Starblood

by Dean Koontz

  At first, Timothy was confused, unable to understand why Margle would have sent the same mechanism to do what it had failed at once before. Then he understood that there must be men outside, waiting, and he felt better. Mentally he smiled as he realized that the Hound might very well fail again, since the simulacrum was not vulnerable to any of its weapons.

  The Hound detected the mechanical Taguster, lurched, and whined almost like a real dog. It surged through into the gloomy kitchen and fired half a dozen darts. The pins struck in the pseudo-flesh of the simulacrum, but the poison could do nothing to its nonhuman system of wires and tubes. The Hound swung to the left and shot another six darts into the mechanical's side. Again, the weapon failed to kill or cripple.

  The simulacrum advanced on the Hound.

  Ordering its servos ahead, the Hound latched metal fingers around the fake Taguster's neck. The second servo battered at the simu-flesh face. The simulacrum's nose bent. It reached up and grabbed the Hound's servos, tearing them loose from itself. It turned and rammed the ends of the metal hands against the walls, snapping some of the fingers. Pieces of metal tinkled on the floor. Wires and insulation hung from the shattered digits. The hands of the Hound floated where they were, grav-plates still operational but unable to heed the commands of their master.

  Ti ordered it captured and destroyed.

  The simulacrum moved forward and grabbed the sphere. The Hound strained to move away from the machine-man, but it was no match for the powerful arms that restricted its movement. It shot darts into the simulacrum's chest, but to no avail. The fake Taguster dragged the assassination machine across the room and thrust it hard against the wall again and again until the housing over the grav-plates buckled. It ripped the housing off, pulled the plates from their connections, and tossed them across the room, where they floated above the sink.

  "Toss it back outside," Timothy said.

  The simulacrum obliged, walking onto the platform of the rear patio and heaving the alloy beast over the edge. There was an explosion of sound as what had been the Hound struck the driveway. It shattered into a dozen or more large pieces; nuts and bolts and slivers of glass rolled across the pavement. The simulacrum came inside again and crossed to the receiver. It was time for more waiting.

  Minutes passed, then half an hour, and Ti began to worry that they might have scared off the men outside. Just as he was ready to verbalize his fears to the simulacrum, there was the unmistakable sound of shoes squeaking on the patio stairs coming up from the rear lawn.

  Timothy dropped into the Mindlink beam, returned home, and activated the cameras filming off the visual two-dimensional comscreen. When he returned to Taguster's home, frantic he would have missed something, the Brethren gunmen had not yet arrived.

  They entered two seconds later, preceded by tear gas grenades. The kitchen filled with acrid blue-green fumes that soon roiled through into every room in the house. Moments later, three dark figures came through the doorway wearing breathers and waving pin guns around like small boys playing with newly purchased toys. Timothy focused the cameras on them and was elated when he discovered Margle's face. He did not take the cameras off their faces, but the intruders were oblivious to him. When they saw the simulacrum, they decided it was Taguster with a breather of his own, and they opened fire.

  The darts sank in the robot's chest, but they had no effect The machine continued to advance on them.

  One of the trio palmed the light switch. In the ensuing brilliance, they saw all the darts puncturing the simulacrum and knew the thing for what it was. They holstered their guns, moved in on it, pinned its arms, and shut down its systems.

  "Search the place," Margle ordered. His voice, Timothy was surprised to discover, was rather reedy, ineffectual, almost silly. Yet it had a quality of viciousness that demanded it be obeyed.

  When they had searched the enormous house to their satisfaction, they met in the kitchen again. Timothy followed them via the receiver. They exchanged negative reports, and as Margle was outlining a suggestion for a search of the grounds, one of the henchmen with him noticed the soft light of the bulb on the Mindlink set, indicating the occupation of the brain blank. He pointed it out to Margle and approached the set with his gun butt drawn back to smash the glass in.

