Evil Triumphant

by Michael A. Stackpole

  I shrugged. “I don’t know all of it. The Dark Lords have unbelievable powers at their disposal. Pygmalion has access to a place where time moves at an accelerated rate. There he was able to let your son grow up a bit and train. You obviously will not recognize the package, but it is your son inside.”

  Tadd Farber looked down at the ground and shook his head. “This is insane, you know that, don’t you? If I told anyone what you have just told me, I’d be locked away in a booby hatch faster than I could spit.”

  “Which is exactly why your son was chosen. If he did return to you and if he was able to recount all that happened, you would be thought mad when you reported it.”

  Farber’s head came up sharply. “How do I know you are not one of these Dark Lords?”

  His question lanced up into me. To him, to billions of people like him, I was as far above him as Fiddleback was above me. I described Dark Lords as having incredible power, yet to Tadd Farber the fact that he was in Japan talking to a man who ran a multinational corporation was nothing short of miraculous. For all he knew or could determine, I might have changed his son, then brought him here to emotionally torture him with my handiwork.

  “That is a fair question.” I dropped down into a squat. “I am to the Dark Lords what Lucifer was to God. I was groomed by a Dark Lord — without my knowledge — to become his weapon against other Dark Lords. I have rejected the power offered to me in favor of opposing Dark Lords. Right now, Pygmalion is at the top of my list and your son Mickey is very important to the effort to stop Pygmalion. However, he is still a minor, so I have a legal and moral responsibility to have you make his decisions for him.”

  “If you were a Dark Lord, you would have just used my son regardless.”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  Tadd nodded, then added a little shake of his head at the end. “I accept that, but your role model does not inspire confidence. Lucifer wanted to overthrow God so he could rule in his place.”

  I shook my head and straightened up. “I was trained as a killer, not an administrator.”

  “Dad!” Mickey’s shout from the edge of the courtyard reached us barely before he arrived. Mickey came to a stop without spraying stones around and lifted his father from the bench. Like a father tossing a toddler in the air, the youth let his father fly upward, then caught him in a hug.

  I pulled back, riding the tide of joy away from the embrace. Dorothy, breathless and crying, streaked past me to join the rest of her family. I walked away to leave them to their private reunion, and headed on into the courtyard. The Yidam and his daughter had withdrawn to one of the small conversation nooks deeper in the forest. I left them alone and zeroed in on Bat and the two other people standing with him.

  Natch Feral’s smile dimmed slightly as I approached. A petite woman, she seemed an embodiment of the idea of America being a melting pot. While her almond eyes bespoke an oriental heritage, her cafe au lait skin and long, kinky brown hair suggested blood originating in Africa. Her blue eyes were a clue to northern European ancestry as well, but the caution in her eyes was nothing short of American Orban. She wore a thin white tank-top and some baggy black fatigue pants over combat boots, with her only adornment being the twin diamond studs in each earlobe.

  The other member of the trio towered over both Bat and Natch. Hal Garrett had made his living for years playing basketball for the Phoenix Suns. The tall, balding black man had bulked out enough that his height wasn’t readily apparent until I got close. He still looked a bit drawn, but he had recovered from two gunshot wounds relatively quickly. A sense of self-doubt lingered on him, but day by day it got weaker as he realized that he could not have prevented the death of his wife in the same white supremist attack that wounded him.

  “What is the verdict on Mickey?”

  Bat grunted, which was more response than I had actually expected. The fact that he stayed down on one knee gave me a clue as to how much of a workout the boy had put him through. I knew that I had no desire to fight with Bat in a one-on-one match. I felt certain I could have killed him, but what Mickey had done was more impressive because he struck at will without Bat’s being able to repay him for that indignity.

  Natch gave me a thumb’s-up which said a great deal. “Mickey’s an ace. If he ever gets a raditude-baditude, blood will flow.”

