A muscle in his leg quivered violently and the dreamy image was replaced by pain.
Pain.
Awareness blossomed. Shreds of memory intertwined. Cortical and limbic systems relinked after years of dormancy. Left and right hemispheres fought a phylogenetic battle for preeminence. An immeasurable moment passed and then catharsis swept through him, igniting nerves and muscles throughout his naked body. He arched backward and moaned with the agony of stasis restoration.
O}o{O
“Howdy,” said the midget.
The room was barely furnished; four chairs and a table, two cots, a data console, and the medical cart that stood between the two revivees. Both men had intravenous feeding tubes stuck into their arms. The needles were merely a precaution. A med team had pronounced the midget and his full-sized companion in excellent condition, untroubled by any of the side effects occasionally encountered by Wake-ups.
Rome and the Pasha took seats on the other side of the table. Although there was no one else in the little room, microcams were observing. The Pasha was taking no chances; an armed combat team waited on the other side of the door. One of the most disturbing facets of the binary interlink phenomenon was the inability of medical science to effectively distinguish one of the creatures from two normal humans. Short of an autopsy, there was no way for Rome to know for certain whether he was sitting across the table from a Paratwa.
Stasis revivees were always naked, and no clothes or artifacts had been found in this pair’s capsule. The med team had dressed them in standard loose white coveralls.
The midget turned up the collar of his garment and chewed on the fabric. He winked at the Pasha, and when that brought no response, he turned to his dark-haired companion. Tiny shoulders gave a shrug. His face filled with another smile.
“Howdy,” the midget said again.
Rome did not recognize the word. The tone of voice suggested that it was a greeting. He offered: “I’m Rome Franco and this is Pasha Haddad.”
The standards procedure with Wake-ups was to allow them to take the initiative—say as little as possible and let them explore their new environment. Rome’s first impression of these two was that revivee shock would not be a problem.
The midget ran a hand through his slick blond hair and beamed.
His face was dominated by thick lips and a wide mouth. Bright blue eyes seemed to shine with some inner pleasure.
“I’m Nick. My big friend here is named Gillian.”
“Do you have last names?” asked the Pasha.
The midget grinned. “How about Smith and Jones?”
The Pasha raised his eyebrows.
Nick held up a tiny hand. “Hey—only joking! But we really don’t have last names. We gave ’em up years ago. Can’t even remember mine.”
Rome stared across the table, tried to guess their ages. The midget was at least in his mid-forties, probably older. Gillian was younger, but Rome could not have said how much. He had one of those timeless faces, mature, yet boyish. He might be in his late twenties. He would probably look the same when he turned fifty.
Gillian stared across the table, registered the strangers. The one called Rome Franco hid behind a friendly smile. The other man—Pasha Haddad—had a face that understood violence.
“What year is this?” asked Nick.
“2307,” replied Rome.
“Holy shit!” the midget exclaimed. “That was some sleep, huh, Gillian!”
The bigger man did not react. Rome studied his composed features, met sharp gray eyes. Angela would have considered him good-looking. Dark brown hair was cropped short on the sides but long in the back. He was six foot tall, a touch on the slender side, and well muscled.
Nick rubbed his hands together. “I suppose this ain’t Earth?”
That was the question that usually separated the quick adapters from the revivees who were prone to cultural shock. Rome had no qualms about giving this pair the unsweetened truth.
“Earth is uninhabitable. You’re in Irrya, capital of the orbiting colonies.” Rome spoke uninterrupted for a good five minutes, providing them with a brief history of humanity since the time of the Apocalypse.
When Rome finished, the midget sighed. “It doesn’t surprise me. Earth was going down the tubes for a hell of a long time before that.”
The Pasha spoke. “Do either of you know of an Austin Rudolph? His name was on your capsule.”
The midget shrugged. “Never heard of him. Sounds like a bookkeeping mistake.”
Bookkeeping, Rome thought. What an odd word. “When were you born, Nick?”
