Liege-Killer

by Christopher Hinz

  The Lion smiled. He picked up an olive pencil and began to darken some of the pines.

  “I dreamed this picture, two nights ago. In the dream, I floated down to the field, became one of these children. I was happy.

  “When I awoke, I sought to hang onto the dream. The stir of feelings was primal, a hint of an essence that had once been my soul. A time in my life before time carried meaning. I longed to return.

  “Alas, there is no going back. The dream pruned as we faced sun; the longing hardened, became an abstract model to be studied, examined by the conscious mind. An imitation of reality.”

  Pale green eyes locked onto hers. “This drawing—it is an attempt to recapture the glory of those feelings. The colors, the shapes—they come close, but not close enough. Something will always be missing.” His eyes wandered, held on her breasts for a timeless moment. “You are a beautiful woman.”

  Paula crossed her arms. She felt somehow betrayed, lulled by his words into a false sense of security. Anger returned. “What do you want with us?”

  “Do you ever have such dreams?” he challenged. “Feel such feelings?”

  “Yes ... not that it’s any of your damn business!”

  “My eyes, they scare you?”

  She kept her voice low, tried to contain her anger. “Your people kidnap us, treat us like slaves, threaten us. Yes, you scare me.”

  He smiled. “Grace and Aaron. Did they fill you with stories about me? The Lion of Alexander, who devours his foes, who is not to be trifled with? Did they warn you about the price of resisting me?”

  Paula felt a sudden chill. “With my son beside me, you have the upper hand.”

  “Why is that?”

  Again repressed fury. “You know perfectly well.”

  He chuckled. “You believe I would hurt your son?”

  “I believe a pirate would do ... anything. You people, you’re all ... the same.”

  His smile disappeared, was replaced by a look of concern. “The same? The same as your son’s father?”

  “Shut up about my father!” Jerem snapped.

  Paula turned to him. “Jerem! Please.” She felt hurt, confused. “Whatever you want of us I will do it. If you want me ... you can have me. But you must promise not to harm Jerem.”

  The Lion shook his head. “Neither of you will be harmed. You were brought here for questioning—that is all. As for having you, I meant what I said—you are a beautiful woman. But my wife of nearly sixty years satisfies me in ways you could never hope to.” He smiled gently. “She brings on my dreams.”

  “What are your questions?” Paula asked. She felt like lying down and simply crying. An array of emotions, swirling through her over the past few days, needed to be focused.

  He seemed to understand. “Please believe me when I say you’re both safe here. Such is my wish and the desire of our ruling tribunal. Grace and Aaron ... they are young, angry like many of our people at the great injustices done to us. But they are good people, who know the difference between right and wrong. And they will obey the will of the clan.”

  Paula sensed the truth in his voice.

  He laid his hands on hers. “I am the Lion of the clan of Alexander, but my real name...” he grinned brightly, “ ... the one my wife uses, is Harry.”

  Paula smiled before she could think not to.

  “I want you to understand clearly my motives. The questions I wish to ask you—they are very important to the clan. I had to know for certain whether your answers would be truthful.”

  Paula eyed him warily. “And now you will know?”

  Harry smiled. “I did not become the Lion of Alexander by accident. You have revealed your feelings, your own truth. When stirred, you glow with honesty.”

  “She’s not honest,” Jerem muttered.

  “Ahh, but she is. That is not to say she never tells lies. But her reasons for being untruthful are mostly noble and arise from the heart. She seeks to spare you pain. And mixed with that desire is a human frailty—she seeks to lessen her own pain by denying a lost love. Do you understand?”

  Jerem responded viciously. “No!”

  Paula gazed into Harry’s eyes, transfixed. The old man’s perceptions were undeniably accurate.

  He squeezed her hands. “I am sorry it has been so painful.”

  Paula looked at Jerem. He turned away. “We’ll get over it,” she whispered.

  “Do not blame your trader friend, either. Moat Piloski is a weak man. His fear of us made him divulge your secrets.”

