Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  But Gillian was one tway, and Reemul was two—Smiler and Sad-eyes, two telepathically linked bodies fighting under the spell of one consciousness—the very essence of the Paratwa assassin. And slowly, as if in a surreal milieu, the liege-killer had forced Gillian to the edge of death.

  But at that moment, the Lion, with a courage he had not realized he possessed, acted. And that action upset the balance, turning the tide of the battle in Gillian’s favor. And when the madness ended, the Lion and his mother and Gillian were alive, and the reign of the liege-killer was over.

  As clear as if it had happened yesterday.

  He looked up from the Council table, met the disinterested stares of Losef and Blumhaven. But Inez favored him with a warm smile. She was the only one who even remotely understood what the Lion was feeling.

  She said: “The past is a powerful thing, Jerem.”

  The Lion nodded. Even his real name brought back memories of those days, of that strange and all-too-short period known as childhood, and of those even stranger and impossibly precious days he had spent with Gillian.

  Blumhaven cleared his throat. “I believe we were discussing what could be done to stop these killers. The E-Tech Tactical Division has outlined some tentative plans regarding heightened security at all public gathering places. Please key A63 on your monitors.”

  The Lion touched his keyboard and Blumhaven’s video presentation appeared on the monitor. He followed it with ease. But the maps and digits on the screen occupied only a small portion of awareness, whereas a whole other part of him remained centered within places and times long gone. It was always like this. To think about Gillian was to open up his entire personal history for introspection. It was as if those days with Gillian served as some sort of magnet, attracting the events of his life, molding them into patterns—polarized effigies of an entire human existence.

  Fifty-six years ago, the random events in the life of a young boy had taken on clarity. Fifty-six years ago, the Lion had become obsessed.

  I must see him again.

  It was vital that Gillian and Nick be awakened.

  O}o{O

  Susan Quint lay on her back, on the mat floor of her day room, head propped slightly forward on a cushion, eyes staring vacantly upward through the angled glass wall. Outside her apartment, Irrya’s blue skies were beginning to change: an invasion of dusk. In the vacuum of space, huge rows of mirrors were slowly rotating, altering the angle of the northern sunlight entering the cosmishield glass strips, bending solar rays through a complex series of prisms and refraction modules. From center-sky—the gravity-free core of the rotating cylinder—pink clouds were issuing forth as the weather processing machinery, operating in tandem with the colony’s preprogrammed day/night mirror-cycle, added its contribution to the commencement of evening.

  Over a full day had elapsed since the massacre in the Yamaguchi terminal, yet Susan had only managed to return to her apartment a few hours ago; it had taken a tremendous effort just to get off Honshu. Following the attack, all of the colony’s terminals had been temporarily closed as E-Tech Security forces poured into the city. Citizens wishing to leave the cylinder had been forced to go through rigorous interviews, conducted with heavily armed squads of patrollers standing by. Only after Susan had assured her detainers—several times—that she had been nowhere near the massacre site had they allowed her to leave.

  She felt a bit guilty about having lied to the Security people. Still, sometimes you had to “tan the strip,” as Aunt Inez was fond of saying—cut a straight line between where you were and where you wanted to be.

  One of her reasons for being untruthful was purely selfish: She had no desire to be grilled for hours by E-Tech Security, and have to fill out endless statements, and probably appear again at a later date to answer more stupid questions. Besides, there were certainly more than enough witnesses to the massacre. They did not need her.

  But the primary reason concerned that madman with the daggers, and the way he had looked at her, his face melting into familiarity, as if he knew Susan Quint. Just thinking about his expression made her pulse race and her hands grow sweaty against the mat floor.

  I could not know such a monster.

  A triplet of hazy silhouettes took shape on the skyscrapers that surrounded and soared up past Susan’s lower-level apartment complex. Twenty stories above her, false brickface darkened as a trio of burnt ochre shadows crept slowly downward across the sides of the structures.

