Dying Space td-47

by Warren Murphy

  "I must find Remo. And kill him."

  Mr. Gordons spoke those words softly as he stopped at the head of the staircase leading down to the dungeons. He touched his new face, Ivan's face, with his fingertips. "Creative," he said. "I was very creative."

  Yuri and Gorky, Istoropovich's two assistants, were running toward him. They stopped as they saw him going down the steps.

  "You're going the wrong way, Ivan," Yuri said.

  "I am?" Mr. Gordons answered in Russian.

  "The alarm's in the other wing. The conference

  room.

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  "Hey. You no walk like Ivan," Gorky said, his rubber lips working. "Maybe you robot."

  "Don't be stupid," Yuri said. "How could Ivan be a robot? Robots can get it up. Ivan can only think about it."

  Mr. Gordons thought to himself, I must be creative about this. They should not tell where I am.

  Yuri and Gorky were arguing. Gorky said, "Something fishy here," and Yuri unsheathed his pistol and aimed it at Mr. Gordons.

  "Well bring him in," Yuri said. He waved the gun at Mr. Gordons. "Get moving."

  "Very well," Mr. Gordons said. "I am moving." He moved his arm toward Gorky's thick, fat-layered neck and broke it with a snap.

  Yuri fired his pistol. The bullet entered Mr. Gordons's body and exited smoothly out the back. He didn't miss a beat as he poked out the area of the man's chest just below his LaCoste alligator with two steel fingers.

  "That is sufficiently creative," Mr. Gordons said as he headed down the stairs. "And now for Remo Williams."

  Remo breathed.

  Good blood coursed through his veins, searching out his body. "I will live," he said. He felt a wracking ache in the back of his neck, near his spinal column.

  "Breathe. Live." He repeated it over and over, and his body heard the commands. It kept repeating its own signal of pain—in the back of his neck, near his spinal column.

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  Remo willed his blood to course even more rapidly through his body, flowing steadily down into his right fingertips, heightening the strength and the sensitivity of his hand, his fingers.

  He touched his hand to the back of his neck, where the pain signals were coming from. When he touched the spot, he screamed, then again breathed deeply. Ignoring the hurt, his fingers explored the spot. He squeezed it with his fingers and felt a tiny little metallic speck pop from his skin. Instantly, fresh air coursed through his body. It was as if he had just emerged from too long underwater and was gulping life-giving oxygen. He looked at the spot on his fingers. A tiny black dot, almost invisible inside the darkness of his cell. An insect stinger? Perhaps Chiun was right. Chiun.

  Remo shoved the black speck into his pocket and walked to the front wall of the dungeon. Chiun must be saved.

  As he reached the dungeon wall, it moved forward to meet him. The cell was closing in.

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  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Alarms resounded through the stone corridor outside the long bank of cells.

  Mr. Gordons stood silently, feeling the vibrations of heartbeats from inside.

  Two of the cells were occupied.

  There were two humans in the nearest one. One human in the one at the end of the corridor. Which cell would contain Remo? His delicate ear sensors picked up another sound. Something was moving inside the cells. It was a scraping sound, almost as if the walls themselves were moving.

  Which cell should he go to? Which cell contained Remo who must die?

  As he thought, seeking a solution, the question was answered for him.

  There was a wrenching sound, the sound of stone being crushed under pressure, and then with a whoosh, the concrete panel on the front of

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  the nearest cell exploded out into the corridor, in five tons of cracking fury.

  Out stepped Chiun. And behind him Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes.

  Mr. Gordons looked at them, then let a smile spread over Ivan's features, which he wore.

  "Then Remo is in the other cell and Remo must

  die."

  Chiun leaped into the center of the corridor, facing Mr. Gordons, blocking with his body the android's path to Remo's cell.

  "The path to my son must always pass through me," he intoned coldly.

  The professor looked back and forth, from Chiun to Ivan, Chiun to Ivan, and then she realized.

  "Sonny? Is it you?"

  "Yes, Doctor," Mr. Gordons said. "I was creative. I used Ivan's features to confuse everyone. Now I must kill Remo."

