Miles shrugged and turned back to the main terminal to resume his studies. Probably one of the deer had run in front of the camera. There were over two hundred of them within the Preserve’s forty square miles and their sudden movements provided frequent distractions. Miles did not really mind. These long night shifts passed slowly enough and he was sometimes secretly glad to find excuses for playing with one of the thirty-six sets of camera controls under his command.
Miles was content being a night warden here at the Preserve; it gave him plenty of time for his schoolwork. In fact, he liked to think it was this job that had helped him mature. Northern California’s Wildlife Preserve was the fifth largest in the Colonies, boasting some animals that were extremely rare. One variety of jackrabbit could be found nowhere else.
Miles had seen video clips of old Earth, and he sensed that the Preserve captured a spirit of what the planet had once been like. Often, when his studies were complete, in those early hours before the colony mirrors rotated into dawn, he would sit quietly in this control room and listen to the world. Sensitive audio pickups captured a wealth of animal sounds. Deer crashed through the underbrush; skunks, groundhogs, and raccoons scurried madly about; birds chirped and predators growled. There were bats and wildcats and a growing family of speckled squirrels, expanding geometrically from the original four that had been purchased from Noche Brazilia three years ago.
Most of the animals were tame but a few of the predators—the wildcats in particular—bore watching. During the day, when as many as ten thousand people were hiking through the Preserve, a half-dozen controllers were on duty here. Many of the creatures had microscopic regulators implanted in their brains, and at Miles’s fingertips lay the power to either summon a particular animal to the control center or to put it temporarily to sleep by inducing a narcoleptic response. Summoning was used for medical checkups or special feedings—it was easier to have the animal come here than to track it down in the forests. Narcoleptic triggers were not touched unless human life was endangered. Most of the bigger and meaner cats had been broken of their attack patterns, but there were still occasional incidents of animals threatening hikers. A controller observing a potentially dangerous situation could knock the predator unconscious with the touch of a button.
From the corner of his eye. Miles spotted another sudden movement on screen nineteen. This time he resolved to find the cause. He grabbed the joystick and panned in a wide-angled 360-degree arc until he had visually located all the animals in that sector: three deer, Hector the albino wildcat, a pair of groundbirds, and one of the Preserve’s two Komodo dragons—a notoriously uncooperative eight-foot hunk of lizard. He energized the sector’s gridmap, located above the monitors, and watched the computer display the ID codes of the eleven animals currently in that area. The grid showed that the four animals not visible on the monitor were behind one of the gentle slopes, out of camera range. And the seven he had seen were too far from the camera to have caused the distraction.
Miles grimaced. There was an explanation. Someone had either gotten over the high fence that ringed the Preserve, or else had managed to remain undetected after visiting hours ended. The latter possibility was unlikely; all visitors were supplied with a pocket-sized tracking sensor that transmitted their location to the master grid system. The badges were returned before they left the Preserve. There had been no “lost” badges today—check-ins had equaled check-outs. That meant there was probably a fence hopper. The sturdy wire-meshed barrier was twelve feet high and safeguarded by sensors that were supposed to alert Miles to breaches, but determined pranksters had gotten in before, undetected.
Most likely they were standing at the base of the tree that housed the camera—its only blind spot. Well, they won’t get away without being seen. Miles adjusted the camera to observe the widest area and then set it rotating at top speed. Eventually the intruder, or intruders, would have to move, and when they did, he would certainly spot them. He was reaching for the key that would put Sector Nineteen’s camera into the record mode when the screen burst with blue light and went dead.
Shitsuckers! The bastards had broken the camera. That called for an altogether different response. Youthful pranksters were one thing, but when they became destructive, he had no choice but to call the police.
He typed his request for assistance into the terminal. The black-and-gold seal of the Intercolonial Guardians flashed on the screen. Although the Preserve was part of Northern California, the Guardians had jurisdiction here, as they did in all wild-animal domains.
