Torrence glanced at the television crew. The director gave him the high sign. He was on the air.
“Wards of the Hegemony,” he began, “it is fitting that we are gathered today in the Museum of Culture, for Art and Culture are the highest achievements of any civilization, and the Hegemony of Sol is the highest civilization the human race could hope to achieve. We sometimes forget that in the mad Millenium of Religions, Art, as well as Man, was at the mercy of hundreds of conflicting dogmas and theories. It is difficult for us today to realize that the Art of that black period was torn every which way by the aesthetic precepts of every hare-brained usor social misfit who—”
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the rear of the auditorium. Torrence saw the rear door glow red, then fall abruptly inward. Two men carrying laseguns stood in the doorway. Torrence ran his finger across his throat, signaling the television crew to stop transmission, then dived for cover behind the podium as Guards sprang up before the stage to protect him.
“Gas!” someone shouted, and the Wards began screaming and howling. Torrence looked up over the edge of the podium, saw a cloud of thick green vapor all but obscuring the rear of the auditorium. He recognized the gas as Nervoline, a contact-toxin whose very touch was instant death. …
In the front of the auditorium, Wards were leaping up out of their seats, screaming in terror, milling about mindlessly. The gas reached the television crew, and the men fell, silently, instantly, dead before they hit the floor.
Torrence felt a long moment of utter mortal panic as the gas crept toward the front of the auditorium. The only exit was cut off by the green vapor itself.
But Torrence’s moment of terror passed as he realized that whoever had thrown the gas grenade had aimed badly, very badly indeed. The gas cloud was too small to fill the auditorium and now it was rapidly dissolving. Nervoline was a riot control gas which the Guards used as a screen behind which to advance, and thus its toxic effects had to dissipate rapidly. The stuff did not linger long in the air. To be effective, the grenade should’ve hit near the podium, but it hadn’t. Someone had made a mistake—or perhaps had been forced to throw the grenade without taking proper aim by the Guards in the building.
Torrence stood up. The gas was all but gone. The television crew was dead, but he was safe, and the Wards were beginning to calm down. Torrence laughed, half to relieve the tension, half in real amusement.
It was a piece of typical League bungling, he thought. They couldn’t even—
Suddenly, he saw a small metal ovoid whirring above the heads of the Wards. Half-involuntarily, he ducked down behind the podium again, then almost as quickly stood up as he realized that the thing was only an annunciator bomb.
“Death to the Hegemonic Council!” a loud, tinny voice boomed. “Long live Chaos! Know that Vice-Coordinator Jack Torrence has been destroyed by the Brotherhood of Assassins!”
“The Brotherhood!” Torrence exclaimed. “Not the League … ?”
He gestured hurriedly to the Guards. “Clear the hall!” he ordered. “You can never tell what the Brotherhood will do. Let’s get out of here!”
Torrence stepped down from the stage, and Guards formed a circle around him, quickly ushered him out of the auditorium and into the hall outside.
Torrence, still within the circleof armed men, moved about twenty feet down the hall, turned to watch as dazed Wards began to stream out of the auditorium.
He stood there watching until the hall was cleared. There’s something mighty fishy going on! he thought. First the Brotherhood saves Vladimir, then they try to kill me. Maybe I was wrong after all—maybe Vladimir really has made some kind of a deal with the Brotherhood. Fortunately, the crazy fanatics seem to be as incompetent as Johnson’s boobs.
Still, something will have to be done about this. Maybe … hmm, yes, whether Vladimir really is in cahoots with the Brotherhood or not, I certainly can use this against him.
Why not? It’s good circumstantial evidence. Maybe I can at least convince Gorov, bring him into my camp. That’d make it six to four, and a one-man switch would tie up the Council and force a general election. Maybe. …
“The auditorium is all cleared now, sir,” the Captain of Jack Torrence’s personal bodyguard said. “Shall I—”
“BAARRROOM!”