“1977.” The midget held up his hand, countered Rome’s surprise. “I was one of the first people to go into stasis—in 2010. They revived me in 2086. Biggest goddamn mistake I ever made. Thought that things were totally crazy in 2010, but I didn’t know what crazy was. 2086 was crazy.”
“I’ve never heard of two people sharing a capsule,” the Pasha commented.
Nick threw up his arms in mock exasperation. “Yeah, a hell of a thing. We went under in 2097—both of us were tired of the nutty world. They were a little short on capsules that year and since I was so small ... well, it made sense to share a bed.” He beamed.
“Who put you into stasis?” Rome asked. He felt the midget was lying, or telling half-truths.
“E-Tech,” said Nick. “We both did a little work for them now and then.”
“What kind of work?” asked Haddad.
“Oh, different kinds of things.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“No.” Nick amended himself hastily. “I mean, I’m a little worried about this situation. You gotta look at things from our point of view. It’s very strange being awakened and stuck into a little room and asked questions by strange people. Maybe you guys ain’t human. Maybe the Earth’s still inhabited and you guys are from another galaxy and you’re trying to suck information from us so that you can invade the planet. Maybe you’re from Los Angeles.”
Rome smiled. “I believe I understand your position. But you must understand ours.” He paused. “Perhaps you are not two men at all. Perhaps you are only one.”
Gillian studied their reactions. The man Franco exhibited just the barest hint of fear as he spoke. His companion, Haddad, came erect in the chair, prepared for action.
Nick chuckled. “Well, I know I’m not a Paratwa. And neither is Gillian. Now what about yourselves? Maybe we’ve been awakened into a galaxy full of Paratwa and you’re trying to trick us!”
There was something strangely trustworthy about Nick. Rome decided to drop all pretense.
“I’m the director of E-Tech. Pasha Haddad is the head of our Security section. We have a Paratwa assassin on the loose and our history archives suggested reviving you.”
“Well, well!” chortled the midget. “That sounds a bit more like it—a job that’s right up our alley. What do you say, Gillian?”
Gillian said nothing.
Nick continued. “Our fee is pretty high for such work. We’ll expect to be paid at the rate of a 9-7 specialist of 2097. Naturally, all inflation and prime-rate adjustments will be adhered to. And our contract should include a danger clause based on the breed of assassin we’re up against. Also, there should be a bonus option based on solving your problem ahead of an agreed-upon schedule.”
“Anything else?” Rome asked dryly.
“Well, I do like women ... but we can work that out later.” Nick grinned.
“Perhaps,” the Pasha began, “we could simply put you back in stasis and consider this revival a mistake.”
Nick shrugged. “I might decide we’re not interested in your troubles and demand that you put us to sleep again.”
Haddad warned, “You’re not in a position to demand anything.”
“True enough. But then you obviously don’t know what the hell to do about this Paratwa of yours. Must be pretty bad, huh?”
Rome explained the situation. When he finished, Nick stroked his chin, looked th
oughtful.
“A Termi, huh?”
“Pardon?” said Rome.
“A Termi—an assassin from Terminus labs,” the midget explained. “That’s what we used to call ’em. What do you think, Gillian? Think we can help these people out of their troubles?”
An emotion touched Gillian, a vague pleasure as he recalled the rhythms of earlier hunts.
“I think we can do it,” the midget concluded after Gillian failed to respond.
“What exactly is it that you will do?” asked Rome softly. He was beginning to think that the man Gillian was not even paying attention. The gray eyes seemed distant. Of course, it was still possible that these two were indeed a Paratwa.
Nick drawled, “Well, shucks, guys! We’ll find this here Termi and challenge him to a gunfight in the center of town. Draw, buster! Let’s see how fast you really are!”
The Pasha raised an eyebrow. “You will kill this creature ... for money.”
“You catch on quick,” Nick said cheerily.
“What makes you so sure you can do such a thing?” Rome asked.