A visual message from Guardian Central informed him that a patrol unit was being dispatched and that he could expect assistance within five minutes. Unless the vandals left immediately, Miles felt sure that the Guardians would arrive in time to catch them.
A warning buzzed. Miles almost jumped out of his chair. The worst possible event had just occurred—an animal, somewhere, had just died and its implanted regulator had transmitted its death-pulse to the computer. Miles located the animal an instant later on the gridmap. Hector, the albino wildcat, was dead.
There was no time to react. Miles sat in stunned silence as, one by one, the animals in Sector Nineteen died, registering as bright pulsing numerals on the gridmap. The buzzer howled. The groundbirds perished first, then two of the deer and the Komodo dragon. Except for the animals beyond the hill, the third deer was the only survivor. He spotted it on the camera monitoring the adjacent sector. It was racing to the south.
The deer galloped into a more level area with thick underbrush and skinny trees—the outer perimeter of the central forests. Miles activated the controls on that sector’s camera and aimed it toward the deer’s direction of approach.
The frightened animal jumped over a narrow brook and was knocked sideways in midleap by some invisible force. It tumbled end over end, came down in a patch of thorny rosebushes, dead before it hit the earth.
What is happening?! With shaking hands. Miles panned the camera, searching for whatever was responsible for the killing. The deer looked like it had been hit by the blast of a powerful hand thruster—a police weapon.
Think, Miles, think! Another deer winked out of existence in Sector Seventeen just as the emergency drill came to him. He tore the restraining bracket from a large switch and flipped it on, instantly transmitting a summons signal to the entire population of the Preserve. In a few minutes, it would be animal chaos outside his door, but he had done the right thing. In an emergency of undetermined origin, the animals were to be brought to master control. He triggered the large gridmap to display the entire Preserve, watched nervously as the multicolored blips began to converge on his position.
A faint mechanical roar sounded in the distance, like a highly charged aircar flying by at top speed. He set all thirty-six cameras on remote panscan and searched among the blurs of animals racing by each screen for some sign of what was killing them. The screens in Sectors Eleven and Twelve blanked out simultaneously and something exploded out in the forest. Miles froze. More lights winked out on the status board—many more. The buzzer wailed like a forsaken child. He fumbled for the manual override switch and shut off the horrendous noise.
Destiny of the Trust! Where is that patrol unit? He forced clammy fingers down on the keyboard, jabbed in the code for a priority-one emergency. Three more explosions came in rapid succession, the last one so violent and close that Miles felt the shock wave hitting the building.
Must be calm—must be calm. Whatever was happening, the Guardians would be here in minutes to take care of it.
Something came flying directly at the Sector Six camera. Miles instinctively threw his arms up as a foot lashed out and slammed into the lens. The screen flickered and went dead.
A man on a skystick! The vehicle was little more than a saddled tube with propulsion and lift controls mounted on the handlebars, capable of carrying a single rider through the air at dizzying speeds. He felt abruptly calmer knowing what was causing this madness. No wonder he had be
en unable to spot the intruder. The maniac was riding above the Preserve, dropping or shooting explosive missiles down on the animals.
Another series of detonations sounded—more distant, yet still frightening in their intensity. A glance at the gridmap told Miles that many more animals had perished—hundreds of them. Almighty Earth! This madman is trying to destroy the Preserve!
Ominous quiet descended on the control room. The recorders! He had forgotten them. With a deft terminal command, he activated the transmission recorders for all of the remaining cameras. His action was not a moment too soon. Flying across the horizon in Sector Eight was a bizarre sight.
There were two of them, both saddled on skysticks. Shafts of light whipped out from their hands—dark light, with only the edges of the wavering beams illuminated and with cores that seemed even blacker than the night sky. The twin beams flogged the earth. A trio of terrified wolves was decapitated as the black light slashed through their necks.