There was a terrible, sharp, explosive roar from within the auditorium, then almost at once another loud noise as the ceiling collapsed. A great foul billow of smoke and airborne debris puffed from the shattered doorway. The building shook. Torrence was blown off his feet, and the hefty Guards around him staggered for purchase.
Dazedly, Torrence got to his feet, stumbled over to the doorway of the auditorium, stuck his head inside. Eyes smarting from the smoke, Torrence saw that where the stage he had been standing on had been, there was now only a gaping, jagged hole. The ceiling above the hole had given way, and he could see through the ruined ceiling to the corridor above.
Rubbing his eyes, Torrence withdrew his head from the auditorium. It just doesn’t make sense! he thought. A bomb, and right after the Brotherhood just tried to gas me. Why would … ?
Unless … unless. … Unless the bomb was planted by the League! Two assassination attempts within minutes of each other! Yet that had to be it. Both attempts couldn’t have been part of the same Brotherhood plot. They would’ve known that if the gas failed, the auditorium would be immediately cleared, that a bomb as a backup device would be useless.
Despite his two close calls, Jack Torrence could not help giving vent to a short, dry laugh. The Brotherhood, by its bumbling attempt to gas him, had actually saved his life! If it hadn’t been for the gas attack, he would’ve been on the stage when the bomb went off and been plastered all over what was left of the ceiling. …
Torrence grimaced. That didn’t make the whole thing any less infuriating. The League isn’t such a harmless nuisance after all, he thought. Vladimir’s right about one thing, anyway—the League has to be destroyed, and quickly. Damn the expense! They may very well try something like this again!
But afterward, Torrence thought, after we’ve dealt with the Democratic League, then we’ll get rid of the Brotherhood.
And Vladimir’ll have to go along. If he doesn’t, it’ll be proof positive that he’s allied with the Brotherhood, and even his own tame Councilors’ll turn on him. Even if he is allied with the Brotherhood, he’ll have to go along.
And once we’ve gotten rid of the League and the Brotherhood, Torrence thought resolutely, it’ll be time to deal with Mr. Vladimir Khustov himself!
“It is wise, upon occasion, to introduce true randomness into your actions when opposing an existing order. The problem is that randomness, by definition, cannot be planned. Human emotion, however, is a Random Factor, and thus it may be said that to serve the interests of one’s own endocrine system is to serve Chaos.”
—Gregor Markowitz, The Theory
6
FOOLISH, foolish, utterly foolish! Constantine Gorov thought as Jack Torrence continued to rant, ostensibly at Khustov, but of course actually for the benefit of the entire Hegemonic Council.
“… and I’m beginning to wonder why you’re so interested in getting rid of the League, Vladimir,” Torrence was saying, his thin face flushed with a rage that Gorov was sure was put on, “while you seem to regard the Brotherhood of Assassins as merely a nuisance to be tolerated. Or do you consider the Brotherhood a nuisance?”
Khustov scowled—more ridiculous histrionics, Gorov thought. “What is that remark supposed to mean?” the Hegemonic Coordinator said thickly. Torrence paused, looked each Councilor individually in the eye before he spoke again. As the Vice-Coordinator met Gorov’s eyes, Gorov had a pretty good idea of what he was trying to do. All this nonsensical political bickering! One would almost think that the Hegemonic Council existed merely to provide a political arena for fools like Torrence and Khustov rather than as a human adjunct of the Guardian with a solemn duty to maximize Order and insure peace and prosper
ity for the human race!
“I’m not sure exactly what it means myself,” Torrence finally said. “All I’m sure of is the facts—let the Council draw its own conclusions. Fact—the Democratic League j tried to kill you, Vladimir, and the Brotherhood saved ! you, so, perhaps understandably, you are determined to destroy the League, but are somewhat more … sympathetic to the Brotherhood. Fact—it is an open secret that the two of us are … ah … shall we say, rivals, in a gentlemanly way, of course. Fact—the Brotherhood, which recently saved your life, has just tried to kill me. But who am I to draw conclusions? This Council is composed of reasonably intelligent adults. I think they are capable of drawing their own conclusions.”