  Hal flinched almost imperceptibly as Natch spoke. “Mickey is impressive. You were right, the tattoos are really poly-carbon fiber armor that protects muscles and his major organ groups. Pygmalion replaced his bones with ferro-titanium analogs, then fine-tuned his metabolism so he heals incredibly quickly, strikes even faster, and possesses unbelievable physical skills.”

  The retired basketball star chuckled lightly. “Mickey and I played some hoop earlier this morning. I have a foot and a half on him, and he stuffed me — repeatedly.”

  “From what I saw when Pygmalion brought him here and in this battle with Bat, you’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  Hal shook his head. “Not luck at all, Coyote. Mickey understands playing and has an unbelievable amount of control over his body.”

  Bat stood and opened his arms wide. “Not a bruise.”

  “I’m missing something, then.” I frowned. “Pygmalion made Mickey into the ultimate warrior, didn’t he? I thought he was a bomb just waiting to go off.”

  “Rajani disarmed him.” Hal smiled and gushed pure pleasure. “When Pygmalion put Mickey together, he apparently subjected the boy to training that included the loading of a combat protocol into the boy’s brain. It consisted of three sections: Acquisition, Imprinting and Termination. On command, Mickey would locate his target, match it to a mental template that told him what the easiest way to kill it would be, then he would kill it.”

  “I knew that. For that reason we have isolated Mickey from the wolfmen Pygmalion first had him attack.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you telling me that Pygmalion’s program has been disabled?”

  “Exactly.” Hal knitted his long fingers together. “When Pygmalion told Mickey to kill Rajani, he acquired his target in an instant. Imprinting Rajani proved to be the problem, as Pygmalion had never provided a template for her. Before Mickey could synthesize one, Bat tackled him and Mickey switched over to trying to imprint on him. Because Bat was behind him and had him in a full nelson, Mickey failed the imprint. Rajani reached into Mickey’s mind and blanked both his short-term memory and the place from which the imprinting code had been drawn. She broke the cycle.”

  That made sense. “So Mickey no longer has the ability to kill?”

  “He is no longer compelled to kill, which is decidedly different. We think he may yet harbor a compulsion to kill those on whom he has imprinted previously, hence keeping him away from the wolfmen down in security.” Hal sighed. “Mickey wouldn’t want to kill them, but he couldn’t help himself if he saw them.”

  “But he can still kill, can’t he?”

  “Can, yes, but he won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Hal looked at me in horror. “He’s 5 years old!”

  “So?” Bat looked from Hal to me and back. I shivered.

  The African-American spoke slowly through clenched teeth. “Mickey is not inclined toward violence. The way we got him to fight you, Bat, was to tell him it was play. He was concerned it would be too rough, and he noted that he would not want to hurt any of Rajani’s friends.”

  Hal turned back toward me. “As nearly as we can make out, Pygmalion trained him to kill using creatures and settings that allowed Mickey to believe it was all unreal. He fought Magilla Gorilla creatures. He saw the wolfmen as a villain from some Ghostbusters cartoon. Because Mickey knew those things were fantasy, and because he was praised for his efforts, he continued to perform. Even now we have not told him that he actually killed anything because Rajani and I think it would cause him to shut down mentally and emotionally.”

  “Do you think he would kill himself?”

  Bat grunted. “He’d have to — no one on
this planet could do it.”

  “I don’t know.” Hal glanced off back over my shoulder and smiled. “Seeing his family has picked up his spirits.”

  I turned and followed Hal’s line of sight. Mickey appeared very animated as he alternated between sitting beside his father and standing to hug his sister. I could see from his hand motions and how he moved that he was miming his basketball game with Hal. Even in the courtyard I could hear his father’s laughter and feel the man’s sense of relief.

  I looked back at Hal. “Can they reinstate his imprinting program?”

  The flesh around the big man’s dark eyes tightened. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Why would you want to do that?”

  I swallowed hard. “I am the weapon Fiddleback created to destroy Pygmalion. Mickey is Pygmalion’s masterpiece and very much more effective than I am. I would hate to think we could not employ such a powerful asset if and when we have no other choice.”

