Reemul would have to be told the truth soon, however. The longer he was allowed to rampage, the harder Codrus’s chore would become. Eventually, the Jeek might refuse to obey. The problems inherent in that scenario had to be avoided.
With trickery, Codrus might get a shot at killing Reemul. However, if he failed ...
It was likely that the ultimate plan would still succeed—it was just that Codrus would not be alive on that glorious day. He held no illusions about his chances for survival against a renegade Jeek.
Timing was the critical factor. If Reemul was informed of his fate too soon, his effectiveness might be hindered. And if Codrus waited too long ...
Someone’s coming. A loud knock on the bishop’s sanctuary door broke his concentration.
“Bishop Vokir?” the voice called. “The priests from the Chow Kwi Colony have arrived.”
Codrus answered through the bishop’s mouth. “Please see that they are made comfortable. I will join them in the proctor hall in ten minutes.”
“Yes, your eminence.” The servant’s footsteps trailed off down the corridor.
Codrus dissolved the link, sensed the interlace patterns coagulating back into two distinct entities. As usual, he felt a sadness wash over him—the loss of Codrus and the rise of his tways. Someday, the passage from unity to duality would be a memory. Someday I will be free to exist as a whole.
It was Codrus’s final thought. The passage was completed. The bishop arose from the bed to prepare for the day’s activities: five baptisms in a vat of purified sea water brought up from the Pacific Ocean, the royal-misk wedding of two wealthy lesbians from Pocono, formal talks with the heads of the Church’s Missionary sector. All of that would follow a lengthy meeting with the Chow Kwi priests.
The bishop sighed. The Church asked much of him. In his busiest moments, he felt a profound longing for the unending comfort of unity. Someday.
He could still sense the presence of his tway, of course. The link was never totally broken, just weakened to the point where the two halves could operate independently. The bishop was pleased that his tway also had a full agenda for the day. It was good that they both kept busy lest they dream too much of Codrus.
Actually, the bishop knew that he possessed the lighter responsibilities. His tway, being an Irryan Councilor, was perpetually confronted by greater demands.
O}o{O
On Tuesday morning, nearly twenty-four hours after his awakening, they allowed Gillian to leave the Irryan headquarters building. Pasha Haddad had objected; he did not trust Gillian, did not want him walking without escort through the city. Nick had convinced Rome Franco that Gillian’s immediate acclimation to the Colonies was vital and that a solitary venture would do him immense good. Nick had not forgotten how to stretch the truth.
It was important, of course. Nick could learn about the Colonies from behind a computer terminal, but Gillian needed to walk the streets. There were rhythms, accents—unprogrammable facets of a world, begging to be experienced. He had to allow his senses full rein to—collect raw data, route it through awareness, correlate it. Only then could he get a feel for this world, make unbiased judgments.
Usually.
There were things out here on the Irryan streets that reminded him of Catharine.
He had been warned about vertigo—a common problem for Earth-born revivees confronted with the reality of standing on the inside of a cylinder and not falling down. Or up.
He leaned against the side of the E-Tech headquarters building, stared past twelve stories of antique white brickface, and calmly observed another part of the city six miles above. His first thought was that the structures were upside down and that they should fall on top of him. He explored the feeling, recognized his Earth prejudices, and dealt with them on a base level. This was reality. It was that simple.
If only his feelings for Catharine could be dealt with so easily.
The thoroughfare was four lanes wide and stringed with slow-moving cars. The autos did not look much different from those of Earth—low-slung, four-wheeled, many of them painted with rainbow patterns. All were quieter than terrestrial cars, and many were convertibles. There was no rain scheduled for today, he had learned.
The sidewalks were wide and clean and jammed with people. There was a quality about the movement of the pedestrians that seemed foreign at first, until he recognized the distinctions. There was no street hustle here, no urban crush of humanity ramming itself along the boulevards like in the Earth cities. The Irryan pedestrians seemed polite to one another—conversations developed as people waited at street corners, pausing for the traffic monitors to alter flows. Smiles, everywhere there were smiles, and few of them looked false. People seemed genuinely contented. Even the few police officers he spotted seemed unconcerned, stopping to talk with strangers along the sidewalks.
Nick had explained that many of the Colonies seemed to be this way. Still, it was hard to accept these happy crowds until you saw them for yourself.
A Paratwa assassin in such a world would be a wolf among sheep.
Even the three E-Tech Security people who were following Gillian seemed much too placid for such a chore. He hoped that the men and the woman did not represent Haddad’s best. They had been ridiculously easy to spot.
He debated losing them, more as an exercise in antishadowing than for any intrinsic reason. It would give him something to do. But he recognized that such an action would make Haddad even more suspicious than he was now. Perhaps next time the Security chief would resort to more sophisticated methods.
Gillian halted in front of a store window and gazed at his smiling image reflected in the dark glass. I’m not thinking. It was suddenly obvious that Haddad must indeed be using other tracking tools. The three tails were a diversion, designed to be spotted by Gillian so that he might overlook the real trackers.
