Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05

by Today We Choose Faces

  It happened exactly as we had desired. Once the news got out, Kendall was ruined, the project was ruined and, by association, stars became an even dirtier word. Once he was sent up for his brainwash, it was definitely all over.

  I recalled his abhorrence of adjustive techniques, but it never occurred to us that he might be a genuine violence-prone patho, by Lange's definitions, a real throwback. I guess we should have recalled his reply to our casual question, as we headed toward the washroom for the last time, "What will you do if you lose out, badly?" He had stared down at his slippers, bunched and unbundled his toes a couple times within them, then said, "It's all over for us if it doesn't pass." That's all.

  About four weeks later, he hanged himself in his quarters in the Dispensary. Glenda must have been about five or six at the time.

  While we deplored violence, we did not feel especially guilty about it. We tended to look upon what had occurred as one of those unfortunate, unforeseen things that sometimes happen when you are just doing your job. Also, it was then impossible for us to entertain the possibility of any sort of connection between Kendall and Mr. Black. Black had been deemed dead in my day, and memories of the man were duly erased when Old Lange sacrificed me. Now that I was back, however, the entire Kendall Glynn incident took on a different, more sinister appearance. Unlike my successors, though, I felt rotten about the way things had been handled. I realized that a debt of honor existed toward Glenda.

  I thought about this as the clock ticked its way toward opening and Lange's remains were stashed in the cooler. This, and a lot of other things. Of course, I was going to go after Glenda. She knew something—possibly quite important—that she wanted to tell me. Even if she did not, however, I would have gone because she had asked me to, and because of the very strong possibility that she was in danger.

  When the vault finally opened, I entered and removed a variety of things I might be needing. I hauled them all off to the little lounge, leaving this vault open behind me, also.

  "Library! Cubicle 18237!" Glenda had kept repeating. Since she had not added a Wing designation, this indicated that she meant Library, Cubicle 18237 of the Wing we then occupied.

  ... Wing 5, of which the Bandit had verified Jenkins' bit of news. As of but a brief while ago, the subways had stopped running and all communications had terminated. It was as if Wing 5 had suddenly ceased to exist.

  After I had deposited my gear, I returned to Comp, where I ran another check with the Bandit. It reconfirmed the initial report I had received, with no new developments. A survey of my private subway system to Wing 5 showed all lines to be operational, however. This was as I had expected. Their power source for my uses was located here, not there. Even if it had not been, I had a funny feeling that they might still be working. There seemed to be a pattern emerging, and I had a part in it.

  It was not very long before Winkel and Jenkins reentered.

  "All set?" I asked.

  "Yes," Winkel replied. "Listen, we have a right to know what's going on—"

  "Of course," I said. "You will."

  "When?"

  "We will wait awhile longer to see whether Gene is coming."

  "Why not just mesh with him and find out?"

  "I'll be talking about that, too."

  I turned and walked toward the door.

  "What should we do now?" Jenkins asked me.

  "I think it would be a good idea for you to wait here for Gene, to turn off the klaxon when he arrives."

  "Why not just turn it off now?"

  I returned to the control panel and switched our defense system from manual back to automatic. I also removed the pistol from my pocket and set it on the countertop.

  "Because it just may be that someone else will come through," I said, turning on the screen and the speaker.

  "Who?" said Jenkins.

  "I’ll tell you about that later, too."

  "What should we do if it is someone else?"

  "If the equipment doesn't get him, you'd better."

  "Even if it means using that gun?"

  "Even if it means using your teeth and fingernails. I'm going up to the lounge now. I have some things to do."

  I could hear them talking as I headed on up the hall, but I could not make out what they were saying. Just as well, I suppose.

  I entered the lounge, crossed it and activated the window. The temperature had dropped slightly and the moon had traveled a considerable distance, shifting the shadow patterns about. The light from the ruin was no longer visible. I stared for perhaps a minute, still puzzling over its earlier occurrence, then turned my attention to the equipment I had fetched.

  Stripping to my undergarments, I donned lightweight body armor that protected me from groin to neckline. I put on full-length black trousers then, because I wanted to wear some explosives taped along the inside of my left calf. A heavy-caliber revolver went into a belt holster to be covered by a white, short-sleeved shirt. Something from outside disturbed me as I was taping the stiletto to my left forearm. A movement?

  I lit a cigarette and spent a few minutes staring out the window.

  The flicker. Yes. It came again. Once, twice . ..

  My observations were interrupted by the sound of the klaxon. I departed the lounge immediately and headed down the hall. The alarm ceased before I had gone twenty feet, so I slowed to a walk. I continued on far enough to see that it was Gene, our youngest member, then waved to him and turned back.

  'Wait!" I heard him call out, followed by the sounds of rapid footfalls.

  "I'll be with you in a few minutes," I called back. "Go on into the Comp room. Jenkins and Winkel are there."

  The running continued and I decided the hell with him. I had already told him where I was going, and I was not about to stand there and justify myself.

