Aubry lowered his eyes again. Damn it. Damn him for daring to hope, even for a moment . . .
She reached across the table, tapping his knuckle with one fingernail. "You are a part of it somehow. You help me, and maybe I can help you."
"And if 1 don't?"
"There's a line from an old movie. Something about a coward hiding in the middle of a battlefield." He didn't answer, and she changed her tone. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Somehow 1 just don't get the feeling that you're hiding. I think you're looking for something. Let's join forces." She smiled with heartrending sincerity.
His voice lowered. "I don't know. 1 really don't." He sat there in the bar for a few minutes, listening to his own heartbeat, and then turned back to Marina. For an instant, her face was paler, fringed with brown hair, and he was confused: Why did Maxine's voice sound different? Why was her face . . . ?
He shook his head, and the vision cleared. "We need to talk. But not here. Do you have a place?"
Her grin said checkmate. "Come on. We do need to talk."
He followed her through the twisting alleys of the Nation, and eventually they reached an apartment building. Odd, synthesized music blared from one of the windows, and the silhouettes of two men dancing were painted on the shade like a writhing cardboard cut-out.
Again, he felt the panic, and the retreat from reality. Marina, moving in front of him on the stairs, was more and more of an anchor, something that he could cling to in the midst of the unreality that swirled around and around in his head.
She unlocked the door to her room. Within, it was surprisingly quiet, and very clean. There were two chairs, and a table, and a single bed by the window.
He turned, the blood thundering in his ears.
Marina sat, slender legs crossed neatly, lighting another cigarette.
The room seemed to be spinning. "Why are we here?" he asked thickly.
She cocked her head sideways, lips curved in an inquisitive smile. "We can help each other."
It was Maxine's face staring at him, lips curved sweetly, saying, Your life is headed for big changes, lover.
"You keep saying that. I'm a story to you. What the hell do you think you can do for me?"
If he stayed where he was much longer, he was going to lose control. Aubry spun and went for the door. "This isn't going to work."
She crossed the room and grabbed his hand. "Wait a minute ..."
He looked down at Marina's hand, and then into Maxine's face, and for a moment the tableau was frozen. Then he spun her around and crushed her to him.
"No—"
"What kind of story are you looking for?"
"Let me go—"
He pressed her back into the bed, their faces only inches apart. "You like danger, don't you? You like to get close to the fire? Try this."
His fingers were at her dress, forcing their way under her buttons, ripping away the threads.
"Don't—" Their eyes locked, and he didn't see her, saw only himself. Ruined and dead, nose and lips and cheeks shorn away to reveal his true face. The face of Aubry Knight, the child of war, a cold and voracious infant he embraced with all his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Medusa's Children
Tuesday, June 27
Aubry woke up slowly, unsure of who or where or when he was. He could feel the pressure of his body against the sheets, could hear his breathing, smell his dried sweat.
Beyond that, it was a blur, one that resolved slowly, coming into focus . . .
He jerked upright, stifling a scream as the memories became vivid.
Next to him, the sheets were crumpled, and there was a hollow where a body might have lain for hours in exhaustion or slumber.
He heard a click, and finally focused on the far side of the room. Marina sat there, a cigarette in one hand, a .25 caliber automatic pistol in the other. An ugly bruise purpled the left side of her face.
He looked down the bore for long heartbeats, then dropped his eyes. "You don't need that," he said dully.
"I sat here," she said. Her voice was shaking. She stopped, took a drag on her cigarette—by the sweet scent Of it, he knew it was clove. "And I waited for you to wake up. And waited." She wiped a shaky hand across her eyes. "Damn you. I was going to wait until I could tell you what I think of you, and then blow your fucking heart out."
He thought of the things he could say, or do. For a brief moment his mind flared with ideas: How to distract her? How best to move . . . ?
Then his survival computer shut down, dampened like a wet candle. "Go ahead," he said. "Do us both a favor."
She exhaled a long, nervous stream of smoke. "I might. I was going to."
