Liege-Killer

by Christopher Hinz

  I have no time for sadness today.

  The Lion said, “Grace was my great-grandniece, Aaron my great-grandnephew. I recall watching them play, as children. Fighting, always fighting, but always making up with each other afterward. Grace had a temper even then. On one occasion, I remember seeing them wrestle—in a shuttle, in zero G. Pawing and thwacking each other like kittens, banging into bulkheads, unconcerned about being bruised...

  “When they were young, I made sketches of them.” His eyebrows crinkled into a smile. “I have a fondness for drawing. My wife says that I draw to say things that cannot be said. That is partially true. But the sketch resonates with more than mere communication. It forms a window into dreams.”

  The Lion shifted his weight, pulled a bony hand out from under his cloak.

  “I save all of my drawings. When I return home, I must locate the ones that I made of Grace. I must reacquaint myself with her. I must make her real once again and then I must say good-bye to her. Her death was unjust but our parting must not be.”

  The Lion waved his hand, forced Rome to meet his gaze.

  “You perceive me as overly sentimental?”

  Rome hesitated. “We must all acknowledge our grief.”

  The old man sighed. “When Grace was in her teen years, she took a lover. He was from another clan and this aroused jealousy among some of our own young, who lusted for her. A fight erupted one day between her lover and two young Alexanders. It was a stupid fight, as most fights are, but fueled by the passions of the young, the dispute accelerated into real violence. Grace’s lover and one of the Alexanders were killed.

  “Grace never fully recovered from her loss. From then on, she remained impartial to suitors.” The Lion paused, studied something behind Rome, above the windows. “Grace never acknowledged her grief. She twisted it into anger. Perhaps in time she would have sought out the deeper emotions and recovered her poise. Who can say?”

  Rome nodded stiffly. The Lion stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled.

  “But here I babble, taking up your important time with my own sorrow.”

  This old man speaks with such honesty. He expresses authentic feelings while I wonder about his hidden purpose in wanting to see me. Perhaps I dishonor both of us.

  Rome spoke. “Your people ... their deaths may have been in vain. I don’t know. But I do know that the Colonies owe them gratitude.”

  The Lion sat up straight. “Grace and Santiago died opposing evil. Among the Alexanders, there is no greater sacrifice. They will be honored.”

  The intercom twanged.

  “Sir—Nick is here. He says he must see you immediately.”

  “Send him in,” Rome said.

  With effort, the Lion rose from his chair. “I will be returning home shortly. I would like Grace and Santiago—and Aaron—to make the journey in my shuttle.”

  “Of course.”

  Nick barreled through the door. The midget wore sleeveless nylon coveralls and a chartreuse shirt with balloon shoulders. His face displayed an array of emotions: torment, weariness, and something else.

  Excitement?

  Rome kept his voice casual. “Any word?”

  Nick squeezed his palms together as if he were trying to crush some tiny object. “Nothing. We can’t find Gillian anywhere. Haddad’s people questioned a local woman, though. She claims to have seen a man running away from the building. The description fits Gillian.”

  “Running away...” mused the Lion.

  Nick turned. “Harry, it’s not what you think. If Gillian ran, then it’s because he thought the others were all dead. Remember, there was no reason to believe Aaron was still alive. Even the medics who arrived on the scene thought he was gone.”

  “Has Aaron regained consciousness?” Rome asked.

  Nick shook his head. “There’s no guarantee he will.”

  “Can he be moved?” asked the Lion.

  Nick hesitated. “Probably. But we’d like to keep him here a while longer. If he wakes up, he might tell us what happened.”

  The Lion remained silent.

  Nick sighed. “Most of the building was gutted by the fire that Reemul set, but the destruction was not as total as the Jeek probably wished. We were able to run some autopsies.

  “The inn’s fourteen residents were dead before the blaze got to them. We believe Reemul entered the building earlier in the day, killed all the tenants except for a pair of ignors, and then had one of his tways disguise itself as the desk clerk. Reemul probably placed the two ignors in the lobby, used them as a background for his little charade.

