He might kill me no matter what I say. The bishop felt no personal fear, just a sense of illogic at the possibility of his own death. I must defuse his anger, guide him away from the critical mode.
“This extra kill. You may find it especially interesting.”
The tway sneered. But a vein of curiosity exposed itself: two sets of eyes scanned the bishop’s face.
The bishop turned, gazed at the massive chrome pipes that backdropped the altar and curved upward to become the chapel ceiling. He forced a smile, allowed humor to tinge his words.
“There is a man, an old acquaintance of yours. Let’s see. If memory serves me correctly, you last met him in a Boston tavern, two hundred years ago.”
Reemul froze.
“Think hard. You may recall.”
“If you are testing me...”
“Reemul!” The bishop pointed his finger at the shorter tway. “I do not test you! I have never found the need to test my most effective weapon! I say to you that one of E-Tech’s soldier-hunters survived the fire in Boston that night. This man went into stasis. Like you, he has now been awakened.”
The shorter tway lowered his arms, fell into repose. For an instant, the bishop thought Reemul was going to attack—a Jeek at rest mirrored a Jeek poised for assault. But the moment passed. Subtle tensions departed.
The critical mode is repressed. He is stable again.
“Is it possible,” asked the bishop, with as much innocence as he could muster, “that one of those soldier-hunters survived?”
Both tways nodded. The taller one spit the misk tubes from his mouth. They swung against the other hoses, set the entire curtain rattling.
“Their leader.”
“He was trapped by the fire,” continued the shorter tway.
“I thought the flames got him...”
“ ... but perhaps not.”
The bishop hid his anger, responded calmly. “It’s probable that he’s put together a new team. They’re here in Irrya.”
So, Reemul. You knew that this man could have survived the fire, yet you failed to inform me of the possibility.
Reemul the fool! Your pride distorts your good sense. You could not admit that you might have failed in your mission. And so you fed false information to an Ash Ock!
The bishop breathed deeply, forced calm. And the Sirak-Brath incident? Do you hold back more data from me?
He kept his voice free of criticism. “Regarding the Zell Strip killings—you claim you were forced to defend yourself. Could you have left signs, exposed your real identity?”
Both tways laughed.
The bishop translated. He’s not sure. He may have given away the fact that he’s a Jeek Elemental, a breed known for serving the Royal Caste. In one act of madness, Reemul may have shattered his carefully arranged masquerade as an assassin from Terminus labs. Rome Franco and E-Tech may actually suspect the presence of an Ash Ock!
It was a sobering thought.
Codrus may have to make drastic changes in the plan.
The bishop folded his hands to hide his tension.
“Tomorrow, I want you to set a trap for this man. Do it in such a way that his team is forced to come to you.”
Reemul nodded.
“Kill his team. Kill all witnesses. But this man from the past, I want you to take him alive. Use whatever methods you deem appropriate. I need information from this individual. I must learn the extent of E-Tech’s knowledge regarding us.”
Reemul hesitated, then grinned. The bishop acknowledged a new concern.
“It will be difficult, yes?”
In tandem, the tways shrugged. The taller one spoke.
“This man—he was skilled in the use of the Cohe. He’ll be hard to capture. I may have to kill him.”
The bishop nodded slowly. So be it. There were other sources of information.
Perhaps E-Tech’s Security chief, Pasha Haddad, could be taken. Tortured and murdered by a Paratwa, Haddad would make a fine martyr. Codrus would get his information, and the Ash Ock cause would be advanced in the bargain.
“Do what you must,” said the bishop. “But if by some means you can take this man alive, drain him. Learn everything—his past, his relationship to pre-Apocalypse E-Tech leaders. I want to know who put him into stasis and who awakened him.” The bishop hesitated. “And find out if he knows anything about a friend of Rome Franco’s. A midget.”
Reemul grinned. The taller tway grabbed a single misk tube and inserted it between his lips. He sucked deeply.