  Chapter 4

  I left my friends in the courtyard and exited through another pathway that did not lead me back to intrude on Mickey and his family. Entering the Galbro complex through one of the many doors that opened into the central courtyard collection, I paced on through nondescript institutional walls. Beyond a set of double doors I found a little alcove that had a door with a scanner plate beside it.

  I pressed my palm to the scanner plate. A greenish light bar started from the top and descended, then rose again. I felt no heat from the light and began a slow detachment. I felt as though I had withdrawn and was watching myself go through the motions of opening the door. I found the sensation oddly unpleasant, yet I clung to that sensation because it marked the change between the person I had been and the person I had become.

  The door slid noiselessly up into the ceiling, and I stepped through into zenly spartan quarters. Open, light and airy, with high ceilings and sunken, hardwood floors, the whole complex had nothing higher than a half-wall to mark the rooms one from another. I realized that the method of construction meant that the entire suite had superior lanes of fire for a gunfight. I knew that was not the sole reason for the design.

  The furnishings were few, yet appropriate for Japan. Tatami mats covered the floors and the traditional low table made up the bulk of the furniture present. Off in the back I knew I would find a sleeping mat and pillow — less because I had been here before than because I knew that was where I would have placed it. The kitchen even featured a traditional firepit, though it had been fitted with an electric grill.

  The bath proved to be the suite’s greatest luxury, though a few pieces of antiquarian art were scattered around the room. Each had been situated to make it the focus of the roomlet in which it had been placed, and I was able to associate specific memories of specific jobs I had performed with my having been given each piece as a reward. I felt an immediate affinity for the small piece of Anubis statuary in the first room, but whether or not that came from my having assumed the role of Coyote or because it seems most appropriate as a reward for an assassination, I could not say.

  The bath, too, had been a reward of sorts. Taking a bath had been manufactured into a symbol for me as I grew up and was trained. Just as Pygmalion had made Mickey believe his training and killings were things of fantasy, Fiddleback had kindled in me a belief that total purity could be gained through ablution. Physical cleanliness became linked with mental, emotional and spiritual purity for me.

  I had lived my first life in this suite. The open construction had its utilitarian aspect, but it also served to do one other thing. It denied me privacy and, growing up without it, I felt no need for it. Likewise, the lack of personal possessions worked to do exactly what Fiddleback wanted. It allowed him to create in me an agent of considerable skills with so malleable a sense of self that I could go and become anything or anyone for the purpose of carrying out Fiddleback’s bidding.

  This lack of personal identity proved vital for Fiddleback and me. Because of it, I was able to slip between dimensions like a shark moving through still water. Since I did not have a strong sense of self, greed and a need for personal power was not something I developed. Fiddleback correctly guessed that he could train me in things the way he had trained Pygmalion, but since my identity came as a reflection of Fiddleback, I would never rebel. As long as I was in his control, I could not and would not rebel.

  There Fiddleback’s incredible arrogance failed him. Coyote, my predecessor and possibly the first Coyote, anticipated my being used in Phoenix. He initiated an elaborate plan that forced me to discover my own identity. Following clues he laid out for me, and building upon the basic virtues with which I had been raised, I created the persona of Tycho Caine. I discovered I was a highly skilled assassin and, while looking at the world through the glimpses of it that Coyote provided, I discovered that the person I had become did not want to have anything to do with Fiddleback and his machinations.

  My first life, the life I had lived in this place, had ended when Coyote had me kidnapped and chemically induced amnesia in me. Out of Fiddleback’s control, I had found my true self. The loyalty which had kept me bound to the Dark Lord had been changed over into a loyalty for my fellow human beings, and that led me to oppose the creature that had created me. That opposition started me on my second life, and that second life included taking up the mantle of the man who had given me that second life.