  “It was a bold move. Reemul must have felt quite sure of himself. He took an awful chance in splitting up the tways. Gillian and the team might have confronted the clerk down in the lobby.”

  “A demon is always shrewd,” murmured the Lion.

  “We believe the actual combat took place in an upstairs room. The fire originated there. Grace and Santiago—their bodies were badly charred. Some sort of hi-tech incineration device was placed on the bed and used to set the blaze. The area immediately adjacent to the bed became so superheated that it melted straight down through the floor.”

  Nick hesitated. “There’s nothing to indicate that Reemul was destroyed in the fire. We have to conclude that the Jeek got away.”

  The Lion hobbled slowly to the doorway. “I must go.” He turned to face them. “I will wait in our shuttle for Aaron, Grace, and Santiago to be brought aboard. And should you require further assistance from our clan...”

  “Of course,” said Rome. “Thank you for the offer.”

  The Lion paused, then smiled. “I judge from your voice that you are merely being polite.”

  He opened the door. “But who can predict the future? E-Tech and the clan of Alexander have flowed together once. A stream tends to repeat its course.”

  The door closed. Rome turned to Nick.

  “Now, what couldn’t you tell me in his presence?”

  Nick gripped the edge of the desk. “Begelman and I, we think we’ve discovered the identity of one of Codrus’s tways.”

  Rome took a deep breath. “Who?”

  “I believe, Rome, that it’s time you and I started going to church. They say that the sermons of Bishop Vokir are most inspiring.”

  O}o{O

  It was early morning. Gillian sensed he was nearing the outskirts of Irrya’s central political district, the home of E-Tech headquarters. If he kept jogging at this pace, he would arrive there—to safety—within an hour. He could have secured a taxi, but he did not trust himself to sit still. Even though his body ached, his cracked ribs especially, it was best to keep moving.

  The buildings on this street all seemed alike, their roof eaves slanted at the same angle, their front solarium panels glimmering with the same intensity as morning light splashed from the identical sheets of curved glass.

  I’ve been running for most of the night. He felt surprised by the realization.

  At some point, within those shallow moments separating the darkness from the dawn, his body had stopped screaming.

  The boulevard flowed east-west. At this hour, it was not yet saturated with pedestrians. Most of the buildings housed first-floor retail shops and were just beginning to open their doors for business. Gillian, with a fascination he could not control, found himself peeking through display windows as he ran along the sidewalk.

  In one store, a woman, kneeling, carefully arranged electronic antiques on an elevated platform. There were massive videocassette machines, a vegetable cloning apparatus, two sleek, fully programmable wall scrubbers, and a host of other objects that Gillian could not identify. The woman glanced up at him and smiled. She exploded into a rainbow of golden sparks.

  Rapid-fire images blasted into his head—twisted memories of Catharine, reshaped and modified by current sensory data, as if the interface separating his consciousness from the outer world had been torn away.

  No longer were his imagery attacks predictable, fou
r-hour excursions through familiar terrain. The assaults had lost whatever logical base they might have once possessed. He had become a victim of brutal and random forces.

  They are all out searching for me. Reemul is on the hunt. So is E-Tech. Nick will be computing probability grids, trying to predict where I will turn up. The Guardians want me for questioning. So do Irrya’s local patrol forces. I’m not safe anywhere.

  He passed a sweet shop, its display window brimming with chocolate fudge squares and eclairs and delicate spiral crumb buns baked in the gravity-free environment of center-sky. The sweets glistened with logic—with a pattern he could dimly sense, as if they were all part of some great wondrous exigency, urging his body to consume them as a whole.

  I’m going mad. Only his recognition saved him from plunging over the edge.