"Christ, lady, what's stopping you? You want me to say I'm sorry? I am. Shit, I'm so goddamned sorry."
She paused, looking at him over the bore of the gun. "I watched you, while I was waiting. You kept talking about death."
He turned his face away, unable to look at her. "Death Valley. Prison."
"Something happened to you there?"
"Yes!" He screamed it at her. "Something goddamned well—" His head was spinning again, and suddenly his scream became inarticulate, and he was holding his head, howling as the walls closed in, and the bloody mouths screamed accusations.
He was back in the hole, chemicals seething in his bloodstream, the images of Nullboxing flashing on the screen before him, and it all joined together in a long, long scream for mercy.
When he came back, when the room stopped spinning for him, she stood over him, the pistol still in her hand, still pointed at him, but her finger was no longer tight on the trigger.
"Last night," she said. "You hit me, and you called me Maxine. Who was Maxine?"
He was still curled on his side, perspiration popping out over his body. "Maxine. Maxine Black. Luis . . . used her to set me up."
"Did you . . . love her?"
"Hell, what do I know? She was the kind ... the kind of woman who could make you believe you did. God damn I was such a fool, such a fool." He managed to pull himself together, still heaving for breath, and sat upright. "I got no excuse, Marina. I just don't know anymore."
Marina plopped down in one of the chairs, and watched him. "They say you're this big-time killer. 1 don't know what you were, when you worked for the Ortegas, but last night you cried in your sleep." She looked down at the gun, and the barrel dropped. "You used me. The woman you wanted to hurt wasn't here, and you used me instead. I can kill you, or maybe turn you in ... but I don't know what I'd get from that. Rough justice, maybe."
"What, then?"
She paused. "Something's going on, Knight. DeLacourte's people have been heating up the action against the NewMen. Ephesus was attacked a month ago. DeLacourte suppressed tape of Gorgon effecting a miracle rescue. And then there's the Oath."
"Oath?"
"It's said that Gorgon has sworn that if DeLacourte runs for office, they'll kill him."
Aubry frowned, trying to get the gears in his head to turn. "Do you believe that?"
Marina shrugged. "There's a rumor that DeLacourte will throw his support to President Harris if Harris denounces the NewMen."
"He wouldn't. Hell, Harris's support has been all that has kept this place going."
"A rumor like that would raise a lot of hackles, though, wouldn't it." When he didn't reply, she went on. "You were in Los Angeles. DeLacourte's people ran you out. You were in Ephesus during the fire. And now you're here. You're either a generator or a lightning rod, Knight. Whatever his story is, you're connected to too many pieces of it. I'm going to use you like you used me. You're looking for something. I can get information, so you need me. And if they manage to kill you, I'll be right there to get the story." She smiled coldly. "You're in good hands."
"Right."
She nodded, and ground her cigarette out, compulsively lighting another.
"All right, lady. I owe you. I can't wiggle out of that. You say you can help me. All right—what do you know about the
NewMen?"
She looked at him for a moment, then put her pistol away and drew her knees up to her chest, looking for all the world like a little girl. Her breasts were small beneath the robe, and supported by good muscle in the upper chest.
"The NewMen are trying to build a society totally separated from women. When they started, twenty years ago, it was an offshoot of the Cyber-Macho thing that grew out of the changes in professional football. Hell— artificial knees, spine braces, programmed reflexes, blood doping, steroids, hypothalamus implants—remember the acromegaly scandals? It all just got out of hand.
"People can get used to anything. Hell—the bodybuilder look was bizarre in the sixties, and almost the norm by the nineties. There was a group of men who felt that NewMen were the future. They loved it."
Aubry rose from the bed, went to stand by the window, away from the smoke. "It just gets weirder, doesn't it."
She nodded. "When the federal government began selling off Indian land back around 2010, the Navajos retaliated by leasing a parcel of their remaining land to the homosexual separatists known as NewMen. They took over the county, influenced state politics. With Arizona as a rallying point, the gay voting bloc was heard in national politics for the first time."