  "Doctor?" the professor said. "Why not Mom? You used to call me Mom."

  "Now I am creative. I know you are not my mother. That does not mean I do not love you." He stared at Chiun and took a tentative step toward the tiny Oriental, who stood almost casually, arms at his sides.

  "Remo can wait," the professor said. "Remo must die," Mr. Gordons said. He took another step toward Chiun. Dr. Payton-Holmes ran between them and put her hands on Mr. Gor-

  dons's arms.

  "Sonny," she said. "You have to listen. I have programmed you to turn the Volga around and to

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  crash it into this building. If you do that, Remo will die."

  All the programming that was in him, all the synapses and the neuron connections were repeating one message to Mr. Gordons: Remo must die. But another message insinuated itself, a confusing message that he had no experience in dealing with. It said, Listen to this woman whom you respect—and love.

  He tried to fight it off. He spoke again to the small woman clutching his arms. "Remo must die. Now. When he is too weak to be a danger to me."

  Suddenly, at the end of the corridor, there was another crashing sound. The huge concrete slab that covered the cell opening blasted out into the corridor.

  Into the dank hall stepped Remo.

  He looked at Mr. Gordons.

  "Too late," he said. "I'm back together now, Tin Man."

  Without looking around, without taking his eyes off Mr. Gordons, Chiun said, "It's about time."

  "Stop carping," Remo said.

  "Mr. Gordons injected a transmitter into you," Chiun said.

  "See? It's all your fault," Remo said. "You told me it was an insect bite."

  "No," Chiun said. "I told you that once I suffered an insect bite. What insect would want to eat at the trough of your body. Are you recovered?"

  "Yes," Remo said. ;

  Mr. Gordons tried to take another step forward,

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  toward Remo, but the professor wrapped her arms

  around him.

  "Be creative," she said. "You can now. If you do what I want, you will stop the Volga and Remo too. If you go after Remo now, it may be too late to stop the Volga."

  "The Volga never hurt me," Mr. Gordons said. "Creativity means being free. Free to think and free to do. The Volga represents people who crush creativity," Dr. Payton-Holmes said. "Why do you think I oppose them so? Do you think your creator would have been allowed to create you if she had lived in this country? Do you think I would be free to think? To work? All your creativity means nothing when you are not allowed to create. Trust me. The Volga."

  Mr. Gordons's mouth began to move, then it stopped. It started again. Slowly, he spoke.

  "I trust you because I know you love me." He looked down the corridor toward Remo. "Some other time," he said. "First the Volga." "Ready when you are, M. G.," Remo said. "I'm proud of you, Sonny," the professor told Mr. Gordons and squeezed his android arms.

  The four of them moved toward the stone steps leading to the next level. At that moment, a small troop of Russian soldiers were heading down the stairs. They saw the four and raised their guns. Mr. Gordons wrapped his arms around Dr. Payton-Holmes protectively, while Remo went over the top of the two of them, vaulting up the fourteen steps in a flying double split. He landed with two fingers embedded in the occipital lobe of one

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  guard and a foot protruding through another's chest.<
br />
  The blood from the soldier who had just incorporated Remo's foot into his own anatomy spurted upward like a fountain. Another soldier, racing toward Remo, slipped on the red pool and skidded toward Chiun.

  Wrapping one advancing soldier around another, the old Oriental stopped the oncoming sliding body with his toe. "Gross," he muttered. "How many times have I told you that a sloppy assassin is as worthless as a stupid one."

  "Look out," Remo said, indicating a guard who was tiptoeing behind Chiun, his rifle raised and sighted.

  "Fool," Chiun said, kicking his leg out behind him to disembowel the soldier. "Do you think I see nothing? Concentrate on your own work."

  "Okay, I'll do that," Remo said bitterly. "See if I ever warn you about impending danger again. See if I care who creeps up on you. I'll just look after myself. Looking out for Number One, that's me from now on."

  He stopped short when a pointed object whizzed past him a half-inch from his nose and embedded itself in the wall. "What was that?"

  "So easily distracted," Chiun said, shaking his head as he finished off the last two guards with a single stroke of his elbow.