  An early shopper, a matronly woman in a black skirt, carrying two small packages, suddenly appeared in front of him. She smiled pleasantly and moved to step from his path. A pair of golden tentacles burst from her shoulders, reached out for him. Her face mutated into a mockery of familiar females—Grace, the prostitute Mocha, countless Earth women—all variations on a theme, all external projections of his lost love, Catharine.

  He raised his aims, backpedaled, tried to protect himself from the greedy tentacles. “Get away from me!” he screamed.

  The woman became real again; her face a mask of fright. She dashed by. Gillian controlled a wild urge to reach out and tear the black skirt from her hips. He did not want to hurt her. He only wanted to possess some of her clothing.

  Nick will know how to help me. I’ll be back at E-Tech shortly. He recalled that a long time ago, on Earth, Nick had helped him through a similar crisis. Dimly, he remembered the sense of confusion he had experienced back then; “a dichotomy of the soul,” Nick had called it; Gillian’s mind and body gyrating away from each other, away from the real world, toward incredible living dreams. He shuddered. Back then, his plunge through a spectacle of visions had terminated in a place inhabited by deadly women.

  Nick will help me.

  He stopped in front of a woman’s clothing shop, fascinated by the full-sized energized mannequins dancing behind the thick glass. One robot wore a maroon-and-black dress. It swirled across her hips as she pirouetted along the display floor.

  Catharine used to have a dress like that. The thought soothed him, a wave breaking against the shores of his madness, cooling to the touch. The dress is real. It is more than fabric and color; it is a symbol of something that was once mine.

  He had to have it. The shop door detected his presence, opened. He crossed the threshold.

  A dapper man in a tailored one-piece suit, his face overwhelmed by a gray mustache, approached. Gillian pointed to the dress. “I want that one.”

  The clerk regarded him silently. Gillian was faintly aware of how disheveled he must appear.

  “Sir, that particular item sells for twelve thousand and fifty.”

  “Get it.”

  The clerk smiled. “Of course, sir, but I must run your credit...”

  “I have cash cards.”

  “Of course, sir. And would you like the dress delivered or would you prefer to take it with you?”

  “With me.”

  The clerk nodded, “Of course. And do you want it gift-wrapped or specialty-boxed?”

  Gillian felt himself quaking with anger. Stupid man! Do I look like I have all day to stand here and answer your questions? Can’t you see that I need that dress?

  A thought ripped his awareness. This clerk! He’s trying to trick me!

  “Sir,” the man repeated. “Do you want it gift-wrapped or...”

  Gillian gripped the man by the collar and rammed his thruster into soft belly flesh. The clerk went pale.

  “Get the dress!”

  The clerk, shaking, mumbled, “What ... size?”

  “How should I know what size? You’re the expert.” Stupid ignor! Gillian shoved his gun deeper into the man’s belly.

  The clerk looked ready to faint. “I’ll get you ... any size you want.” His voice came out in a whisper.

  “I don’t want any size! You’re trying to trick me!”

  “No ... no ... I swear! Please don’t hurt me!”

  Gillian laughed. “Don’t hurt you? What could you possibly know about that subject? I could tell you things about hurt you couldn’t imagine!”

  “Oh, yes! Oh, yes!”

  “Do you know what I did to the last person who tried to cross me?”

  The clerk shook. “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

  “So! You’re not trying to cross me, huh? Liar!”

  “Please, sir,” the clerk sobbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Gillian pondered for a moment. Then it came to him. This frightened little man—it’s all part of a clever performance. He’s a Paratwa! He might even be a tway of Reemul!

  “So, Jeek! You thought you could trick me again! You underestimate me! You don’t know the extent of my powers!”

  “I could learn,” cried the clerk.

  “Ignor! I haven’t got time for this!” Abruptly, Gillian recalled that he had to be at E-Tech headquarters as soon as possible. He could not remember exactly why, but he knew that it was important.

  He shoved the clerk toward the display window. With quivering palms, the man switched off the mannequin’s power unit and stripped the robot. Gillian, snarling, grabbed the dress from the clerk’s hand. He rammed his thruster back into the man’s belly.