  She stared at the shadows, feeling her body beginning to drift away, mind easing itself down into a gray fog. With all the excitement, she had been unable to catch more than a few hours of rest on the shuttle flight back to Irrya. A long night of uninterrupted sleep would be wonderful. She considered expending energy to trek into the bedroom, but the mat floor felt just fine, and she was already stripped down to her underpants. Why move when you didn’t have to?

  She continued gazing at the shadow patterns, trying to imagine she was a little girl again, playing with a triangaton, composing intricate faces and forms with one of her treasured childhood teachtoys. But for some reason, the shapes refused to be molded, refused to follow Susan’s will. And then, abruptly, all of the shadows plunged together, mutated into a pale sphere, which rolled across the wall of the skyscraper: a decapitated head with smiling eyes.

  A tiny cry escaped her. She bolted upright.

  Just great! Nightmares, and I’m not even asleep yet!

  It was obvious she had to talk to someone about the events in Yamaguchi. Someone who was concerned about how Susan Quint felt being a witness to such horror.

  Aunt Inez.

  And Susan also remembered hearing her aunt once discuss a line of pre-Apocalyptic drugs used to help disaster victims. If she pestered enough, Aunt Inez could probably dig up something through La Gloria de la Ciencia—a pill or snort tab that took away your torment without depriving you of your feelings. Nothing too strong—just a little knockout to assure a couple of nights without dreams.

  Tomorrow she would take a taxi over to La Gloria de la Ciencia’s headquarters. She wished she could call Aunt Inez right now, but today was Sunday, and Sundays and Wednesdays were Council meeting days—occasions when it was nearly impossible to reach the woman.

  Besides, Susan was still physically tired. Nightmares, or not, she had to get some rest.

  Above her, the sky continued its programmed dissolve, the clouds melting into fluffs of gold against a background of deepening blue, triple shadows continuing their relentless march across the soaring walls of the Irryan buildings. Lights began to come on; vivid white bands outlining each floor, multicolored peepholes marking individual apartments. As the sky turned a rusty shade of black, Susan felt herself again drifting away, but peacefully this time. No headless images intruded upon her diminishing awareness.

  She smiled. Everything was going to be all right. Just thinking about Aunt Inez had helped.

  The doorbell chirped.

  With a sigh, she pushed herself up on her elbows. A sudden thought: I didn’t make a date for tonight, did I?

  The possibility wiped weariness from her mind. Quickly, she struggled to her feet and crossed to the desk.

  God, if she had to break a date . . .

  You just did not do that sort of thing in Irryan circles, at least not lightly. If word got around, the top liners would demote you. Irryan social rankings were subtle but rigorously enforced. Someone who strove to reach the upper circuits through dating had to shine constantly. One broken date with the wrong person, for whatever the reason, and word might get around that you were unreliable.

  The desk calendar ignited with a wave of her hand. She breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god—nothing tonight. Tomorrow she was seeing an ICN programmer. And Saturday, of course, was her most important engagement ever—the new marketing VP from Clark Shuttle Service was taking her to a freefall ballet above the Calais Emporium. The marketing VP was a 10G screamer—word had it that he was next in line to head the
company.

  The doorbell chirped again.

  She grabbed slippers and an orange wraparound from the bedroom closet, and whipped a comb through her long auburn hair. A squirt of mouth spray and a three-second grip on the barrel of a fleecer eliminated any possible body odors.

  The bell chirped a third time.

  I’m coming, dammit!

  She moved to the portal and switched on the inset monitor screen. The default setting displayed the view from her apartment’s main hallway camera. Two men, neatly dressed in dark business suits, stood in the corridor.

  She toggled the two-way audio. “Yes?”

  The taller of the pair, a bald man with polished gray sideburns, took a step forward. “Susan Quint?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, we’re from E-Tech Security. I’m Inspector Donnelly and this is Sergeant Tace.”