  Remo picked the object from the wall and examined it. "A fountain pen," he said. "Somebody's throwing office supplies at us." He tossed it aside. Within one second it exploded, tearing a hole the size of a large man out of the wall.

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  "When will you learn to leave things alone?"

  Chiun groused.

  A book of matches zipped around the corner of the corridor like a boomerang. As it approached, it burst into a ball of flame. Remo sidestepped it quickly. Chiun filled his lungs and blew the flaming object into the hole in the wall.

  "I'd hate to see what would happen if they sent in the staplers and Scotch tape dispensers," Remo

  said.

  Another object came flying their way. It landed

  at Remo's feet. It was an envelope.

  "Ho ho," Remo chuckled. "If that isn't loaded, I don't know what is. What do you think it is, Chiun? Tear gas? A flat Russian grenade?"

  "It is an envelope, gentlemen," came a voice from the far end of the hall. Grigori Seminov turned the corner and walked slowly toward them, his monocle glinting with the harsh artificial overhead light.

  "There is nothing in the envelope. See for yourselves."

  "No, thanks. We'll take your word for it."

  Chiun shunted the envelope into a corner with his foot. It touched the wall and exploded into fragments. "So much for his word," the old man

  said.

  "Ah, you do not trust Russians," Seminov murmured.

  "Not Russians who use auto crushers for holding cells," Remo said.

  "Or who throw exploding pens," Chiun added.

  "Juvenile."

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  "Is this less juvenile?" Seminov asked, extracting a 7.65 Tokarev from his uniform.

  "Hardly."

  "I suppose you think I'm going to shoot you."

  "It doesn't look like you're going to light anybody's cigars with it," Remo said. "Look, we'd like to stand here and chat with you about what you're going to do to us, but we have an appointment at your missile lab. You understand."

  "Alas," Seminov said. "I'm afraid you'll have to miss your appointment, due to sudden poor health. What a pity." He took a step backward and began to squeeze the trigger. Watching him, Remo prepared to dodge the bullet. It was a simple matter, moving slightly to miss the projectile. Then two running steps forward, and Seminov would be as glassy and cold as the monocle in his eye.

  The finger on the trigger squeezed slowly. Suddenly Chiun whispered, "Do you see the hole of the gun?"

  Remo widened his pupils to focus on the barrel of the Tokarev. Around the bore were small, round notches surrounding it like a sunburst. Remo and Chiun hit the floor a fraction of a second before Seminov fired, sending a bullet and six small fragments flying into all the walls and the ceiling.

  "More gizmos," Remo said disgustedly. No sooner had he said it than Seminov pressed a button on the handle of the gun and the barrel disengaged, falling downward on a hinge.

  He fired again, sending an eight-foot-long stream of flame toward the young American and

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  the old Oriental. The two of them climbed up opposite walls, allowing the suction of their palms and feet to keep them aloft long enough for the flame to pass.

  Seminov squinted behind his monocle. He dropped the gun and took from his pocket a Zippo lighter.

  "What's he going to do now, flick us to death?" Remo said.

  "Filthy American pigs," spat Seminov.

  "That does it," Chiun said. "First he calls me Japanese, and now he calls me an American." He squatted down low near the floor and leaped forward like a floating wizard. Seminov squeezed the Zippo, and a long string of transparent plastic wire shot out, encircling Chiun in a snare.

  "Careful, Chiun," Remo said.

  "Careful," Chiun mimicked. Without slowing his movements, he slashed through the wires with one fingernail and continued to propel himself toward Seminov.

  The Russian's eyes widened. Frantically he searched his pockets. A moment before Chiun landed, Seminov extracted a ring with a black stone and placed it on his finger.

  "Come no'closer," he shouted, his voice quavering. With a trembling arm he held out a fist, aiming the ring at the old man.

  "Ass, do you expect to kill the Master of Sinanju with a simulated onyx?" With hands so swift, they were only a blur, Chiun took hold of Seminov's fist and twisted it up to his face. The stone in the ring popped open. As Seminov stared, horrified, at the contents of the ring inches from

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  his monocled eye, the Russian screamed something in his native language.