  “Now, Jeek! I want you to lead me straight to your dressing rooms!”

  The clerk, gasping, desperate to please, wagged his head. Gillian prodded the man with his gun. “And I want to get a good look at myself. So make it a dressing room with a big mirror.”

  O}o{O

  I have fallen, thought Rome. A line no longer separates my consciousness, my synergy of life, from the actions of the pre-Apocalyptics. At this moment, I am like them; filled with a desire to slaughter my enemy and grow stronger by such action. For I wish—I truly wish—to kill a man.

  Rome corrected himself. My enemy is not a man.

  If Nick and Begelman were right—and Rome had little reason to doubt them—Bishop Vokir was the tway of an Ash Ock Paratwa. As such, the bishop represented a far worse threat than Reemul.

  The Jeek, however brutal, remained a distinct foe. Reemul brought horror to the Colonies, but it was the horror of a wild and rabid animal. Bishop Vokir secreted deeper poisons. Whatever disparagement Rome felt toward his religion, the bishop had come to symbolize hope for millions of colonists. But Vokir, the Ash Ock, was a betrayer of that hope. He was a betrayer of the future. Rome knew of no greater sin.

  And I wish to kill him.

  He said nothing to Nick and Begelman. He did not know how to share such a disturbing passion.

  The three of them sat in the data vaults and reviewed the plethora of evidence.

  Begelman spoke excitedly. His fingers, out of habit, slashed at a keyboard. “This bishop is no dummy. His temples are scattered all across the surface and he’s clever enough to add variance to his visitation patterns. But over a period of sixteen years—since the bishop took control of the Church—the matrix yields three major distortions.”

  “Time and again,” Nick continued, “he’s journeyed to these three particular temples: Western Canada, Finland, and the one located on top of the Shan Plateau. And these three temples are among the few that actually date back to the pre-Apocalypse.”

  With effort, Rome played the devil’s advocate. “Maybe the bishop just has a keen sense of history. Maybe he simply prefers the more ancient places.”

  Begelman squirmed with excitement, “When you coordinate Bob Max’s recent whereabouts with the bishop’s, and overlay the grids, there are five match-ups. Bob Max attended five surface burials in the past six months—two on the Shan Plateau, two in Western Canada, and one in Finland.”

  Nick snapped his fingers. “Each time, Max used false ID a
nd made slight alterations in his appearance. But he wasn’t as careful as he should have been. Begelman and I created a program to scan through the millions of surface passports issued to the Church by E-Tech over the past six months. Five times the computer came up with definite photo matches, identifying Bob Max under his disguises.”

  “The bishop,” added Begelman, “was naturally doing the eulogizing at those particular temples during Max’s visits.”

  Nick said, “We also have indirect evidence that Bob Max attended many worship services in Irrya. Those services were also led by the bishop. And if that’s not enough of a coincidence, we have evidence that Max was granted free transport on Church shuttles. A man, formerly a pilot, says that Max had carte blanche to go wherever he pleased. This shuttle pilot claims that those orders came from high up in the Church hierarchy.”

  Begelman rattled his fingers on the keyboard. “Taken in tandem, the odds against all these occurrences are better than three-point-two million to one.”

  “No way we’re talking coincidence,” added Nick. “With the bishop as a tway of an Ash Ock—Codrus, probably—everything falls together.

  “Bob Max was a devout believer in the Church of the Trust. He was also a professional smuggler. The bishop must have convinced Max to engineer the awakening of the Paratwa by telling him he was performing a service to the Church. Max was sold on Vokir’s idea of redemption.”

  Rome nodded. “He would have felt compelled to do anything the Church asked of him.”

  “Exactly. Of course, Max had to be killed once Reemul was awakened. He knew too much. And Max may have talked once he figured out that his precious bishop had tricked him into awakening a Paratwa.”