  "No!" Margle snapped, pushing the man aside, hunkering directly before the cameras so that Timothy had a full-face view of the scarred, angry features. Timothy saw that Klaus Margle had that same cool efficiency, the same self-confidence that he and Creel possessed. But it went further than that. In the terror and pain of getting to the top, Klaus Margle had rejected the smaller goal of learning to cope and command in favor of the larger goal of being able to dominate and demand. It was the same chilly madness that infected dictators. "We'll trace you," Margle said. And Timothy knew that was true. The Brethren could easily afford the services of a Mind-link technician who would not be against picking up a tidy sum for some swift extracurricular—and extralegal—work. "Well trace you, and then we'll come for you." He grinned. It was an almost effeminate grin, his lips too full and sensuous for that scarred and battered countenance. Then he raised his pistol butt and smashed in the glass . . .

  Half an hour later, just as Timothy finished running the film through automatic developing equipment, Detective Modigliani arrived from the city police in response to the call Ti had placed immediately after returning home from Taguster's house. At first, there had been some hesitance about sending a detective to the house, since Timothy refused even to state what his problem was. But when they had discovered who he was, all the red tape seemed to shred through like crepe paper.

  Modigliani was a thin, intense man with a pencil mustache and a quick way of moving that made him seem somehow birdlike. He introduced himself in tight, sharp words, his voice thin and almost irritating. Ti ushered him into the living room with all the courtesy he possessed, correctly deciding that Modigliani was not the type to respond to more forceful techniques.

  When they were both seated, the thin man said, "This is most unusual."

  "It's an unusual case."

  "Tell me." He made it seem as if Timothy was the criminal and not the good citizen reporting a violation of the law. When Ti finished the story without eliciting even a raised eyebrow from the detective, Modigliani said, "Quite extraordinary. And you say you have the film?"

  "Yes."

  Modigliani scowled. His eyes were hooded cobra eyes. "You've invaded someone's privacy, you know."

  "What?

  Modigliani did not move any part of his body even a fraction of an inch. It seemed he was carved of stone. "It's an invasion of privacy to use the communications media to photograph others in their own homes."

  "But I was getting 'evidence!" Timothy protested, already aware that protest was useless.

  "That's the work of the police," Modigliani countered.

  "I know," Ti said desperately, trying to hold his rising anger in check as he rose from his cup-chair, "that Klaus Margle has been arrested nine times without serving any time whatsoever."

  Modigliani shifted forward a little at the waist, as if the stone sculpture was cracking. "What are you suggesting?" Again, he had the look of a bird—a predatory bird.

  Ti restrained himself. "Nothing. Nothing. But would you like to see the films? That's what I asked you here for."

  Modigliani nodded his interest, and Timothy led the way into the library, where the projector and screen were prepared. He dimmed the room lights. The projector hummed, and the screen was filled with images out of a surreal fantasy. Eddying clouds of smoke, then three dark figures with small breathers clamped in their nostrils. The picture zoomed in on the leader of the raiding party, and there was Klaus Margle. Ti shivered at the cruel, delicate yet scarred face of the underworld Don.

  But there was only his face. As the film progressed, Ti discovered he had been so anxious to get good shots of Margle's face that he had missed all the damning action they had been involved in. The camera ha
d been trained only on their heads, catching only hints of the fight with the fake Taguster. The threatening face of the last few feet of film lost all force when the words and their harsh tone were absent. It was almost a friendly smile without the words behind it.

  The film stuttered, slipped, was gone. "Not much," Modigliani said. When Timothy weakly began to argue, the detective interrupted. "Faces." You could have filmed Mr. Margle almost anywhere."

  "But the tear gas—"

  "And I didn't see him killing anyone. I still think we should be concerned with an invasion of privacy here, rather than murder."