  Then a tiny dart slithered out of the ring and implanted itself in Seminov's monocle. The glass shattered; the eye disappeared. With a small moan Seminov accepted the dart into his brain, where it exploded with a muffled bang and blew the top of his head onto the ceiling.

  "American indeed," Chiun said.

  "Is he gone?" came a voice from the shadows. It was Mr. Gordon's, holding on to the professor.

  "Yes, and a lot of help you were," Remo said. "We have to get to the missile lab. Do you know where it is?"

  "Of course," the professor said. "That's early NASA training. Do you know how to steal a car?"

  "Sure," Remo said. "That's early Newark training."

  As they sped toward the missile base in a Russianized Ford Pinto, Remo asked Chiun what Seminov's last sentence in Russian was.

  "He said, 'Hail, Master of Sinanju,'" the old man said with a smile. "It is good to know he was not all bad."

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  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The four of them were surrounded by guards at the entrance to the missile lab.

  "They've got us now," the professor said.

  "I could kill them, I suppose," Mr. Gordons said, "but I feel that is not sufficiently creative. Now that I'm a creative being, I have to check all my options carefully."

  "How about being a little less creative and a little more useful," Remo said, zapping two of the guards with the locked fingers of his left hand.

  "That is the most intelligent thing you've said all day," Chiun said as he relocated the cranial cavities of three more guards into the poured concrete flooring.

  "That did not sound particularly intelligent to me," Mr. Gordons said dejectedly. "But then, I am less creative than the rest of you. I am just beginning to think creatively. Creativity is still a

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  relatively uncommon state for one of my physical components. Actually, I believe that creativity ..."

  One of the guards smashed Mr. Gordons on the head with the butt of his rifle.

  "On the other hand, creativity isn't everything," he said as he pulverized the man's face with one squeeze of his mighty hands.

  "That was a creative maneuver," Chiun said encouragingly. "Perhaps you could be a little tidier next time. Observe." With a sl
ow stroke of his arm, the frail Oriental sent a 260-pound soldier sprawling against the wall. "See? No blood. Much more imaginative."

  "I see," Mr. Gordons said. "Excuse me," he said to a guard as he tapped him on the shoulder. "I wish to be creative with you."

  The guard mumbled something guttural and blasted Mr. Gordons in the stomach with his revolver. "You are not cooperating with my creative impulses," the robot said. He grabbed the guard around the head and pressed the man's nose into his brain. "How was that?"

  "Not bad, kid," Remo said, transforming the kidneys of the last remaining guard into brown

  Jello.

  Gordons beamed. "Really?"

  "Really. Let's get in there." He jerked his head toward the door.

  "That's wonderful, son," the professor said. "I'm

  so proud of you."

  "Thank you, professor," Mr. Gordons said, smiling. "But I am not your son. Now that I'm creative, I know that. It does not mean my feelings for you have lessened."

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  "My friend, then," she said.

  Mr. Gordons beamed. "Yes. I like that. I've never had a friend before. Can I call you Frances?"

  "Can we please get this mutual admiration society into the missile lab?" Remo said, running down a stairway. It led to a windowless stone room.

  "This can't be the place," he said.

  "It's the place, all right," the professor reassured him. "This is the antechamber. It's used for screening incoming matter for purity. The en-' trance is a sliding stone panel. That one, probably." She pointed to a recessed wall.

  Then a voice rang out, echoing throughout the room."You will never enter that lab," it said.

  Chiun looked toward the source of the sound. "And why not?" he asked.

  Istoropovich approached from-the shadows, the ever-present gold balls dangling from between his fingers. "I know I can't kill you and get out of here alive," he said.

  Chiun considered this. "True," he admitted finally.

  "And if I allow you to go into the lab, the high commander will see to the immediate destruction of my career, my family, and my life."

  "That's the biz, sweetheart," Remo said.

  Chiun shook a finger at Istoropovich. "Things were more equitable for you peasants under Ivan the Wonderful. A fine leader. At least he would have let you remain to clean the public lavatories."