  He caught up with me just as I was about to reenter the lounge. Whatever he was about to say was forgotten, however, as we made the turn together and the burst of light hit us. He gripped my arm and we stood there for a moment, unmoving.

  Then I stepped into the room and he released his hold and followed me across it. We moved to the window and stood there squinting into the light. Yes, it was coming from the ruin all right.

  From behind us, I heard Winkel make a brief noise, like, "Wha—?"

  Then the light was gone, and everything out there was as it had been before.

  I reached out and opaqued the thing again. I moved toward the nearer chair, where I had been standing earlier, and arrived there just as Jenkins burst into the room.

  "What is going on?" he inquired, searching our faces.

  "Nothing," I said, picking up a light-gray jacket and pulling it on, "now."

  I dropped a handful of extra ammo and two gas grenades into my left side pocket. Three small fragmentation bombs went into my right.

  "We are going back to Comp, right now," I announced "Someone must be on duty there at all times, until this thing is over. There must be no unauthorized visitors."

  "Have there ever been?" Jenkins asked.

  "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "I’ll tell you about it in Comp. Come on.”

  They followed me into the hall. As we headed down it, Gene said, "What was that light?"

  "I don't know."

  "It could be something important"

  "I am certain that it is."

  We entered Comp and I moved to adjust the subway equipment to take me to Wing 5. Before I could set the circuits, however, Winkel stepped in front of me and stood there, hands on his hips.

  "All right," he said. "What's the story? Why didn't you mesh?"

  "Because," I said, “you would have been radically changed by the process, and I want you just the way you are until I have decided what I am going to do about my condition."

  "What condition? What is the matter?"

  I sighed, lit a cigarette, moved to his right and seated myself on the countertop, facing the three of them.

  "I pulled pins seven and
six," I said.

  "You what?”

  "You heard me."

  There was silence. I had expected a blizzard of questions, but they just stared.

  "It had to be done," I said. "We were being killed left and right, and there was no apparent reason, no way of stopping it By unlocking generations of experience, I hoped to find something—information, a weapon. I was scared, too."

  Winkel dropped his eyes and nodded.

  "I would have done the same thing," he said

  "So would I," said Gene.

  "I guess I would have, too," Jenkins said, joining in the effort to make me feel better. "Did you find something?"

  "Yes, I believe I did. But it is rather complicated, and I only have time to hit some of the highlights now."

  "Before you do," Winkel said, "tell us one thing: Who are you now, really?"

  "I am the same person I was before," I said, feeling that I was lying and feeling, too, their need for reassurance that everything was not coming apart at the same moment. "The only difference is that now I have access to all the memories of old Lange and Winton, as well as those of Jordan which Winton did not choose to sacrifice."

  But he saw, I think, and persisted.

  "Of them all, who do you most feel like?" he said.

  "Myself! Damn it!" I said. I was half-minded to mesh then and there and remove all cause for argument and explanation both. But I held to my conviction that this might not be wise in terms of whatever personal editing I might eventually be required to undertake. Also, from the look on his face, I believed that Winkel might be prepared to resist the mesh at this time. So, "There was some influence, of course," I said. "That was unavoidable. Fortunately, it is of benefit in the present situation. I am still basically me, though."

  He still looked unconvinced, but further insistence was not going to strengthen my statement—just the opposite, perhaps—so I decided to let it rest at that and get down to essentials.

  "It appears that, several generations ago, an individual became aware of our existence," I began. "How he learned of us remains a mystery. But he demonstrated his knowledge of the personal identities of all the members of the family at that time. He did this in a manner that bore a close resemblance to our present plight. He attempted to murder all of us. He was obviously unsuccessful, possibly because the tendency was still strong within us to strike back instantly. We did not, however, succeed in obtaining his destruction, rehabilitation or even—for that matter— knowledge of his identity. He did succeed in killing three of us before we increased our wariness and the variety of our defenses to the point where several further attempts on his part were frustrated and he became the hunted. We came close to capturing him on two occasions, but he managed to escape us both times. Then he vanished. The attacks ceased. Years passed. Nothing.

  "While we did not forget what had occurred," I went on, "the absence of the peril allowed for a gradual return of some feelings of security. Perhaps he was dead, we felt Or had given up on his vendetta for reasons as inscrutable as those which had caused him to embark upon it. Whatever his disposition, he apparently took his knowledge of our affairs with him, for there was never any indication, anywhere else, of an awareness of our existence.

  "Then, almost nine years later, he struck again, as suddenly as before. His planning and his coordination were very good. He got five of us at that time. He might have done even better, had not Benton been able to shoot him before he died himself. He was apparently pretty badly wounded, but he managed to get away before we reached the scene. Then, again, nothing. For several years. We assumed he had died as a result of his wounds."

  "How do you know it was the same man?" Gene asked me.

  "An assumption," I replied, "based primarily upon the similar pattern of attack. We also have a gross physical description, from the terminal impressions of several of his victims. And we have other data, such as his blood type—"

  "Was it the same man who shot you?" Winkel asked.