  The men held their palms up to the camera, showed Susan their ID slabs. She examined the holos for a moment, then swallowed nervously.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’d like to speak to you concerning your presence yesterday at the Yamaguchi Shuttle Terminal in Honshu Colony.”

  Susan frowned. “Honshu Colony? I . . . uhh . . .”

  Inspector Donnelly smiled. “Ma’am, you had reservations for a twelve-thirty-five departure from Honshu.”

  God—how could she have not thought of that? Her shuttle ticket—such a simple way to trace her.

  “Ma’am—may we please come in?”

  She sighed. She could lie again, say that she had never made it to the Yamaguchi terminal, but somehow she did not think that these men would believe her. Oh, well—nothing to be done now except tell the truth, and admit that she had lied to the authorities in the first place. Still, it was no big deal. She’d tell them that she had been scared witless—which was certainly the truth. What could they say?

  She undid the mechanical lock and waved the door open. The officers entered. She led them into the living room and offered them seats.

  The bald one with the sideburns—Inspector Donnelly—settled himself comfortably in her antique recliner. Sergeant Tace, a heavier, black-skinned man, remained standing at his side.

  “Something to drink?” Susan inquired.

  Inspector Donnelly shook his head. “No, thank you, ma’am. And we won’t take up much of your time either. Just a few simple questions.”

  Susan sat down in the room’s prime chair—a chrome-piped, backless Rogel, which she had gotten at a good price through a distributor friend. She crossed her legs and balanced her palms delicately on her knees and asked:

  “How may I help you?”

  She thought she sounded pretty good. “Look confident and you’ll feel confident,” her body-motion instructor often proclaimed.

  “You were at the Yamaguchi terminal during the massacre?” inquired Inspector Donnelly, in a manner that suggested he already knew the answer.

  “Yes,” said Susan calmly.

  “And you saw the killers?”

  “Only one of them—the man with the daggers. The one with the spray thruster seemed to be on the other side of the concourse.”

  “And did you recognize anyone at the terminal?”

  “No.” She frowned. Should she tell them about the way the killer seemed to know her?

  Inspector Donnelly hunched forward. “Miss Quint, we must be perfectly clear on this point. Did you recognize—or even think you recognized—anyone? In the terminal? On the entrance ramp? Outside, perhaps, as you were coming down the street? Or immediately following the incident?”

  “I did not see anyone who looked familiar.” She decided not to tell them about the killer’s expression. If she did, things would become needlessly complicated for her; a disadvantageous codicil to her social life. She would be publicly linked to the killers. God, some of the more blatant free-lancers would have a three-week-run with news like that. At Susan’s expense.

  The officers stared at her for a moment. Then Inspector Donnelly gave a nod. He appeared satisfied that she was telling the truth.

  “Just one more question, Miss Quint. We must know if you’ve spoken to anyone else since the massacre. This is very important.”

  “No one,” she said firmly. Then she frowned. Why would they ask such a question?

  The answer came to her in a flash. Aunt Inez. Susan was no ordinary witness—she was the grandniece of an Irryan councilor. These officers would certainly be aware of Susan’s special status.

  Even though E-Tech and La Gloria de la Ciencia were historically at odds with one another, Aunt Inez had said that the two organizations had been much more cooperative in recent years, mainly because of this business about the possibility of the Paratwa starships returning. Probably these men had been given special instructions to avoid, if possible, any public embarrassment to Susan’s aunt.

  Inspector Donnelly stood up. “Miss Quint, thank you very much for your cooperation.”

  She walked them toward the door. But suddenly they stopped, and she almost ran into the back of Sergeant Tace.

  Inspector Donnelly turned with an apologetic smile. “Excuse us for a moment, Miss Quint. Instructions coming through.”

  Susan nodded and backed away a few steps. Most officers wore transceivers in their ears. Some even had implants. The men were probably receiving instructions from their headquarters.