If it were not for the skysticks, Miles would have thought the Preserve was being invaded from outer space. The two figures weaved past each other at frightening speeds, performing midair twists and crosses as if they had been born on the little jet scooters. They have to crash! No one could fly in tandem like that, not even skystick acrobatic teams from Pocono.
A bell clanged and Miles jerked away from the screens in panic. The outer door! He keyed the release mechanism and three helmeted Guardians tumbled into the room, their thrusters drawn.
“Officer Salikoff, Station Five,” barked the first man. “What’s your incident?”
Miles pointed breathlessly to the gridmap.
“Speak, boy, we heard the explosions! What the hell is going on out here!”
Words bubbled out. Miles watched the other two Guardians exchange wry grins when he mentioned bombers on skysticks. Salikoff listened gravely, stared at Miles for a long moment, then turned to his men. “Karousis, notify Central, tell them we need full backup out here. And break out the range thrusters.”
One of the men hustled out to the car as Salikoff checked the gridmap. The third Guardian whistled softly. “Damn, I think the kid’s right. There should be a lot more lights on out there. It looks like...”
An explosion shook the building. A new batch of trouble sirens wailed.
“Christ!” yelled Salikoff, pointing through the open door. “Our car’s been hit!”
Both Guardians dashed for the entrance. Salikoff got there first. He halted in the doorway with a sharp grunt. He turned around slowly, with effort. His chest had been skewered from neck to waist—blood was spilling to the floor. He collapsed into his own puddle.
The last officer scampered backward. “Close the fuckin’ door!” he hissed.
Terrified, Miles threw the latch. The portal snapped shut. There was a silence that he hoped would last forever. Salikoff lay face down at the entrance with countless rivulets of blood streaming from his body. Miles had never seen a dead person before—he could not take his eyes off the slain Guardian.
The remaining Guardian knelt beside the terminal and typed in a query for emergency assistance. “Kid, I want you to...”
The door blew inward with a loud crash, falling on the slain officer. The Guardian threw Miles down behind him and fired his thruster wildly into the darkness. A thin shaft of black light seemed to curl lazily around the right corner of the doorframe, spearing into the room.
For a moment, Miles thought nothing had happened. Then the Guardian leaned forward, dropping his gun. There was a sizzling hole in the back of his helmet where the beam had exited his head.
Miles pressed himself to the base of the console. A dark shadow hurtled through the doorway. The figure moved in short jerking strides—a palsied ballerina that would have brought laughter in another time and place. Miles could only shudder.
It was dressed entirely in black—a uniform of beaten leather with face masked by an opaque visor extending from the crown of the helmet. In its left hand was a thruster. The other palm clutched a small object with a tiny protruding needle.
“Recorders on?” the nightmare hissed.
The creature towered over him. Miles bobbed his head, began to cry.
“My. We can’t have that, can we.”
Invisible waves of energy cascaded from the creature’s thruster. The huge gridmap exploded into flying shards. The gun swung down toward Miles. He shielded his head in terror. Pyrotechnics sizzled across the back of his neck as the control console above him was blasted. Hot metal touched his bare arm. He cried out in pain.
Through half-clenched eyes. Miles watched the black demon aim its thruster at him. But it did not fire. The creature stood there and let out a peal of heavy laughter. “My. Such a beautiful night in the neighborhood!”
Quickly, the creature backed out of the room, vanishing into darkness. Miles closed his eyes and wished that the loud screams coming from his own mouth would stop.
O}o{O
At two a.m., the Pasha disturbed Rome’s dreamless sleep to inform him that the Paratwa had struck again. Rome put Haddad on hold, hoping to sneak off to the study so as not to awaken Angela. The effort was unsuccessful. His wife brewed taco tea in the kitchen while Haddad related over the phone the few details known about the tragedy in Northern California.
A dry shower, two snorts of no-grog, and a quick groundcar ride brought him to E-Tech headquarters by two forty-five. He spent the next five hours down in the archives.