  She nodded.

  Harry eyed her for a long moment. Then, with the care of the aged, he stood up and slowly walked over to his antique desk.

  He could be a hundred years old, Paula thought. She fought back a crazy desire to help him, give his frail body her own flesh to lean upon. Such help would be considered an insult.

  And she recognized that her desire to help him had little to do with his age. He has inspired me. It was no wonder that such a man ruled a colony of Costeaus.

  Harry picked up another drawing pad from the desk. “The clan knows my fondness for the art of picture sketching. Quite often, I receive messages in the form of a drawing. There are many artists among us.

  “A sketch of a scene can often reveal more than video images. The digitized picture throbs with accuracy, but it is cold and dead, lacking the interface of human perception. Video requires the observer to overlay his own feelings onto the scene without the benefit of his full sensory range. I can see the details of the digitized picture, but I cannot hear the background, nor smell the air, nor taste the essence of the place.”

  Sadly, he looked down at the sketch in his hands. “The drawing, however, reveals these things. I see and taste and feel through the emotions of another human. I understand the reality of the sketched scene.”

  He laid the drawing pad on Paula’s lap. “This picture was brought to me several days ago.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. Her first thought was to prevent her son from seeing this image of madness. She was too late. A deep frown twisted Jerem’s features as he peered over her shoulder.

  Reds and yellows dominated the picture, acting as fierce little cursors for the array of human dismemberments. Point of view was from an open airlock—a distorted fisheye peek into a bright chamber overwhelmed by violence. Legs, hands, other unrecognizable pieces of human anatomy lay everywhere. Two bloody decapitated heads stared at each other from opposite sides of the room. A half-naked woman lay on her back on the floor, her arms and legs tightly bound with acceleration straps. The fingers of her right hand had been cut off and stuffed into her mouth.

  Harry sat down carefully. His calm voice helped Paula tear her eyes away from the drawing.

  “The location of this place is unimportant. Suffice it to say that it is one of our hidden facilities, where stasis-frozen humans are brought for revival.

  “Last week, what was thought to be a pair of revivees were awakened at this facility. Terrible weapons—Cohe wands—must have been somehow hidden within the flesh of these creatures. The crew of the shuttle craft, who brought the capsules up from the surface, and the stasis technicians at the facility were all tortured and murdered. This Paratwa”—he practically spat the word—“this beast tortured and killed eleven of our clan.”

  “And Bob Max,” Paula whispered.

  Harry nodded and carefully withdrew the picture from her hands. He stared at it for a long moment before placing the pad back on his desk.

  “Always there is a great anger among my people. It is contained, usually, or directed at outsiders. But the anger lurks in the heart of every true Costeau. What was done to our eleven friends has focused that anger, molded it into a force to be reckoned with. I and the tribunal have done our best to temper that rage, but we cannot contain it, nor would we want to. The clan of Alexander must avenge itself.”

  Paula shivered. “E-Tech and the Guardians...”

  Harry’s face hardened. “They do not matter to us. They
will do what they must and we will do what we must. It is a clan affair.”

  She regained her composure. “You’ve brought us a long way for nothing. My son and I witnessed Bob Max’s murder, nothing more.”

  A gentle frown fell over Harry’s face. “Nothing more? You have seen, and by all accounts, spoken with this monster. The evil must be described to our people so that they may know their enemy.”

  It will do no good, she thought. A chill returned as the image of Smiler and Sad-eyes, standing in front of her porch, flashed into awareness. At least you know what you’re dealing with. This Paratwa is evil. She doubted whether E-Tech or the Guardians would ever understand that.

  Harry continued. “You are welcome to stay here in our colony until the deed is done—the creature destroyed. I would advise that you remain, although, if you wish, transport to another colony will be provided.”

  Until the deed is done. They could be here forever.

  “My people tell me that both the Guardians and E-Tech are most anxious to talk with you and your son. An Intercolonial search has been announced. A Costeau in such a situation would hide in the deepest hole he could find.”

