembered holding him as a child. The memories of the two women blurred, running together, and Kane could smell the fresh scent of his mother’s hair mingling with Wilma’s perfume. His cramped muscles relaxed with his thoughts, and Killer Kane slept. While he was locked in the fifth story room, the dreams that flitted through his mind were fragments of violence, the physical action denied him their source. In dreams he was the victor, in remembered and imagined conflict In dreams he lifted Emmerich by his scrawny throat and hurled him into the street below, where he was torn to shreds by horrific gennies. The monsters’ growls and their victim’s final cries were sweet music, and Kane smiled in his sleep outside his window, the laughing kookaburra called again, adding his insane comment to Kane’s unfettered subconscious. From its vantage point of freedom, it eyed Kane’s recumbent form with curiosity, then rubbed its bill along one wing, scratching the itchy edges. It yawned, tucked its head under the wing, and fell asleep. The underbrush rustled underneath its perch as something scuttled by. The sound was not threatening to the bird, and it did not awaken.
In the next room, Emmerich regarded the computer screens with narrowed eyes. “The surveillance units We placed aren’t functioning, he said.
“Security confirmed the units were working when they were installed,” said Pope, computer technician first class. Emmerich looked skeptical. “I know Kane’s reputation, but I cannot believe he discovered the sensors in the first five minutes of imprisonment. I checked them out myself the last time I visited him. They were undamaged”
Pope shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you, sir. Security devices are not my specialty.”
“I am aware of that. But Ferricom wants Kane in detention; and I intend to give them what they want.” Emmerich had been in Australia for three years. He had no desire to make it his home. What once had been a rugged land was marred by pollution into an inhospitable tract, the interior desert a total wasteland the prairie sparse gray green grass inhabited by a few die-hard prospectors, and the remnants of the native population. The jungles thrived, taking over the ruined outskirts of cities. Roaming the cities outside the walls of RAM’s central complexes were the dregs of humanity, gennies from the Cooperates research station on Mars, and the Marplex lab outside Paris, whose development did not meet the required standards-fancy language for deformed monstrosities.
He had three years of Wollongong, and he knew if he did not escape soon, he would go mad. Kane was his ticket out. He would do his job for Ferricom, but nothing in the rules said he couldn’t interrogate his captive. The records showed Kane to be a rich man, with a personal estate on Luna, his own spacecraft, and diverse interests. If Ferricom neglected to recognize his loyalty, he might be persuaded to part with it--for the right price.
“The request form for replacement units went in this morning, said Pope.
“That means it will be two weeks before we get them.” said Emmerich absently, his thoughts on his own concern.
“Yes, sir, I. . . sir, there’s a message coming in. It look like Zibroski’s line.”
“Put it on the screen.”
“I can’t, sir. It’s not visual, and it’s coming through coded.”
Emmerich leaned over Pope’s shoulder. “Here it comes, sir.”
The computer’s obsolete mechanical printer klunked heav
ily, spewing the decoded message out like a white paper tongue. Emmerich tore it off “Well, well, well,” he said: “We are privileged to have company. It seems Ferricom is sending a special interrogator for Kane.” He could not keep the irritation from his voice. His plans for Kane were suddenly complicated.
Pope cocked his head and raised one hand to cover his earphone. “Sir? RAM Central is requesting a closed channel!”
“Central!” In his years at Wollongong, Emmerich could remember but two instances of direct communication with Central. “Put them through.”
The main viewscreen went flat gray, and a faceless voice began to speak “This is Central Headquarters calling. Hold for Neola Price.”
Emmerich gulped. The name belonged to a high RAM official.
The gray screen rolled up like a curtain, revealing Price seated at a desk littered with stacks of reports and loose correspondence. She was a woman of approximately sixty years, petite, but as tough as nails. Her silver hair was a manicured cap, not a strand daring to deviate from its appointed place. Her face was marred by determined lines at either side of her mouth. Round, silver-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, secured by a chain around her neck. She removed the glasses. Her eyes were bright blue, as hard as a cloudless sky. “Emmerich. I wish to speak with your prisoner.”
“This is an honor, Miss Price!”
“Cut the groveling,” she answered. “I want a closed channel to Kane.”
“At once, ma’am.”
Miss Price leveled a finger at Emmerich. “You heard me. A closed channel. I’ve got the lines secured. You try to tap in, and I’ll blow your whole computer system. Then I’ll do the same to you. Get to it.”
Emmerich signaled to Pope, who was sitting in front of the computer banks with his mouth hanging open. Miss Price was an overpowering personality. “You heard the lady,” Emmerich hissed, nudging the technician.
“Uh, yes, sir.” Pope keyed in the authorized security sequence, making Kane’s computer terminal a direct, isolated link to Neola Price’s.
