He wondered what Catharine would have thought of his new looks.
With a sigh, he resumed his interrupted march toward the escalators, to the subterranean docks and the shuttle that would transport him back to the colony of Irrya.
A realization struck him. It does not matter whether the Yamaguchi massacre was accomplished by transceiver-linked human beings or a Paratwa. Either way, there was a deadly enemy in the Colonies.
There is someone to hunt.
Hunting produced a pleasure that few other activities could rival. But Gillian knew also that his sudden desire for the hunt carried deeper meaning.
The intensity of a face-to-face battle to the death could bring on the whelm—the duality of consciousness that would force him and his memory-concentrate of Catharine to interlace, become Empedocles.
Hunting can make me whole.
Yet, as before, he felt doubts about the arising of Empedocles. Becoming whole was something to be both desired and feared.
O}o{O
The Lion entered the cramped room and gazed at the sophisticated conglomeration of computer equipment that had been installed early this morning by Costeau technicians under Nick’s and Adam Lu Sang’s direction. Until yesterday, the room had been a vacant bedroom in the Lion’s A-frame house, in the clan’s forested Irryan retreat.
He squeezed a chair into a space beside the tiny programmer and sat down. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you a bigger room.”
Nick grinned. “This isn’t bad, Jerem. Besides, I don’t occupy a whole lotta volume.”
“Is the equipment almost ready?”
“Just about. Adam’s with a couple of your techs right now, requisitioning more goodies. He seems a bit surprised that your people have been able to provide most of the gear we need.”
“Intercolonial free trading can be a glorious thing.”
The midget chuckled. “Is that how you refer to the black market these days?”
The Lion smiled and motioned to a rotating 3D grid on the nearest screen. “What’s that?”
“A graph of technological growth plotted against time and financial investment. It indicates to me that although the Colonies have increased their rate of technological advancement over the past fifty-six years in some areas—most notably weapons research—in terms of investment dollars, your society has a rather poor rate of return. You’ve accessed the archives for ‘lost’ sciences, sinking large sums into the redevelopment of working technologies. And you’ve also heavily financed virgin research. Yet overall, you haven’t been spending your money well.”
The Lion nodded. “There’s a very good reason for that. E-Tech still restricts large-scale dissemination of archival data. Very little scientific cross-fertilization occurs—spin-off technologies are almost unknown. In those circumstances, R and D is not cheap.”
“Rome Franco must have done his job well,” said the midget. “Even knowing that the Colonies were going to experience a growth spurt, he vowed that E-Tech would maintain stiff controls over the rate of that growth. I guess he succeeded.
“Still, in at least some areas, I would have expected the Colonies to be a bit further along. Most especially, I would have expected that the ‘Ecospheric Turnaround’ projects would have rendered large areas of the Earth reinhabitable by now.”
The Lion shrugged. “Over the years, the Council of Irrya and most senators have felt that there was little sense in spending large sums of money on Earth revitalization projects until the threat of the Ash Ock was dealt with, once and for all.”
“Makes sense, I suppose. I’ve also noticed something else about your society, by selectively examining certain parameters. Throughout the Colonies, crime rates are rising, political chicanery is on the upswing, and your major entertainment indexes are wildly out of control—popular diversions are at an all-time high.” The midget hesitated. “Sort of reminds me of pre-Apocalyptic days.”
The Lion frowned. “We’re living in troubled times.”
“And so it goes,” said Nick softly.
“I thought you were supposed to be working on the sunsetter problem?”
“I am. But first I’m trying to establish a background grid of your society, gain a clearer perspective of where things are headed. I have to be able to perceive the Colonies the way this sunsetter perceives them. I have to try and figure out the ultimate goals of our nasty little program.”
“I thought its goal was fairly clear. It’s trying to wipe out the data archives—specifically, older programs holding technical and scientific information.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Sunsetters were often targeted to destroy only specific data. But they wiped out scores of other programs in order to disguise their actual intended targets. That process made it more difficult to discover the motivations of the sunsetter’s progenitor.”
The Lion nodded. “Could this sunsetter have been put into the archives hundreds of years ago, by pre-Apocalyptic programmers? And for some reason awakened in our era?”
“A sleeper?” Nick shook his head. “It’s theoretically possible, but I doubt it. Before the archives were transferred up to the Colonies, they were thoroughly detoxed. We came across no evidence of sunsetters, awake or sleeping.
“The fact that this program is in the archives now suggests two general possible scenarios. One: the program was entered for extraneous, albeit malicious, reasons. Perhaps a disgruntled programmer, twenty to twenty-five years ago, created or discovered the sunsetter and input it, perhaps as a kind of long-term vengeance on the organization. Or maybe a more innocent process occurred—an E-Tech experimental program, for instance, that got out of control.
“The second scenario is, of course, that the presence of the sunsetter is meaningful. Person or persons unknown have put it into the archives in order to achieve a specific goal or goals.”