“Treason against who, Vladimir?” Torrence said. “Treason against what? Against the Hegemony? Against the Guardian? Against this Council? Or simply against Vladimir Khustov? Or perhaps against the Brotherhood of—”
“You go too far!” Khustov shouted, his face reddening in now totally genuine rage.
Constantine Gorov could contain himself no longer. The fools were acting exactly as the Brotherhood wanted them to!
“Councilors, please!” Gorov said. “Don’t you see what’s happening? This is why the Brotherhood saved your life, Councilor Khustov! This is why it then tried to kill Councilor Torrence. … If it really did try in earnest.”
“What are you babbling about this time, Gorov?” Khustov snapped. “More of that rot about the Theory of Social Entropy? One would think you’re a member of the Brotherhood of Assassins yourself! Sometimes I wonder if you don’t really believe Markowitz’ mystical claptrap about the ‘inevitability of Chaos.’ ”
“To ratisonally oppose religious fanatics,” Gorov said evenly, “one must understand the dogma which they serve. Otherwise, their actions become totally unpredictable.”
“And I suppose you can predict the actions of the Brotherhood?” Torrence sneered.
“To a point,” Gorov said, blandly ignoring the sarcasm. “The Theory of Social Entropy postulates that an Ordered Society, such as the Hegemony can tolerate fewer and fewer random factors as its control becomes more and more complete. So the strategy of the Brotherhood is obviously to introduce such random factors. In other words, one may predict that their actions will be calculated to be unpredictable.”
“Meaningless dialectical gobbledegook!” Councilor Ulanuzov shouted.
Such blind, willfully ignorant fools! Gorov thought. “Not at all,” he said evenly. “This present business is a perfect example of Brotherhood logic—or rather, its purposeful lack of logic. By appearing to side with the Coordinator against Councilor Torrence, they foment strife on this very Council. And the both of you are playing right into the Brotherhood’s hand. Can’t you see that—”
“Enough of this idiocy!” Khustov houted.
“Enough! Enough!” several other Councilors shouted in agreement.
“For once, I find myself in agreement with our good Coordinator,” Torrence said. “This nit-picking and theoretical bull-throwing is getting us nowhere. The real question is, will you finally place as high a priority on the destruction of the Brotherhood as you do on the elimination of the League, Vladimir?”
“The Brotherhood must not be destroyed until the League is eliminated,” Khustov said flatly.
“I suppose you can give us some logical reason … ?” Torrence said dubiously.
“If you could think of anything beyond furthering your own selfish ends, you’d see what the reason is,” Khustov said. “It’s obvious—as long as the League exists, the Brotherhood is useful to us. Everything the League does can be blamed on the Brotherhood. The Wards can understand why the League does what it does—they’re out to overthrow the Hegemony, pure and simple. But the Brotherhood’s ends—if they really do have ends—are totally incomprehensible. To the Wards, the Brotherhood is nothing but a pack of religious madmen. It’s far safer to blame League assassination attempts and sabotage on madmen than to admit that a coherent revolutionary conspiracy exists and is dangerous. As long as the League exists, the Brotherhood serves us as a convenient, innocuous scapegoat—every act against the Hegemony can be branded as the work of madmen. Once we eliminate the League, I promise you we will give top priority to the destruction of the Brotherhood. But not until then.”
“And just when is this millenium going to come about?” Torrence said. “We can control the League, but how can we crush it, short of spending billions of credits? The leadership can always hide in the underground tunnels. There are only a few thousand members and only a couple of hundred key men, but they’re scattered all over the Hegemony. Aren’t you really saying that we’re never going to move against the Brotherhood?”
Khustov smiled complacently. “Quite the contrary,” he said. “We will soon eliminate the League. We will cause the League to commit its entire leadership to one mission, a mission that will be sure to attract the personal attention of Boris Johnson himself. Once we capture or destroy the leadership, the League will swiftly collapse.”
Gorov was bemused by Khustov’s apparent certainty. “How do you plan to accomplish this?” he said.