  I became Coyote and rediscovered the powers that I had been given by Fiddleback. As Coyote, I made them work for me, and that proved to be to Fiddleback’s detriment. If not for the intervention of Pygmalion, Fiddleback might have destroyed me. As it was, Pygmalion made off with a prize that meant my old master and I had to join forces or both be consumed by whatever grand plot Pygmalion had devised.

  The suite to which I had come felt familiar, and I hungered for that. I knew my surroundings would not seduce me back to Fiddleback. They would, however, provide me some peace, and that, in turn, would allow me to concentrate and rest. Both of those things were vital because the game we would play out over the next few months would not forgive mistakes or condone stupidity.

  Our penalty for failure would be death. My reward for success would be surviving to again oppose Fiddleback.

  I kicked off my shoes at the door. In stocking feet I walked to the back and lay down on the sleeping mat. I set my watch’s alarm for five hours and hoped for a peaceful sleep. I knew that when I awakened and we started the planning for the campaign against Pygmalion, peace was the last thing I would have for a long time.

  I emerged from my sanctuary after a dreamless nap and soothing bath. Wearing a green shirt and cuffed black slacks, I headed through the GalBro complex until I reached the briefing room in which the first planning session was to take place. The long, narrow room had been filled to capacity, with everyone finding a seat around the lozenge-shaped maple table.

  I patted Tadd Farber on the shoulder as I worked my way past him and toward the front. Aside from the people I had seen earlier in the day, others associated with the effort to oppose Fiddleback had assembled for the planning session. I took a mental census of the room and felt a momentary bit of embarrassment as I realized I was the last person to arrive before we could begin.

  Standing next to the Yidam’s daughter, I saw Sinclair MacNeal, a tall, handsome young man whose family owned the largest construction contracting company in Arizona. He had been my agent in Japan and had located the Galactic Brotherhood while I had been training in Tibet. Fiddleback had pierced the secret of his identity and would have killed him had Rajani not intervened on his behalf.

  Rajani stood between the Yidam and Sin, but remained closer to the dark-haired human that her own father. Like the Yidam, her flesh was jet black, but her eyes shared the same golden hue as her fingernails. Though her yellow blouse and blue sweater hid her arms, on the backs of her hands I could see the tattooed gold lines that ran from her fingernails along the backs of her fingers and on up her arms. Her blond hair had been pulled back into a
pony-tail and would have made her look like any college co-ed had she a more carefree expression on her face.

  Reaching the head of the table, I nodded to the group of people. “Thank you for coming here this evening. I especially appreciate Lt. Colonel Yoshimitsu Asano leaving his hospital bed to be here.” I bowed my head at the bandage-swathed member of the Japanese emperor’s Internal Defense Cadre. “The emperor’s support and the role of the IDC will be vital if we are to succeed.”

  “Our task can be summarized in rather simple terms — stop Pygmalion and recover from him the emperor’s grandson, Ryuhito. Accomplishing this task will be far from easy, and I know some of you have already begun to work on aspects of what we will need to do to succeed. As always, any job can be accomplished with two of the following three elements: It can be done quickly, it can be done inexpensively and it can be done perfectly. Luckily for us, with the emperor’s resources and the resources of Lorica Industries, expense is not a consideration. Bear this in mind as you plan — no reasonable request for equipment or personnel will be denied.”

  I pulled out the chair in front of my place at the table. “Clearly, though, the first step in dealing with Pygmalion is learning who and what he is. Any insight we can get into his personality will make destroying him more and more possible.” I hit a button hidden beneath the edge of the table that lowered a panel at the far end of the room. Behind it, a video screen blinked to life with a blank blue field displayed on it. “Jytte, if you want to begin the briefing.”

  The statuesque blond woman nodded stiffly. By any but the most twisted standard, Jytte would have been identified as being gorgeous. She eschewed cosmetics and jewelry and wore her hair unadorned and loose, so it fell to mid-back. Her dark eyes flashed with fearful intelligence, as if she were a wild creature trapped in a most beautiful cage. Her gray jumpsuit had been tailored for a man and likely had been chosen in an attempt to make her more androgynous and less appealing, but it failed.