  She wondered if they also had microcams sewn onto their suits. Probably. Susan’s interrogation had surely been seen and heard by other E-Tech authorities.

  The inspector compressed his palm over his mouth and muttered something into a ring microphone. Then he lowered his hand and turned around to address Susan. He had a sad expression in his eyes.

  “Miss Quint, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to be delayed here for just a moment.” He pointed to his ear. “Vital communications coming through. We have to maintain our positions.”

  Susan nodded. Probably, interference messed up their transmissions in certain buildings, especially if they moved around. Still, they could have acted a bit more politely and waited outside her apartment. Then it occurred to her: Their instructions must concern me.

  Sergeant Tace spoke, in a clear soft voice, which belied his appearance. “Ma’am—may I use your bathroom?”

  She held back her impatience. “Down the hall to the left.” God, I hope they don’t plan on making a night out of it.

  The sergeant brushed past her. Susan stood there for what seemed like several minutes, watching the inspector’s face go through a series of apologetic expressions.

  From the day room, a high-pitched beeper broke the silence.

  Susan frowned. “What’s that?”

  The inspector shrugged.

  She walked back through the hallway. Sergeant Tace was slowly circling her day room. The beeping noise emanated from a small box, which the officer clutched in his palm.

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Ma’am, this is a bug-checker. I’m trying to ascertain whether any surveillance devices have been planted in your apartment.” He smiled at her. “Do you know of any?”

  An uneasy feeling took hold. “Of course not. Why do you want to know that?” she demanded.

  “Procedure in special cases.” He put the bug-checker in his pocket. The beeping stopped. “Ma’am, you’ll be glad to know I’ve found nothing. Your place is clean. Nothing but the standard door/window security sensors.”

  “We’re ready,” called the inspector.

  Sergeant Tace motioned to her. “We’re through now, Miss Quint. Thank you for your patience.”

  Susan turned and led the sergeant back out into the hall. But now the inspector was gone. And on the other side of the hall, the previously closed door into Susan’s bedroom was open.

  Her guts clamped together; that same sickly feeling she had experienced yesterday in the terminal raced through her body, like an electric current unable to find its ground. She wanted t
o open her mouth and demand that the men leave her apartment at once. But words would not come. The best she could accomplish was a quivering lower lip.

  The inspector appeared in her bedroom doorway. For a moment, cold eyes stared at Susan. Then: “Bring her in here, Tace. We’ll do it on the bed.”

  And suddenly, from behind her, the sergeant’s thick hands were gripping her shoulders, propelling her forward.

  She didn’t even think. She simply reacted.

  Whirling. Knee up. Full force into the sergeant’s groin.

  If he had been expecting any resistance, he could have stopped her easily. She could almost see the look of surprised regret on his face, mixed with sheer pain, as he dropped to his knees on the carpet, arms snapping across his chest, body folding into a fetal pose to fight the agony.

  She spun around. Inspector Donnelly charged forward, right hand fumbling under the breast of his jacket.

  Time decelerated, like in the terminal yesterday. In slow motion, the barrel of a thruster emerged from beneath the inspector’s coat.

  The inspector was within three feet of her when she punched him in the mouth.

  It was not a hard punch, not enough to knock him over. He just sort of stopped coming toward her. He stood there, a pace away, a peaceful expression on his face. Then his eyes began blinking rapidly, as if he were trying to refocus them.

  Susan did not wait for his reflexes to come back. She ran down the hallway, waved the door open, and hurtled out into the corridor.

  O}o{O

  A mile from the north pole, in the middle of a forest of pines, the Lion of Alexander knelt at the edge of a clearing. He was planting his third rose bush of the morning, carefully tamping the mud between a stunted fern and a clump of braced red daffodils. Intoxicating smells filled the air: freshly cut albino grass, truetone violets, the surrounding pines. The faint scent of barbecued meat derivatives, emanating from the huge A-frame tucked under a nearby lonely oak, clashed with the pungent aroma of dead fish.