The door slid back and Adam Lu Sang marched into the room, his slender frame half-hidden by a large plastic box brimming with equipment. He nodded excitedly to the Lion. “Genuine collusion-4 output desamplers—one of your techs got them for us. Your people must know the black market inside and out!”
Nick grinned. “Ahh, these Costeaus—fingers always in the cookie jar.”
The young programmer hesitated, then squatted and set the carton on a low bench. He straightened slowly and faced the Lion. “I didn’t mean to suggest that all Costeaus are involved in criminal activities—”
Nick reached up and whacked Adam on the shoulder. The programmer flinched.
“Relax,” chortled the midget. “Intercolonial free trading is a glorious thing.”
Adam still looked uncertain.
The Lion smiled. “It’s all right, Adam. You have not offended.”
“Yeah,” agreed Nick. “If you had offended, the Lion would probably ask you to take a walk in the forest with a couple of those large Costeaus you see roaming around the grounds. You know the ones I mean—they carry thrusters and look like they’d enjoy snacking on warm Christmas reindeer.”
Adam managed an uneasy smile.
The Lion asked, “How close are we to gaining full access into the actual E-Tech archival network?”
“Another day or so,” replied the young programmer, nodding vigorously.
“We’re still customizing the equipment,” said Nick. “We’re dividing this gear into two subnetworks. Adam will tie one of the systems into the vaults. But the second system will be separated by a special modem that will prevent the sunsetter from entering. In fact, if it tries to gain access to the second system, we’ll know about it.”
“We need a clean computer,” Adam explained. “One that can’t be compromised.”
“Right,” said Nick. “An average sunsetter can foul the data within any network it can make electrical or radio contact with. And a really good sunsetter will actually be on the lookout for enemy programs—ones designed to track it down. If this sunsetter is really outstanding, then it’s going to go on the offensive once it discovers we’re after it. B
ut it won’t be able to pass through that modem—it won’t be able to reach the system that’s generating enemy programs. At least that’s what we’re hoping will occur.” The midget grinned suddenly. “Gee whiz—this could be a lotta fun!”
Adam headed for the door. “I’m due back at E-Tech soon. Is there anything else we need?”
Nick squinted in thought. “Let’s see . . . how about a BLT?”
“A bore lithium tracer?” wondered Adam, shaking his head in confusion. “What would we need one of those for?”
“I was thinking more in terms of a sandwich.”
“Oh.” Adam grinned. “You had some funny names for sandwiches back in the pre-Apocalypse.”
“Funny sandwiches for funny times,” Nick said dryly.
Adam waved good-bye and marched out the door.
The Lion watched the young programmer through the window as he headed up the twisting path toward the main parking lot. “What’s your impression of him?”
“A smart boy,” answered Nick.
“Then you fully believe his sunsetter theory?”
“Unless he’s a complete liar, then it’s probably not theory. A sunsetter on the rampage is the clearest explanation for all those cancer-eaten programs.”
The Lion hesitated. “If that’s true . . . then why can’t he convince his senior E-Tech programmers? I believe I understand part of their reluctance to accept such a thing. But it seems to me that if Adam is so certain of this sunsetter’s existence . . .”
Nick wagged his finger. “If Dickie doesn’t know there’s a toilet, then he’s probably going to pee on the floor.”
“What?”
“It’s a matter of perspective. You gotta at least believe that there’s a target before you can hit it. Highly trained programmers—technical people in many professions, for that matter—tend to get locked into belief systems that are totally based on their own experiences. A natural enough process—you absorb what you learn, and then apply that learning to all new experiences.
“But to be a really capable computer hawk, you have to transcend that process. You have to assume that there are no limitations to the machine, that anything can be accomplished. Adam’s coworkers can’t see this sunsetter because it doesn’t fit into their belief systems.” The midget grinned slyly. “They haven’t been properly toilet-trained.”
The Lion chuckled. He liked Nick. In fact, the man’s combination of fiery intellect and quaint expressiveness made it almost impossible to dislike him.
But I must remember that this jovial little man is not merely a brilliant computer programmer. According to what the Lion had learned through classified Council records, Rome Franco had considered Nick to be one of the grand manipulators of pre-Apocalyptic civilization. Franco had warned that should Nick be awakened again, he might prove to have his own agenda for the Colonies: plans not necessarily in line with official objectives.
Franco also had been convinced that Nick was capable of being just as ruthless as the Paratwa. And although the midget had never taken part in the actual violence, he and Gillian had operated as a team, hunting down Paratwa.
Like Gillian, he is contract killer. I must never lose sight of that fact.
Nick swiveled his chair, turned away from the computers. The Lion felt bright blue eyes studying his profile.
“I have some questions for you, Jerem.” The midget paused. “And I’d like your assurances that our conversations on these matters will go no further than this room.”
The Lion permitted himself a faint smile. “Questions about Gillian, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“You have my assurances.”