  Timothy saw the futility of disagreement, but he felt bound to argue. In the end, he could manage only to persuade Modigliani to call Taguster's house. Either the receiver would be broken, giving credence to his story, or they would meet Klaus Margle and his men. But, to Ti's horror and surprise, Leonard Taguster's face popped onto the comscreen, smiling. "Yes?" he asked.

  Modigliani turned and gave Timothy an I-told-you-so look of infuriating cheerfulness.

  "It's the simulacrum," Timothy hissed.

  Modigliani turned to the fake Taguster, explained the details of the situation. The mechanical Taguster laughed heartily at the notion he might be dead and agreed to allow the detective to inspect his house through the Mindlink receivers there, fully confident nothing would be found.

  Five minutes later, Modigliani had been there through Mindlink and had examined the place in detail. "Nothing," he told Timothy as he removed the normal helmet which Ti kept for the convenience of guests who couldn't very well use the one specially formed for his misshapen skull.

  "The kitchen receiver—"

  "Was in fine working order. I don't know what you wish to prove—"

  "They had the services of a technician, an electronics expert. In an hour and a half, it could just have been done."

  "And Taguster?"

  "That was not Taguster! It was his simulacrum, damn it!"

  "Sims will do nothing to harm their masters; Leonard Taguster's sim would never protect his owner's murderers. Besides, the killers would have to be among those whose voices the robot was programed to obey. You've told me that only Taguster, his manager, and you have that ability."

  "They could have reprogramed the machine," Timothy said.

  "That takes a real expert," Modigliani said, feigning obviously phony surprise at such a suggestion.

  "You know as well as I that they could afford it. And they could have had just enough time to fix that bent nose, too."

  Modigliani's seeming stupidity was beginning to annoy Timothy until he wasn't able to suppress his rage any longer. His twisted face flushed and his servos danced nervously. Then Modigliani gave him the name of the game. "Sir, I must caution you to refrain from slander. Mr. Klaus Margle is nothing more sinister than the owner of several garages and restaurants. A hotel too, I think. He is a respectable businessman who should not have to suffer abuse that—"

  Ti interrupted. "You know damn well that Klaus Margle is—"

  "This is being recorded, and you must be informed of that if you intend making actionable statements." He parted the halves of his coat to reveal the mini-recorder strapped to his chest.

  It was obvious now why Modigliani was being hard-headed. He'd been bought. When he had learned that the accused was Klaus Margle, he had seen where his duty had lain—and it wasn't with truth or the police department. Ti realized his own rage would be interpreted as the inane prattling of a misfit when the time came for Modigliani to prove him an unreliable witness. Any jury, hearing the tape, seeing the twisted form it had issued from, would declare Margle innocent.

  He had never felt more isolated and alone.

  "I'll have the film and be going," Modigliani said, returning to the library.

  Timothy floated quickly after him, but he was too late. When he came through the library doors, the detective had removed the film from the projector and was returning, the cartridge tucked firmly under his arm. "You can't have that!" Ti snapped.

  "You violated a man's privacy. Well have to show this to Mr. Taguster and see if he wishes to place charges against you. We will be in contact with you in the near future."

  And he was gone.

  Timothy stood at the window, watching the detective leave. He knew full well that the film would be destroyed between here and police headquarters. The tape record would be edited as Modigliani saw fit before it was placed in police files. And the detective would receive a bonus from the Brethren this month, a bonus for a job well done—if not exactly in the interests of the public he had sworn to serve.

  He returned to Taguster's house, ignored the simulacrum, which was reading a book and greeted him cheerily. He went from room to room, looking for even the smallest sign of murder or of the later presence of the Brethren gunmen. He found nothing. He returned home.