“The Ministry of Guardianship and the System Guardian itself have been working on the problem,” Khustov said. “We have uncovered a League agent in a critical position in the Ministry of Guardianship on Mercury.”
“He has been taken alive?” Councilor Cordona asked.
“He has not been taken at all,” Khustov replied. “He’s far more useful to us where he is. We’re after fa bigger game. The Hegemonic Council will meet on Mercury two months from now.”
“What?” Torrence shouted. “Mercury? We’ve never met on Mercury. There’s just one small dome, the smallest and newest in the Hegemony. … Why the colony’s hardly viable! The Wards don’t like being that close to the sun—and neither do I.”
“And that will be our cover mission,” Khustov said. “We’ll announce that the Council is meeting on Mercury in order to demonstrate our confidence in the safety of the dome.”
“I don’t like it,” Torrence said. “It’s too confined, too precarious. If the League could concentrate its forces there, they might just be able to kill us all.”
“Precisely,” Khustov said. “That’s exactly what Boris Johnson will think—and all the more so, since he has a key man in the Ministry building where we will be waiting. We’ll let him try, and then—the end of the Democratic League, once and for all!”
“You’re saying that you intend to use us as bait!” Torrence exclaimed.
Shocked murmurs swept the Council chamber. Constantine Gorov, however, was intrigued. What better bait than the Hegemonic Council? he thought. The League would be certain to rise to such a bait. An excellent tactic, he was forced to admit—provided, of course, that the trap was foolproof.
“Gentlemen!” Khustov said, and the Council quieted. “I assure you that there will be no risk involved. This trap will be foolproof.” He smiled. “Once you know the plan, I’m sure that even our good Vice-Coordinator will agree.”
The Councilors, Torrence in particular, grunted skeptically, but once Khustov had outlined the plan, the vote to adopt it was unanimous. Even Torrence went along with little more than pro forma grumbling.
Boris Johnson felt along the wall of the tunnel of the old 4th Street subway station. His fingers found a crack in the concrete almost imperceptibly deeper than any one of a hundred such cracks in the tunnel wall. He pushed the fingers of his right hand into the crack and pulled. A section of the concrete swung inward on hidden hinges, exposing a dark, narrow passageway. Johnson entered the earthen-walled tunnel, pushed the panel shut behind him. Shining his flash before him, he inched his way down the tunnel.
The secret tunnel, cut by the League two years ago, led to the most secure meeting place in the entire Greater New York subway and grotto network—a small, incredibly ancient grotto under what had been MacDougald Street in Old Greenwich Village. The League had discovered it quite by accident three y
ears ago, and not even the oldest maps showed it. League historical experts, such as they were, surmised that it had been hollowed out to hide runaway slaves, long before the American Civil War. It was doubly secure—no one outside the League knew it existed, and even if the Guards searched the 4th Street station, they would not be likely to find the entrance to the passageay cut to the grotto.
Getting to this place is impossible, Johnson thought, but it’s worth it. It’s worth taking all possible precautions now. At last we have a chance to destroy the entire Hegemonic Council. We’ll have to risk everything, but it’ll advance our cause by years.
Perhaps … perhaps, he dared to think, with the entire Council killed at one stroke, the Hegemony itself may even disintegrate.
At last, he reached the end of the narrow tunnel. The tunnel opened into a hemicylindrical chamber, about seven feet tall at its high point, perhaps ten feet long. The rounded wall-ceiling was mold-encrusted red brown brick and the floor was damp wet earth. It was dank in the grotto, but it was quite warm, for the chamber’s temperature was raised considerably by the body heat of the twenty men jammed into the close quarters—all the Section Leaders that could be summoned on short notice, Arkady Duntov of course, and Andy Mason, head of the League Forgery Bureau as well.
“I hope you’ve got us all stuffed into this hole for a good reason, Boris,” Mason, a squat, hawk-featured man said. “It’s hotter than hell in here.”
“Best reason in the world,” Johnson said. “Great news! We’re gonna assassinate the entire Hegemonic Council, all at once!”
Agent of Chaos M Page 7