It had to be electronic surveillance. Since E-Tech had kept a tight rein over such technology for the past two centuries, Haddad was most likely utilizing one of the old methods.
Where had the locating transmitters been planted? His clothes? E-Tech had given him a full wardrobe, but it was unlikely that they would have bugged every article. Besides, in lieu of opening modem-accessible accounts through the ICN—an unwise move because of their uncertain status—E-Tech had supplied both him and Nick with generous wads of cash cards. There was nothing to prevent Gillian from stepping into an outfitter shop and purchasing new clothing.
Subcutaneous bugs? Probably. It would have been fairly easy to implant microtransmitters beneath his skin during the stasis-revival process. Haddad appeared shrewd enough to have done such a thing.
Well, no matter. When the time came, he would dispose of the tracking bugs. For now, it was best to allow Haddad to believe he had the upper hand.
Gillian wandered aimlessly for several hours, absorbing and correlating the rhythms and anatomy of the city. Irrya was immense. Its structures represented architectures from a mélange of Earth societies spanning human history. Buildings echoed their styles as he passed them by.
A sleek granite skyscraper proudly exclaimed: united states of america. Two wood-veneered pagodas, designed to look as if they had authentic thatched bamboo roofs, politely announced themselves as early Japanese. A bank projected the warm exterior of a Swiss chalet. Soaring apartment buildings, with creeper vines entwined through quaint railed balconies, reminded him of Rio’s old section.
A block-long chunk of sculpted marble predated them all. Its rounded columns supported a stone esplanade that was straight out of the Roman Empire. “ICN” was carved in the polished stone above the pillars.
Nick had explained to Gillian about the Intercolonial Credit Net. It was a direct outgrowth of the banking consortiums that had dominated Earth’s twilight years. The ICN wielded financial power throughout the Colonies on a scale that the monster corporations of the twenty-first century would have envied.
Gillian made a huge circle and was heading back toward E-Tech wh
en he came to a weird building along the main thoroughfare.
Huge blue-green block letters spelled out church of the trust at an angle across the front facade. The building appeared to be an elegant throwback to early twentieth-century architecture. Parallel speedlines swept across curved arches and rectilinear shapes accented the cream-colored walls. Art Deco had been a rarity even in Gillian’s time. The designers of this structure certainly recognized the value of distinction.
There was something else strange about the Church. He hesitated across the street from it, puzzled until the memory surfaced. Art Deco. Catharine had once taken him to an old building in New York with the same architectural style. They had gone there for lunch one afternoon. No, it had not been lunch, it had been a show of some sort—a play with real actors. They had sat near the back of the old theater and had watched, had watched ...
He could not remember. It was strange, sometimes, trying to recall those few precious years with her. Events jumbled together, defied the logical discipline of his mind. There was, of course, an explanation for his forgetfulness. During that short time they had been together, thinking had not been a priority. The pleasures of the relationship had been too intense. A whole other level of his being had been involved.
He looked up at the sky, saw huge buildings hanging far above, about to fall on him. Reeling in panic, he clutched the side of the nearest structure for support. His head spun. His hands and feet shook with a sudden chill. His guts ached.
Stupid! I should know by now! I should know not to think of her!
The worst of the vertigo passed. Several people stopped to help, breathing their concerns. He forced a smile, pushed away from them.
“I’m all right. Just a little dizzy.”
They let him go. He marched quickly down the street, away from the Church. He had experienced enough for one day. His only desire now was to get back inside the E-Tech building as quickly as possible.
* * *
Nick had asked Pasha Haddad for the toughest and meanest volunteers that could be found. Gillian sat on a stool in the corner of the private gym that Haddad had arranged for them to use, observing the volunteers trudging in through the far door. The men and women traded asides with one another and laughed and gave each other hearty smacks on the back. Their mood was good. Gillian did not hide his disappointment.
“Is this the best we can do?”
Nick shrugged and kept studying his portable computer terminal. “Remember, this is a peaceful society. Their idea of intense excitement is to go out and watch a thunderstorm.”
Gillian laughed. He felt good this evening and was looking forward to training a new team. Catharine and today’s sickness were distant memories.
“How many has Haddad given us?”
Nick stared up at the approaching crowd. “Twenty or so in this first bunch, and he’s promised another thirty by the end of the week.”
“Do you have preliminary reports on them?”
Nick grinned. “Of course. I know their life stories, including when they first burped and when they last fucked. I’ll say one thing for Haddad, he’s thorough.”
Not thorough enough, Gillian feared. There were now a total of three witnesses to the Paratwa killings. One of them, the young warden who had survived the carnage at the zoo, was being held in secret custody by the Guardians. The other two had been released by Haddad, had managed to outwit E-Tech’s tail, and were now officially listed as missing.
Gillian would have liked nothing better than to talk to those people, especially the mother and son, who had actually conversed with the assassin. He could have asked subtle questions, things that neither Haddad nor the Guardians would have considered important. A wealth of information about the Paratwa was most likely contained in those minds. And he could not get at it.
Nick stood up and ordered the approaching volunteers to form a half circle. One of the men made an audible remark about Nick’s size. Several of the group laughed. Gillian moved onto the mats and stood before them.