  She looked at Jerem. He stoically avoided her gaze.

  “For the time being we’ll stay here.”

  Harry smiled. “Good. We will make you as comfortable as possible. I’m sure your son will find much to excite him.”

  Jerem glared at the old man. “Pa, uk-fo si-lo ees-la cro-neer.”

  The words sounded vicious, obscene. Paula pointed her finger at him, a warning. He glared at her but remained silent.

  Harry looked amused. “I do not recognize the tongue, yet I suspect that I’ve been insulted. No matter. The young, too, must be allowed to speak their minds.” He kept staring at Jerem while addressing Paula. “I will send for refreshments and then we will go before the tribunal and a gathering of the clan leaders. You will tell them your story.”

  Abruptly, a vision of Jerem’s father came to Paula—a bearded caricature, smiling; a relic of better days.

  I will tell them my story.

  The thought made her feel incredibly lonely.

  O}o{O

  Gillian and Nick sat in the back of a plush Irryan restaurant, discussing their course of action. Haddad’s watchdogs, nibbling on bologna three tables away, remained just out of eavesdropping range. Nick had worn an antibugging device just the same. Haddad was clever—the subcutaneous transmitters proved that.

  Nick ordered lobster steak. The waitress assured them that it was fresh, caught just that morning on the sea colony of Aegean and shipped to Irrya via express shuttle. Nick, propped on a pair of cushions, asked the waitress to deliver three portions to the watchdogs’ table, compliments of E-Tech.

  The watchdogs pretended to be nonplussed, but it was obvious they were distraught. Their cover was blown. They ate in silence.

  Gillian and Nick kept their faces turned toward the wall to prevent lipreading.

  “I suggest Sirak-Brath,” began Nick. “The place is bursting with pirates, smugglers, hardcore traders. And they’re all rather fond of money.”

  “How much of it do we have?”

  The midget grinned happily. “I’ve tapped into one of Haddad’s special security accounts. Hard as hell to trace. We’re probably drawing money from the same fund that pays for our little friends over there.” He nodded his head toward the watchdogs’ table.

  “How soon till you’re caught?”

  “I’d be willing to say we can get away with it for at least a couple of months. And tomorrow I’m going to open a half-dozen new accounts for you, using fictitious names, of course. You’ll be able to draw cash in most any colony.”

  “These pirates and smugglers—what else do you think they’ll respond to?” Gillian did not like the idea of trying to buy their help.

  “Well, I doubt whether you’ll be able to inspire them through the nobility of your cause. The Costeaus especially are real hard-asses.”

  There were ways to inspire hard-asses.

  “How will we remain in contact?”

  Nick chewed happily on his lobster. “I’ll be able to monitor your cash withdrawals. I’ve worked out a code. If you want to contact me, make a cash withdrawal ending with an odd number. One hour later, I’ll be waiting for your call. I’ve got a list of public phone codes for you to memorize—we’ll go sequentially, so that I won’t end up using the same phone over and over. Haddad’s people would certainly get suspicious of that.”

  “They’ll be suspicious the instant I disappear.”

  “Sure they will.” Nick grinned. “Don’t worry, I can handle ’em.”

  He could, too. Nick was extraordinarily effective.

  “And what about the Cohe switch?” Gillian asked. “Are you sure they won’t discover that the wand I checked into Security before we left the building was a fake?”

  “It looks and feels exactly like the real one. The only way to tell for sure is to fire the damn thing.” Nick chuckled. “And I’ve been doing my best to keep Haddad’s people a little wary of doing that. I told them the story about the E-Tech man back in our era who tried to fire a wand and ended up creating a second asshole for himself.”

  “I never heard that story.”

  “I lied. But really, I don’t think Haddad’s people are going to mess around with that wand. At least until you really disappear. By then, of course, it won’t matter.”

  There was only one other thing bothering Gillian.

  “Haddad and I were talking this morning. He casually mentioned the existence of a second computer program in the E-Tech vaults. The Pasha intimated that it had something to do with us.”