Begelman was a study in motion, dashing madly from terminal to terminal, accessing data from as many as twenty historical files at the same time. Pasha Haddad was more subdued, which was to say, he exhibited the same calm energy he did in the daytime. Neither of them looked like they needed sleep, which was more than Rome could claim, despite the no-grog.
By the time Irrya faced sun, the three of them were certain they knew why the Paratwa had attacked the zoo. History texts were quite lucid on the subject of Paratwa “flexing.” The creatures had no choice but to periodically erupt into violence. It seemed the only explanation for the vicious assault.
Councilor Artwhiler, however, shared his own theory as to why the Paratwa had decimated the zoo.
“As children,” Artwhiler claimed, during a short early morning teleconference with Rome, “this assassin was never allowed to have pets. So the monster took out its lifelong frustrations on the helpless animals of the Preserve.” Artwhiler also released an official statement implying that the Paratwa was a coward, since it had not engaged his slain Guardians in fair combat.
Artwhiler provided other frustrations. Not only did the Guardian commander refuse to divulge information to E-Tech about the tragedy, he also refused to accept any data that Rome, Haddad, and Begelman had spent half the night retrieving from the archives.
To make matters worse, the existence of the Paratwa was now public knowledge. A pair of Northern California freelancers came to the zoo and spoke with the terrified young warden before the Guardians organized themselves enough to cordon off the area. By nine o’clock Monday morning, the story was appearing on every channel in every colony. Freelancers were proclaiming it the biggest news item to hit the cylinders since the colony of Metro Germania had been partially destroyed by an explosion sixty-eight years ago.
Stasis capsule MH-785462 arrived at E-Tech headquarters shortly before ten a.m. Rome no longer had the slightest doubt that they were doing the right thing by awakening this sleeper without Artwhiler’s knowledge.
The stasis engineer turned to Rome. “Sir, the capsule’s been brought up to room temperature. We’re ready to begin.”
Rome and Haddad were seated behind the engineer in the main Wake-up facility. Begelman had gone back to data retrieval.
The glass-walled control room overlooked the frigid stasis chamber where the seven-foot-high pale ivory egg lay nestled in a cradle. The ice had melted and had been drained from the room. Preliminary tests had been accomplished with positive results. Although they could locate no archival
history for this particular capsule—a not unusual circumstance—a data brick had been found beneath the ice of the cocoon and successfully accessed.
According to the information found in the brick, the capsule contained a man named Austin Rudolph, who had been an E-Tech financial adviser. He had been put to sleep in 2097, two years before the Apocalypse. The records indicated that he had been sixty years old at the time of his freezing.
“Financial adviser” was one of those skills that the Irryan Revival Committee considered time-decadent. Complete retraining would be necessary for Austin Rudolph to fit into the world of the twenty-fourth century, which meant that he would never be a priority revival. Rome suspected that the information contained in the brick was false, put there to prevent Austin Rudolph, or whoever was frozen down there, from being accidentally awakened.
The engineer manipulated the controls. Spinning blades descended from the ceiling of the chamber, gently touching the skin of the egg. Water jets ignited. Organic tissue shredded and splattered wildly across the room.
The membrane was carefully whittled away until the inner cocoon was reached. Then the engineer withdrew the blades and released dissolvent gas into the chamber. Thick clouds of greenish smoke hid the egg as the powerful gas reacted chemically with the inner membrane. Rome waited impatiently for the engineer to satisfy himself that all his gauges were reading positive. Blowers came on. The chamber was cleared of smoke and gases.
As they stared down at the contents of the inner cradle, Rome was reminded of an old Earth proverb—something about fighting fire with fire.
Austin Rudolph was not a man.
He was two men.
* * *
Gillian awoke, feeling cold. He could not move. He seemed to be adrift, floating within some vast inner sea.
From beyond the imaginary waves came a vision—a hot noonday sun piercing a covering of tall trees, a warm hexagonal room filled with a golden glow.
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