  In despair and frustration, he pounded the leather of the Mindlink cup-chair with his servo-hands. Then, when his rage subsided, he saw he had clawed and ripped it until the stuffing showed through in many places. Now he was no longer able to weep for the loss of the musician; now there was only a cool, deep hatred for those people—and a determination to get them, to kill them. Strangely, the thought of murder did not repulse him, though he had always been extremely nonviolent. He had reached that time in his life—as most men eventually do—when powers greater than he had so relentlessly and ruthlessly backed him into a comer and begun shredding at the fabric of his life that no response was too excessive. With many men, it is the government, a king or a dictator or a president. With others, it is a large corporation, a blank bureaucratic monolith without a single shred of humanity. For Timothy, it was these men who took the law into their own hands—with the blessings of the authorities who earned part of their living from them.

  Fury. It was worthwhile sometimes. Now, as he waited for the arrival of Klaus Margle, he did everything possible to nurture it . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  He stood at the window, nervously watching the night. Time ticked by like water dripping from a faucet.

  Behind him, there was a pistol from his collection propped between a stack of books, aimed at chest-level on the door. He could trigger it with his psionic powers when the time came. In his servo-hands were two more weapons. There was no use asking for police help. All calls would be routed to Modigliani, and that would be a dead end. These lethal devices were all he had to stop them from killing him as nonchalantly as they had killed Taguster.

  He heard them as they entered the courtyard behind the house. They made no attempt to keep silent, blundering noisily along to let him know they had no fear. Footsteps on the pavement. Then a soft burst of laughter . . .

  The door rattled, shook. It crashed inward as the Hound, yet another one, smashed through in a cloud of wood splinters. Ti had not been expecting this at all. His guns were absolutely useless. He turned into the dining area, dropping the pistols and calling his servos after him. He had been expecting men, not machines. Now what? He heard the Hound in the kitchen, but by the time he reached the living room, it was humming into the dining area, on his heels.

  Don't panic, he told himself. Don't panic—just hate. It's only the hate that will save you.

  The Hound entered the room, sensed his presence, sought him with its cameras and radar grids, ascertaining if he were the proper quarry or not. It would only need a split second to make that decision . . .

  He sought an escape route—though he realized that the great house which was equipped to sustain him in luxury was not equally appointed to preserve him from death. The place would be surrounded; the doors were useless. Suddenly, he remembered the Revolutionary War cellars upon which the house was built. If he could get into those, there were countless outlets to other places on the mountain.

  The Hound fired three pins.

  Ti slammed down on his mobility sphere speed controls, streaked into the hall, through the cellar door and down the steps (there for the convenience
of his legged guests). He crossed the Tri-D room and went into the shooting range, slamming the heavy door behind him. It was monstrously thick, resurrected from the Tory cellars. It was a munitions storehouse door, plated in lead. Even the Hound would require some time to break that down.

  He floated along the left wall where the cellars lay behind the thin skin of his house, stretching far back into the mountain.

  After the first four or five, which were man-made, the caves were rough and fortified. When he reached the end of the room, he used his servos to rip loose the half-round that filled in the corners of the plasti-wood paneling. Metal fingers gripped round that paneling, he proceeded to pry it away from the wall beams. He looked through, seconds later, into the cool darkness of the Tory cellars.

  Behind, the Hound struck the leaded door, hard.

  Unable to squeeze between the beams, Ti shifted his grav-plates so he lay on his side, then moved ball-first through the gap and into the darkness. Once inside, he shifted to vertical position and sent his servos back to restore the panel as best they could. It might confuse the demon machine for a few minutes, though it could not be a completely successful ruse. The Hound would be after him soon enough.

  Through the partition, he heard the door to the shooting range give; then it crashed inward to admit the Hound.

  He moved forward slowly, letting his eye adjust to the lack of light. Soon he could distinguish the outlines of fallen beams and broken tables, of rotted and shattered chairs, a few stretches of shelving that had once held ammunition but which were now bowed and warped away from the walls and covered with ugly lumps of fungus. He moved into the second cellar room.

  Behind him the Hound ripped loose the wall panel he had balanced in place, the sound echoing frantically in the cul-de-sacs of the Tory chambers. Light from the shooting range dispelled the gloom. The Hound came quickly after.