“Is it addictive?” asked the shorter tway.
The bishop frowned, caught off guard by Reemul’s sudden change of subject. “The misk? No, it’s not addictive. Just a mild barbiturate, mixed with spices.”
“It tastes like something Sappho would have created.”
“She was responsible for some of its flavorings.” This is not the first time he has mentioned Sappho. Why?
Delicately, the tways moved together. They reached out and held hands. They spoke in stereo.
“She was very creative. She understood the flows between levels of my spirit.”
The bishop studied the Jeek. I’ve never heard him speak this way before.
“She understood the simplicities. She made me ... understand my needs.”
Was there some connection between Sappho and Reemul that I never knew about?
The bishop felt an intense pressure grip his muscles.
The whelm!
In his final moments of awareness, the bishop realized what was happening. The interlace, glistening with power, was forming without his or his tway’s consent. An unconscious recognition by the bishop was forcing Codrus to arise and abstract the bishop’s mélange of data into concrete theory. And the superior conceptual abilities of Codrus was forcing the bishop and his tway to interlace. It was a dialectic unique to the Ash Ock.
And this whelm was even more unusual. Generally, it could only be brought about during one of the Ash Ock’s regulated flexing periods; even then, the whelm usually required the presence of a life-threatening situation.
Codrus completed the interlace, reveled briefly in his wholeness. He stared out through the bishop’s eyes.
Spirit of the Caste! How could I have been so blind? How could I not have seen it?
Sappho had taken Reemul as a lover!
During the final days, Sappho had sexually linked with many of the assassins. On a purely sensual level, he understood her antics. But Sappho’s impulses usually had deeper roots. Why she had seduced Reemul, Codrus could not begin to fathom.
The Jeek’s motives, however, were clear.
“Ahh, Reemul. I see that you have a desire. But your desire is such that only a long sleep can bring the possibility of fulfillment. Do you agree?”
The tways released hands, pulled away from each other. The taller one withdrew the misk hose from his mouth and carefully laid it against the other tubes. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the bishop.
Yes, my Jeek. You perceive that you are no longer speaking to Bishop Vokir.
Codrus continued. “Do you wish to meet Sappho again?”
“I am not sure,” said the shorter one. There was real doubt on his face.
“I suspect that she desires you again. There have been hints.” And until now, I never perceived them as such! Ahh, Sappho. Were you being shrewd or merely playful?
The shorter tway argued. “She may not be worth a long sleep.”
Codrus laughed, making sure that the display of humor was strictly limited to the bishop. His councilor-tway was in a public place right now—open emotions could not be shared.
“Not worth it! Reemul, you speak in circles. A spiritual profluence marks the Jeek Elementals. You deny your own destiny!” And Codrus thought: He has no choice, of course. He’s different from the others.
“I am really beginning to enjoy the Colonies,” boasted the taller tway. “Such opportunities!”
“Reemul, they would kill you eventually. It might t
ake years, but sooner or later they would develop the desperate courage. Time would be your enemy.
“Go into stasis peacefully. Befriend time. Awaken into an age where you will be afforded your rightful glory. For when you emerge, the Royal Caste will be there to honor you. Sappho will be there to honor you.”
The Jeek laughed. “You twist words, Codrus. You do it most beautifully.”
“Truth cannot be twisted. Sappho will be there.”
Codrus observed subtle hesitation on the Jeek’s faces. He pressed. “And you will not return to stasis unfulfilled. The Colonies will suffer a final outrage. Five days from now, you will flex—with all the potency at your command! You will enter the Irryan Senate building here in Irrya and you will destroy as many of the senators as possible. There are six hundred forty-two of them, Reemul, plus guards and civilians.” He smiled. “That should be enough of a flex to satisfy even you. And remember, you will be destroying not just humans but an entire power structure of their civilization. For as long as they record history, they will remember the Senate Massacre of 2307. You will become legend!”