"I remember the first gay military divisions. Jesus, what a fuss."
"But performed superbly in Africa. Gorgon came out of that. Sort of an attempt to say that 'real men don't need women.' Judging by their battlefield records, they're right."
"And what are they up to now? Are they really making moves toward creation of this 'perfect man' thing?"
"Yes. I think that a lot of the action in Africa has been two-edged—they're hoping to get a tract of land out of it."
"If they can break Swarna?"
"If they can break Swarna."
"And what about that?"
"Aubry—you aren't thinking. They want the colony to be self-sustaining."
Aubry thought for a few minutes. "You mean kids?"
She nodded.
"I guess they can buy eggs, and freeze 'em. . . ."
She shook her head. "Haven't you guessed? Cyloxibin made it practical. Hermaphrodism. Fertile hermaphrodites of predominately male characteristics. Deadly warriors who can be hormonally stimulated to become child-bearing females. Project Medusa."
Aubry slammed his hand down on the sill. "It's real. I met one."
"You've seen a Medusa?"
He nodded. "It almost peeled me. It was in Oregon during the attack on Ephesus."
"What? Aubry—it can't be."
"Why not?"
"Because the whole project was just a dream five years ago. Their oldest Medusa has to be about four years old, Aubry. Were you attacked by a killer baby?"
"Shit." Aubry slammed his hand into the wall again, chipping plaster. "Are you sure? Damn. I thought . . ." The tension drained from him, and he wagged his head regretfully. "I guess I was just wrong. Oh, what the hell. I don't have an answer, but I think I know someone who will."
Miles sat quietly as Aubry and Marina spoke. His dark face was thoughtful, and he sighed when they were finished. "Yes, it might be like that. 1 don't know exactly what Gorgon's up to. I've been away too long."
"What if they'd been older, Aubry? What if you broke into the Bioworks security and saw the hermaphrodites? What difference would it make? What are you going to do? You never saw this one attacker's face. You couldn't identify him. If you could, what would you do, challenge him? Kill him?"
Aubry sat, head in his hands. "But someone attacked Ephesus. Killed people ..."
"Why would we attack Ephesus?" Bloodeagle said, puzzled. "We have nothing against them."
Marina sat, scratching one fingernail at the tabletop. "Somebody is hiding behind all of this," she said. "Where is Gorgon getting the biotechnology to pull this off?
Ephesus? Then somebody is acting as intermediary—long-range transport. Who?"
"McMartin," Aubry said positively. "He's behind Killinger in Los Angeles. He's got the equipment. That bastard Killinger controls the manpower."
"Then McMartin and DeLacourte are in bed together. Why would they destroy Ephesus?"
Aubry shook his head. "They didn't. They were trying to kill one woman. Ariane Cotonou. Promise said that she developed a lot of the baby-freezing stuff."
"But we still don't know why."
Marina's face was blank. "DeLacourte. Harris. Ephesus. Gorgon. Swarna. They all tie together somehow, but how?"
"Somebody's covering their tracks, but what? Maybe that Oath about DeLacourte?"
"It would make sense—but why would this McMartin want to kill his boss?"
"Could be a hundred reasons. All of them good," Bloodeagle said.
"Well, shit," Marina said slowly. "It would make sense. Everybody hates DeLacourte. He's done everything he can to destroy the Nation. But assassination—"
Aubry caught one of her shoulders with a great hand. "It's just a bunch of guesses, lady. Before you fly off the handle, let's think about this, see what fits."
"Aubry—if it's murder, I can't sit still."
"Sure you can," Aubry said coldly. "You've got nothing now. You start talking about it, and you'll either hurt a lot of innocent people, or make them change their plans. They'll hit him later, that's all. Wait until we know something. Can prove something."
"And if they kill DeLacourte in the meantime?"
"Then you'll have the big scoop, lady. Isn't that what you want?"