“You have all been chosen to try out for a new E-Tech special-forces group. We’ve prepared a rather harsh little test for you. And if you pass, the training will get worse.”
Gillian studied their faces, saw doubts on at least half of them. No one spoke, however. Their machismo was at stake.
“Any questions?” Nick asked.
A black woman stepped forward. “What’s the purpose of this special-forces group?”
Nick planted hands on hips. “To subdue threats in restrictive combat situations.”
“Does this have something to do with the Paratwa assassin?” someone asked.
“No comment,” said Nick.
Gillian allowed a condescending smile to creep over his face. “I’ve been told that most of you are unsuitable for E-Tech’s main forces and that all of you possess substandard intelligence. Now these are just the qualities we’re looking for—men and women such as yourselves will serve as excellent shock troops in special combat situations. None of you should be ashamed of your stupidity—my assistant and I are prepared to make reasonable concessions during your training period. We will respond at your own level of understanding whenever and wherever possible. Do you understand?”
There was nervous laughter and a few looks of outrage. Gillian targeted one of the angry ones—a big man with a face that looked like it had been formed by hammer and anvil. Gillian moved to within a yard of the man.
“Are you married?”
The man favored his friends with a grin. “Yeah.”
Gillian shook his head. “Nick, what do our records show about this man’s wife?”
Nick pretended to study his terminal. “When he’s not around, she goes out whoring.”
“Is she a good whore?” Gillian asked calmly.
The man glowered. “You’d better watch what you say.”
“Why? There’s no shame in being a whore, provided she’s a good one.” He smiled and reached out his hand to playfully tickle the man’s chin. “Of course, if you’re keeping something from us ... Maybe she’s not such a good whore, after all?”
Nick’s four-foot-four frame shook with laughter. “I think you’re right. It says here that she’s even done it with animals ... dogs, mostly.”
The big man’s face turned red and ugly. “I didn’t come here for this crap!”
“Probably not,” Gillian replied. “You’re probably here because you can’t satisfy your wife at home and you’re trying to make up for your failure by showing how tough you really are. Actually, deep down inside, I’ll bet you got married just so that you could impress your friends.”
Nick laughed. “And the real bitch is, they’re probably not even impressed!”
The man took a menacing step toward Gillian. “What is this shit—one of Haddad’s reaction tests or somethin’?”
Gillian ignored him and turned to one of the other volunteers, a smaller man with sandy hair. “What’s this one called, Nick?”
“Let’s see...” Nick referred to his hand terminal. “That there is Roger Kensington.”
Gillian moved closer, stuck his left foot behind the man’s ankle, and pushed him. For a second, Roger Kensington’s arms flailed the air. Then he tripped backward and slammed onto the mat.
Without hesitation, Gillian threw a punch to the guts of the next volunteer in line. The man doubled over in agony. Gillian brought his foot up and slammed it into the chest of a burly woman. She grunted and crashed against the man next to her. Both of them sprawled to the floor.
The big man cursed and came up behind Gillian.
“Hey! You care to try that shit on me!”
Gillian whirled. His outstretched foot caught the giant in the side of the face. The man dropped, out cold before he crashed to the mat.
“Anyone else?” Gillian asked pleasantly. No one moved. “How about all of you at the same time?” he goaded.
There were no takers. Nick hid his disappointment by clearing his throat. “Well, pe
ople, I’d like to thank you all for coming down here tonight. We’re still doing preliminary testing and we have a lot more work to do before our team is assembled. I hope that you all get over your aches and bruises and realize that this was indeed a test of your reactions. You all did quite well. Thanks again for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.”
The volunteers milled about for several moments. Confused mutterings filled the gym.
Nick rubbed his hands together and smiled politely. He sounded like a tired party host trying to clear the guests from his home. “Thanks again, gang. It was good of you to take time out of your busy schedules to come down here tonight. Really. We appreciate it.”
A couple of the men picked up the unconscious giant. Several of the others helped the battered victims to their feet. Angry faces glared at Gillian as they exited. In a minute, the gym was empty.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Nick muttered. “Not a one! Too bad. Several of them looked pretty good on paper.”
Gillian felt energized from the exertion. He jogged in position to drain himself. “Too many inhibitions. It would take months to retrain them.”
Nick wagged his finger, looked thoughtful. “Yeah, but maybe they’re the best we’re gonna get. You’re not gonna find anything like the old Earth Patrol Forces in these colonies. These people haven’t had a war for two hundred years. They’re not prepared.”
“Are you saying we should lower our standards?” He accelerated the pace of his jogging.
“Oh, hell, I don’t know. It just might come down to that.”
Gillian shook his head. “Are you sure Haddad understands what type of people we need?”
Nick scratched his chin. “He understands as well as he’s going to understand. It’s just that the kind of people we’re looking for probably don’t exist, at least not within E-Tech.”
“Then what about outside the organization? What about these pirates you’ve been telling me about?” Such people could be difficult to recruit, but they could prove more suitable.
Liege-Killer Page 14