The sad-eyed tway hissed and stuck out his tongue. The taller one danced forward, pirouetting, his hands swishing through the air.
Good. I have excited him. The crisis point has been passed. Reemul will now go willingly back to stasis. I have infected him with the dream of the Second Coming. Like all of us, he now senses a future grander than the present.
It was a good time to add a positive reinforcer.
“Reemul—I almost forgot. That package you desire. It’s been picked up from Urikov’s warehouse on Sirak-Brath. It arrived in Irrya this afternoon, on one of the regular Church transports.
“Where would you like it sent?”
Reemul’s eyes betrayed his lust.
Was sex with Sappho as exciting? Codrus wondered. How does an Ash Ock compare to one of your little monstrosities?
The taller tway stopped dead in his tracks, like a robot with a burned-out power supply. A hot smile creased its face.
“Send the package to the Skeibalis Inn here on Irrya.”
Codrus nodded. “Naturally, you will properly dispose of your little treat.” Reemul’s perversion was not unique—even some humans suffered the lusts of pedobiparauterophilia. But the Jeek’s toy could give E-Tech another trail to follow. It was best if the evidence were destroyed.
“There will be a fire,” said Reemul.
“Good. And when you have crushed E-Tech’s little band of warriors, contact the bishop. He will arrange for you to stay in one of the Church’s retreats here in Irrya until it’s time for your most glorious act.”
Reemul, sensing his audience was over, ambled out the side doors on opposite sides of the chancel. Codrus waited until he heard the click of the code-locks resealing the portals. Then he closed the bishop’s eyes and allowed his prime concerns to erupt.
Fact: I did not know Sappho and Reemul were lovers.
Fact: I did not suspect Reemul of withholding information from me.
Fact: Recently, I have made drastic mistakes with the ICN.
Fact: During the final days, I may have grossly underestimated the intelligence of E-Tech. They may have been more aware of the Royal Caste than I ever acknowledged.
I grow more stupid with each passing year. I was not created to spend most of my life as two separate creatures. I am Codrus, Ash Ock of the Royal Caste.
Yet by serving our cause, I must deny my true existence, allowing only rare moments of monarchical consciousness.
Prolonged separation is a disease. Like a human male, denied feminine companionship over a long period, I suffer a dissipation of wisdom. Intellect loses its keen edge.
He opened the bishop’s eyes. And next will come self-pity. That cannot be allowed.
The bishop must make another journey to the Earth’s surface. As soon as possible, I must confer with Sappho and Theophrastus. I must call on their wisdom to make up for the loss of my own.
He felt a stab of jealousy. They are the lucky ones. They live the way an Ash Ock was meant to live. They are forever free to be complete, their vision unmarred by constant duality. Do they understand my suffering? Do they empathize with the sacrifices I have made?
O}o{O
—from The Rigors, by Meridian
One evening, upon emerging from a flexing chamber, I encountered a young Paratwa. She was an Ash Joella—one of the new breeds—sixteen years old, a squat redhead and a tall Nordic blonde, both tways garbed in plain white coveralls. She was in charge of the human cleanup crew: eight men and women carrying body bags, waiting patiently for her command.
“You are Meridian.” There was a trace of defiance in her words. She snapped her fingers, and the cleanup crew scurried past us and into the chamber. I heard them grunt and mutter as they began the thankless task of disposing of the humans I had cut apart with my Cohe.
“Was it a good flex?” she asked.
“It was,” I replied. “Several of them fought well. Had they not been criminals, I would have seen to it that they were honored throughout the domiciles.”
“Do you always flex against humans?”
I nodded, marking the criticism in her voice. “You disapprove?”
“No. Humans must understand that they will be killed if they break our laws. And the flexing chamber is dual-efficient. Not only is sentence carried out, but one of us is allowed to satiate our natural urges.”
I smiled. The source of her displeasure was now clear. “You have not yet been permitted the luxury of the flexing chamber.”