Her eyes blazed at him. "I'll wait a week. Let's see. Bloodeagle," she said, voice turning businesslike. "Can you get me information on that cryobiology center of Gorgon? Any specs?"
"I can do what I can."
* * *
From the terrace of the room he shared with Marina, Aubry looked out at the Bioworks building. It was a quilted, stilted three-story dome, shining pale white in the afternoon sunlight. He had seen pictures of it: Scavenger contractors had installed some of the electrical wiring.
It made his head hurt to think of it. It didn't matter anyway. Whatever marginal involvement he had with the whole question would soon be academic, a thing of the past, an icicle's shadow.
It had taken fear, and rage, and death, and dishonor to tear asunder the bonds that had been melded with Promise. The one thing that he couldn't do was go back.
Marina sat in a corner of the room, dictating into her computer while it quietly spit out pages of thermoplas. She didn't talk to him unless there was a direct need, but there was a curious bond between them. Not hatred, not attraction, not quite mutual need. Maybe a mutual recognition of type.
Marina stopped typing for a minute, and looked at the ceiling. "Damn."
"No luck?"
"I'm just not getting anywhere. 1 sure think they're planning to kill DeLacourte, but I don't know where or when—probably before the Democratic National Convention."
She closed her eyes again, and he could almost hear the thoughts surging.
"How do you do that?" Aubry said, finally.
"Do what?"
"Put the pieces together. I watch you take facts, and stick them together with other facts."
"Sure. It's called thinking." She watched the hurt expression on his face. "You think, Aubry."
"Not like that. Promise. Promise can think like that."
Marina scratched her eyelids. "I just make . . . pictures, and compare them with other pictures, and see what fits. Don't you do that? When you fight, or something?"
He shook his head. "No. Everything's too fast for pictures. I get a feeling, and then I do something. That's all."
She looked at him curiously. "You're a kinesthetic. You live in your feelings. And you've shut so damned many of them away."
He felt awkward, almost embarrassed to ask the next question. "Is there any way . . . could I learn to do that? To think like that?"
There was a long pause, and she didn't answer. His ears burned. "I guess that was a stupid question."
"Not everybody thinks
in words, Aubry. Or pictures. You must be a genius at what you do." A light went on in the back of her eyes, and then dimmed again as she sat, humming. "Let's say you were in a river. And there were currents coming from different directions ..." She sighed. "No, that doesn't work. Shit."
She stood and began to pace the floor. "DeLacourte wants to be president. Harris wants to be president. McMartin wants DeLacourte to be president. Gorgon wants Harris to be president. But there was some kind of cooperation between Gorgon and McMartin at Ephesus. They should be blood enemies. . . ."
Aubry closed his eyes. "You know, when you're punching and kicking, you can look at the target. But when you're fighting say three people, you look at what isn't there. At the space between people."
"Negative space."
"Whatever. You've got all of these people, whose motivations should be obvious, and two groups of them did something that doesn't make sense. There's someone that isn't there. I can feel it." He smiled, for the first time in days. "1 can't see him, but I can feel him."
"Swarna? He hates everybody."
"But everybody hates him, too. Nobody's going to take orders from him. Somebody else. Somebody close to the action."
"All right. Where do we go?"
"Back to Los Angeles," Aubry said. "I say I find this McMartin and screw it out of him.''
She stopped, looked at Aubry quizzically. "You'll do it out of your obligation to me?" "No. I'll let you tag along out of obligation. He killed good people, and almost crippled me. ..."
And there are these dreams. Of pinkish slippery things crawling in glass. And they won't go away. Somebody has to pay for that.
She nodded. "All right. Let's go."
There was a knock at the door, and Aubry crossed the room to answer it.
"This'll be Bloodeagle. Hope he's got a route back to L.A. for me—"
Promise stood there, accompanied by Leo Baker. Baker peered around the room as if he expected to find someone hiding in the corner.
Behind them, Bloodeagle shook his head. "Sorry for the surprise, Aubry."
Gorgon Child Page 24