“’cause we’ve done it before. We’ll need your cooperation, of course. A team will have to be assembled. We’ll need access to tactical computers and we’ll need a place to train. It goes without saying that we’ll need the best weapons you’ve got.”
“Does that include your Cohe wands?” the Pasha inquired.
Nick grinned. “Say, you’re a suspicious one, aren’t you? Now, I’m going to say this one more time—I’m Nick and this is Gillian. Two of us. Count again to make sure. One ... two. Separate, but equal. Now Gillian, he’s a little slow right now, but he’ll come around. As to your question ... I haven’t the faintest idea how to use a Cohe wand—I’d probably squeeze the damn egg and cut my dick off. Gillian, though ... he knows how to use a wand. He’ll need one.”
“They’re totally outlawed,” said Haddad.
“I guess you’ll have to make an exception.”
Rome nodded slowly. He had not really known what to expect when they had learned about this capsule, but in the back of his mind had been a suspicion. Although the archives contained no clear data on the subject, there were tales that had been passed down over the years—stories of secret teams that had been trained by E-Tech to hunt and kill Paratwa.
“There are some special conditions,” Rome explained. He told them about Artwhiler’s official responsibility for the investigation and about the relative peace of the Colonies compared to the Earth they had known. His own doubts surfaced even as he spoke.
I feel like some ancient “believer,” considering a pact with the devil. Maybe we’re overreacting to this whole situation. After all, there is just one assassin roaming the cylinders. Despite its abilities, it is a flesh-and-blood creation. It can be killed ... or maybe even captured. Perhaps Artwhiler and the Council are correct in their assessment of the situation, and E-Tech is in a state of needless panic.
Nick shattered his doubts. “You’re going to have to be prepared for a lot more killing. On the average, it took us about a month to complete a search-and-destroy mission. And that was under more ideal conditions—we didn’t have to train a team and there was a full support network already in place. Even a Termi can kill an awful lot of people in a month.
“As for secrecy, that’s fine with us. Underground operations usually work best.”
Rome looked at Haddad, saw displeasure on the lean face. His own doubts gnawed at him. These men are contract killers—and I am considering hiring them. A day ago, he would have found such actions preposterous—and deplorable. But now ... He shook his head. Is this how it starts? Violence against violence and to hell with the rules of civilization? Is it truly this easy to descend into pre-Apocalyptic actions?
Does consistency have a source?
Gillian observed the doubt on Rome’s face. He understood. His voice, unused for centuries, sounded strange to his own ears.
“The human who does not fear is the human who has lost his boundaries.”
Rome frowned, stared into Gillian’s sharp gray eyes. He had misjudged the man, equated his failure to speak with brutishness. Intelligence lay poised beneath the silence.
Nick grinned, patted Gillian affectionately on the shoulder. “Now that we’re all here, how about some food. I’ve got two hundred and ten years of eating to catch up on!”
O}o{O
“Jerem, wake up.”
Paula shook the small cot. Her son groaned and opened one eye. “What time is it?” he whined.
“It’s almost eleven. We’ve slept most of the morning away.” There was no denying that they had both needed the rest.
“I wanna sleep some more.” He turned over on his stomach and covered his head with a pillow. She reached over and gave him a light smack on the rear.
“C’mon, we can’t lie here forever.”
“What about school?”
“You’re taking a few days off.”
“That’s gonna mess up my science schedule,” he groaned, “and this is the week that my gym class gets to go freefalling!”
“Sorry.” Paula recognized his mood, knew that he was eager for an argument. She was not. “You’ve got five minutes. I’ll be out in the front shop with Moat.”
“Yeah, all right,” he moaned from beneath the pillow.
The trader shop owned by Moat Piloski was on the outskirts of New Armstrong, in one of the more decrepit sections of the city. Moat feigned poverty, though Paula had seen pictures of his three homes, including the small chalet tucked under a Pocono speed slope. It was probably true that Moat earned very little money from the shop itself, at least in over-the-counter sales. His small back rooms, one of which she and Jerem had slept in, were reserved for, as Moat put it, “the more elegant transactions.” Moat was one of Lamalan’s primary funnels to the Intercolonial black market.