  Nick’s reply came just a fraction of a second too late. Gillian was instantly suspicious.

  “Yeah, there’s a second program. But Haddad was probably just fishing. They located the program at the same time they found the one that led to our awakening. They haven’t been able to break in yet. Haddad probably thought you might know something about it.”

  “Have you tackled it?”

  “Nah, I just haven’t had the time. Once you’re gone, maybe I’ll see if Rome will let me take a shot at it.”

  “It could be important.”

  Nick shrugged. “Might be. Hard to tell. Probably doesn’t have anything to do with our Paratwa problem.”

  “Maybe I should take a shot at it before I go?”

  The fork froze on its way into Nick’s mouth. He avoided Gillian’s eyes.

  “I think it’s more important that you assemble a combat team. That’s first priority right now.”

  “Whose priority?”

  Nick put down the fork. He met Gillian’s stare.

  “Don’t stop trusting me now, old friend. It’s been too many years.”

  “I could say the same thing.”

  Nick grinned. “Good. Then let’s both trust each other. You go to Sirak-Brath and I’ll take a shot at this program while you’re gone.”

  Gillian nodded slowly. “And when I return, I’ll take a shot at it.”

  They finished their meal in silence.

  * * *

  Night had rotated into Velvet-on-the-Green. Directly above, a tapestry of stars glittered through the cosmishield glass; pinpricks of light reflected into the colony by the huge outside mirrors. Gillian smiled. A true view of space did not exist here. According to Nick, the mirrors of this colony were programmed to capture starlight from random directions in order to enhance the spectral display. The denizens of Velvet-on-the-Green preferred art to truth.

  I’m bitter tonight, Gillian thought. The primary reason eluded him. Natural tension? The beginning of a new hunt always brought some emotional turmoil. He had never quite understood it.

  Of course, part of his bitterness derived from yesterday’s meeting in the Irryan restaurant: Nick’s secrecy regarding the second computer program.

  What is Nick afraid of? What could we learn from that computer program that could possibly chang
e our actions here?

  A Paratwa was on the loose. Considered as an elementary problem, there was only one solution. The creature would have to be hunted and killed, regardless of its breed or its reputation.

  Then why doesn’t Nick want this program explored? What knowledge lay buried there? Had Nick already broken into the program? It seemed possible. His suspicious answers suggested that the midget knew more than he was telling.

  Brighter flares of light paralleled the long strip of glass above him, a scattering of palatial homes along the other two land sectors. The most notable difference between this colony and Irrya was the density of the human population. Irrya seemed to be almost a solid mass of people; by comparison, Velvet-on-the-Green boasted a miniscule population. Humanity was spread thin here.

  It was quieter, also. His boots, cracking against the hard plastic sidewalk as he strode along the city street, sounded blatantly loud, almost harsh. In comparison, everything else around him seemed to whisper. Cars glided along the black thoroughfare, the few pedestrians he passed spoke in solemn whispers, storefronts hissed their quaint musical enticements. Velvet-on-the-Green loathed the obvious. It was a place of privacy, of cherished secrets.

  He supposed that the subnormal G-force—Velvet-on-the-Green’s most remarkable claim to fame—contributed to the relative silence. Due to the cylinder’s slower rotation, the gravity was seven-eighths normal. Objects did not impact upon one another quite so hard. Less noise resulted.

  And the weaker gravity made Gillian feel physically stronger.

  A good place to begin a hunt.

  He arrived at his destination. The five-story structure loomed above him. Outer support girders crisscrossed the dark facade, soaring at odd angles up into the night sky. He did not recognize the architectural style; Velvet-on-the-Green, like Irrya, boasted a wide range of constructions. But the red neon sign above the door was plain enough. The home of shared fantasy had a thousand derivatives; the archetype probably dated back to the dawn of human culture.

  Inside, he was met by a tall, ashen-faced man dressed immaculately in a high-collared burgundy tuxedo, striped trousers, and a royal-blue tailcoat.