“I have not,” she said bitterly. “When it’s my time, they send me to a forest to kill rabbits!”
“Patience, young one. Someday you will be allowed the richer joys.”
For a moment, she was silent. And then: “They say that the great Meridian has even flexed against other Paratwa.”
Had this female been more mature, I would have placed myself on the alert. There was a hint of challenge in her sarcasm.
“Yes. I have flexed against other Paratwa.”
“They say that none here could defeat you.”
Attuned to her thoughts, I laughed.
“They say that only one Jeek ever had the power to withstand you in open combat ... perhaps even destroy you.”
“Who could that be?” I mocked.
“The liege-killer—Reemul!”
Humans began emerging from the chamber, dragging body bags. They dumped them into a large six-wheeled disposal cart.
I understood, of course. The young needed their heroes, their rebels. To the Paratwa who had never known him, Reemul symbolized a wild sort of freedom. His actions were legendary. He was their myth; a counterweight to the reality of their structured lives.
I smiled. “May I tell you something about the Reemul I have known?”
She tried to disguise her excitement, failed. “Of course.”
“He was insane.”
For a long moment, she stared at me. Then she whirled around and began yelling at one of the humans.
“You! Hurry up with that trash! We haven’t got all day! Work a little faster or next time your friends will be putting you into bags!”
Disappointed, I turned and walked away. If she had laughed in my face, or at least challenged my statement, I would have understood. But she had taken my appraisal of Reemul at face value.
I sometimes wonder what we’re going to do with these new Paratwa.
O}o{O
Santiago killed the headlights and squeezed their hardtop up against a curb two blocks from the address. The black pirate stepped out into the barren street. He extended his legs and twisted his lanky frame into a rapid series of deep knee-bends. Gillian dismounted onto damp sidewalk.
Down here, at the southernmost end of Irrya’s seventy-mile length, where boulevards terminated or became stretches of alley, a fine cool mist hung in the air, condensing on the windshields of scattered parked cars. Squat dirty buildings and stunted pine tree
s, the latter bent wickedly as if by disease, rose from the edges of vacant lots. Few people roamed the dark streets. Halfway up the block, a skinny woman in tight pants, gazing suspiciously at Gillian and Santiago, slithered along the windowless facade of a three-story warehouse.
Abruptly, the woman broke into a run, disappearing into a grimy modular apartment. Gillian supposed she felt safer inside.
Two thousand feet away, dominating the vista, stood the wall, the southern end of the colony, the cessation of this inner world.
Santiago finished his warm-up. The pirate separated the Velcro strip on his baggy vest and yanked out his gun. Gillian reached into the front pouch of his own windbreaker, encountered dryness and the soft plastic handle of a high-powered thruster. Satisfied with its placement, he withdrew his hand and examined the Cohe nestled in its slip-wrist holster beneath his baggy right sleeve.
“A real slum down here, huh?” Santiago grunted, replacing his thruster. “And the Irryans say it don’t exist and the freelancers spout the lie across the spectrum. Everybody thinks Irrya is the perfect colony.”
Gillian merely nodded. “I’ve never been this close to the end of a cylinder.” His words sounded odd, muffled by the damp air.
On a few clear days, he had seen the north and south poles from E-Tech headquarters. But at such distances, the vista provided little inspiration. Down here, the southern plate, six miles in diameter, a shadowy gray monstrosity laced with feeder pipes and pockmarked with small industries, created more blatant psychic demands.
He could almost imagine himself on Earth, standing at the base of a soaring cliff that drew his sight ever upward until vision and sheer rock plunged together into the clouds.
But there were no clouds here, only the mist—a purplish flatness to the air, nearly invisible, distorting the light from Irrya’s other livable strips, blending the distant illumination into soft glowing patches as if eyesight were perpetually out of focus. Alternate sunstrips remained black depths, huge slabs of nothingness. Only the massive southern wall held the vista together, capturing the starless voids and the glowing patches of light and fusing them into a whole.
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