Paula had sent some good referrals to him over the years. He had always made it plain that she could call on him if she needed a favor. After yesterday’s escape from the terminal, she and Jerem had come straight here. Moat had taken them in, offering them sanctuary for as long as they wished.
Paula entered the shop, squinted at the morning sun pouring through the skylights. The front wall, facing the street, had no windows; only a tiny peephole at the top of the heavy wooden door permitted a view of the boulevard.
Moat was standing behind a glass counter, bartering with an old woman. The lady wanted to sell Moat an oscillation cooker and she wanted sixty-five bytes for it. Moat told the woman, in his loud, growling voice, that the price was outrageous. She muttered a religious curse and angrily suggested that Moat had evacuated his brains into a toilet.
It took a few more minutes of nasty haggling before the woman came down to fifty-five bytes. Moat raised his offer to forty. Glaring at each other, they settled on forty-five. The woman counted the cash cards twice, gave Moat the finger, and shuffled out the door. Moat picked up the aluminum oscillation cooker and tossed it onto a junk pile in the corner.
Moat enjoyed overdressing. Today he wore blue silk trousers and a banana-stripe shirt. Tufts of gray hair fell almost to his shaggy eyebrows. The gray beard was longer on the left side than it was on the right. He had the waist of a hippopotamus and the ankles of a gazelle.
His thick lips twisted into a grin as he spotted Paula. “I love that old woman. Reminds me of my dear departed wife, the Trust bless her poor spirit. A bitch from the heart.”
“We really appreciate you letting us stay.”
“Hey, forget it. You and the splinter can have the back room for as long as you like.” His eyes twinkled. He rubbed his belly. “And if you ever want more space, you can sneak over into my bedroom any time!”
Paula had a good comeback for that one, but she restrained herself as Jerem shuffled in from the back. “As I recall, Moat, the last time I was here there was a young lady—and I stress the word young—flitting about these rooms.”
Moat laughed, then snapped h
is fingers. “Bodies of the Trust! I’m forgetting—you’ve been asleep for half a day. You haven’t heard the news!”
“What news?”
“That Paratwa friend of yours dropped in on a zoo over in Northern Cal last night. The shitsucker wiped out half the animals and then killed three Guardies who tried to stop it.”
Moat filled in the details. Goose bumps raced up Paula’s spine as she recalled Smiler and Sad-eyes, standing so casually in front of her home.
Jerem frowned, then brightened. “Does that mean we can go home?”
Moat chuckled. “I expect it won’t be long, kid. This Northern Cal mess has Arty’s Guardies in an uproar. You know the Guardians. There’s about a million of ’em and they’re all gonna be pissed that this Paratwa dared to strike down three of ’em. They’ll be shootin’ all over space till they find the bastard.”
“I hope they kill it,” said Jerem.
“From what I hear, that’s about the only way you stop one of these bastards. Paratwa ain’t exactly known for surrendering.”
Jerem hopped up onto the counter. “How long do ya think it’ll take for the Guardians to kill it?”
Moat rubbed his beard. “I shouldn’t think it would take too long. Hell, kid, you’ll probably be back in school by next week.”
Paula regarded them gravely. She did not want the trader giving Jerem false hopes. Moat had not seen the creature, had not experienced the fear. There was something horribly shrewd about Smiler and Sad-eyes, as if they were so smart that the possibility of losing had never entered their minds.
Mind, she corrected herself. Smiler and Sad-eyes was singular. It was difficult not to think of them as a pair.
A buzzer sounded. The front door slid open. Two men entered the shop. Jerem’s mouth dropped. Moat eased himself back behind the counter and laid a hand on the hidden shelf where he kept his thruster.
They were big men, garbed in coarse dark fabrics. Their shirts were ragged, their pants stained and dirty. Odorant bags hung from short chains fastened to their belts. The putrid smell of dead fish filled Moat’s store.
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