  "In light of what I know now, yes. I believe that it was."

  "Where there any other attacks besides the two you have described?"

  "Yes. Many years after the passing of Jordan, during the time when Winton was nexus, he came here, to Wing

  Null. The nature of his intentions was never clear to us. We have no idea what he would have done had the place been unoccupied, as it is so much of the time. As it was, Winton just happened to be here—here in Comp, as a matter of fact—when he arrived. The klaxon sounded and Winton picked him up on the screen. Interestingly, he had succeeded in avoiding the automatic defenses. How he achieved this remains a mystery. Winton headed for the hall and startled him there, opening fire immediately. He fled, returning the fire, and although he was wounded he succeeded in throwing himself across the grid and making an exit. Winton returned here and traced him, discovering he had gone to the Chapel on Wing 7. He immediately meshed with the others, and we attempted an intercept there. But beyond a few gory traces, he was not to be found."

  "That was the last such occurrence—until recently, that is?"

  "Yes. Old Lange retained the memory as a precaution. Lange erased it as a useless violence-reminder when he became nexus, though. So much time had passed that it seemed a safe assumption that our enemy was dead."

  "A mistake."

  "Obviously."

  "He left no clues?"

  "A few here and there. Dead ends, all. For instance, he dropped a tool kit when I—Winton shot him. It proved to have been stolen from a maintenance locker in the Cellar of Wing 11. The trail ended there."

  "No prints, no traces of any sort on the tools or their container?"

  "None. He always wore gloves at the proper time. Careful sort. We spent a long while checking on everybody even remotely associated with the maintenance locker. Again, nothing. But the nature of the tools themselves gave rise to some interesting speculations."

  "Of what sort?"

  "The tools were of the type a person might choose to work on the locks we had on the vaults then. Does that remind you of anything?"

  "The missing clone!"

  "Exactly. Our big, unsolved mystery, over a century old now. One day a clone is gone from its locker, never to be seen again. Where? How? Why? No answers. Absolutely useless to anyone but the family. Supposedly inaccessible to anyone but us. Gone. That was why we installed fancier locks on the vaults and built the defense system. We changed our subway setup, too. Despite these precautions, though, someone reached us again and it was only by chance that we were able to stop him. The connection seems unavoidable, though the motive is anybody's guess. We revamped the whole security framework, achieving what we have today. As the years went by, we relaxed again. Eventually, so much time passed that we felt safe in allowing ourselves to forget, piece by piece, everything but the nagging fact of the missing clone, which for some reason no one felt quite up to erasing. I feel our Mr. Black is involved with the whole thing.

  "Therefore," I concluded, "I want a man on this panel at all times, monitoring the arrival station. If we should receive an unwelcome visitor and he is able to avoid the automatic defenses, you must be ready to switch over to manual immediately. Also, I want you to break out something heavier than trank guns and carry them until this thing is settled."

  Their faces were blank, puzzled, irritated, going from left to right.

  "What exactly are we supposed to do with Mr. Black?" Winkel said.

  "Well, I would like to have the contents of his head intact," I told him. "But if they happen to get in the way of a bullet, that's all right, too."

  I moved to a panel and set my course for Wing 5.

  "You haven't told us everything yet, have you?" he asked.

  "Just essentials. Time is important. You are next in line for the nexus, though. If anything happens to me, you will wind up knowing more than I do now. That is one of the advantages of serial immortality."

  "I may not want to have it all."

  “... and you need not
keep it. That is one of the advantages of partial suicide."

  I turned away and headed toward the door.

  "Do you intend to bring him here for interrogation?"

  I paused and shook my head.

  "My goal is a more modest one," I said, "I just want to 1 kill the son of a bitch."

  A minute later I was in a dark, silent place on Wing 5.

  7

  I emerged cautiously, but no one seemed to be about. Fine. I closed the black door behind me and moved away quickly.

  Something was wrong, and it took me several seconds to sort out my impressions.

  It was the stillness. It was eerie, hearing nothing beyond the echoes of my own footsteps. There were no machine sounds, no humming, whirring background noises; even the beltways had been muted. The air seemed much warmer than usual and hung motionless about me. The dimness was much heavier than normal, though I could see an area of illumination, faint, far off to my right.

  I suppressed my curiosity as to the light source and continued on in the direction I had chosen. That way lay the nearest jackpole, a jet tower rooted in a wilderness of broken outlines and vanishing into infinity. I would have to walk its spiral, I feared.

  Was Mr. Black waiting for me somewhere between here and there, I wondered? Possibly, knowing our use of the black doors, knowing that I would come to Wing 5.

  Was this a mad extreme to which he had gone in his effort to destroy us, or was it the other way around? Was this some part of a thing long in the planning, to which our removal was but an ancillary provision?

  Either way, it mattered little now. I was as ready as possible, under the circumstances.

  I walked on through the blackout. Had there been a breakdown in the cellar, or was the power being diverted elsewhere to meet some emergency?

  And what of Glenda? What did she know? What was her part in this thing?