Nick folded his arms across his chest and propped his short legs up on the console. “You’ve known the whole truth about Gillian all these years, about him being a tway of an Ash Ock, about his ability to actually become the warrior Empedocles. Gillian said he told you and your mother everything before Rome Franco put us back into stasis fifty-six years ago.”
The Lion nodded.
Nick licked his lips. “Did he say why he told you all that?”
“Not really. I suppose he felt he owed it to us. After all, Gillian set the trap that Reemul walked into. My mother and I showed up there by accident. We were almost killed.”
“And you saved Gillian’s life.”
“As he saved mine.”
Nick stared at a blank monitor screen. “And in all those years, you’ve told no one about Gillian’s . . . alter ego?”
“No one. He swore us to secrecy.”
For a moment, Nick said nothing. He kept his gaze on the darkened screen.
The Lion frowned. “What’s troubling you?”
“During the pre-Apocalypse, when Gillian’s tway—Catharine—was killed . . . when we of E-Tech kept Gillian alive, manipulated him to our own ends . . .” Nick hesitated. “I guess what I’m trying to say is this—back then, we were operating under the unquestioned assumption that Empedocles was dead, that his Ash Ock consciousness had perished in the instant of Catharine’s death.”
“A false assumption,” said the Lion.
“Yes. And back then we possessed—or we thought we possessed—a fairly complete understanding of the binary interlink phenomenon. Whatever the breed, the death of a tway automatically destroyed the telepathically bound consciousness ruling the two tways. The interlace collapsed and the surviving tway went mad.”
The Lion nodded. “You kept Gillian alive and functioning by hiding his past from him, by making him believe that he was a human being, not a Paratwa.”
“We did what we had to do.”
The Lion sensed regret in Nick’s words.
“Anyway,” the midget continued quickly, “fifty-six years ago, our theories were proved wrong. Somehow, the consciousness of Empedocles still survives, imprinted within the very cells of Gillian’s mind and body. In Gillian’s final battle with Reemul, he found a way to bring back his Ash Ock monarch.”
Images from that day, long ago, wafted through the Lion’s awareness: Gillian and Reemul locked in mortal combat, he and his mother trapped in the same room—the most terrifying day of his life.
And the day I became obsessed.
He realized that since seeing Gillian for the first time yesterday, much of the power of that obsession had been relieved. Yet he still acknowledged an urge to be with the man, to walk beside him, to discuss a vast range of subjects with him. Will the part of me that remains a twelve-year-old boy endlessly long for his presence? Will that part of me forever seek out the man who was, for a short time, almost like a surrogate father to me?
Questions, perhaps, that could never be answered.
“Gillian—the man—I know well,” continued Nick. “He is a friend whom I have trusted implicitly for many years. But Empedocles . . . him I do not know. Him I do not trust. He is Paratwa.” The face hardened. “He is my enemy.”
“But both Gillian and Empedocles opposed Reemul that day,” argued the Lion, even while understanding perfectly well what Nick was trying to express.
“That day, the needs of tway and monarch were probably identical,” said Nick. “With Reemul, a personal score had to be settled.
“But now, in this era, with the other two Ash Ock—Sappho and Theophrastus—likely to return from the stars . . .” Nick shrugged. “The loyalties of Empedocles are in question.”
“He could betray Gillian.”
“He could betray humanity. And there’s something else. I saw the report that Gillian’s face-lift doctor filed, after giving him a full-med exam. I also recall the results of the exam that Rome Franco’s doctors wrote on Gillian fifty-six years ago. Physiologically, there’s an alarming discrepancy between then and now. Today, Gillian’s reaction times are much slower—his reflexes are sluggish and he’s not as mentally alert as he once was.”
The Lion paused. “I’ve heard that long periods of stasis can alter—”
“No, this isn’t a stasis-sleep problem. I believe it’s
a process that began when Empedocles reawoke during Gillian’s battle with Reemul. I believe that since then, Gillian has been engaged in a subconscious struggle with his monarch. It is that struggle which is causing the deterioration of his response patterns.”
The Lion nodded slowly. “What can we do?”
“About his slowed reflexes, I don’t know. But we have to keep an eye on him, that’s for certain. I’d like you to give me a couple of your people: Costeaus who can’t easily be traced back to the Lion of Alexander, but whose allegiances to you are strong. I’d like to assign them to Gillian.”
The Lion shook his head. “The Gillian that I remember was adept at avoiding such attentions.”
“You’re right—he’ll spot most any tail immediately. And he’s very skilled at avoiding electronic eavesdropping. I doubt if we could plant a bug on his person without him detecting it.”
“Then what’s the point of assigning trackers?”
Nick offered a faint smile. “I’m not talking about trackers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Trust me. I have a plan.”
O}o{O
Thursday evening, in the privacy of his office at CPG headquarters, Ghandi tuned to FL-SIXTEEN—the major freelancer channel. Earlier, Colette had hinted in her cryptic way that FL-SIXTEEN’s eight-oh-five newscast might be interesting. If Colette said something was going to be interesting, then Ghandi knew he could not afford to miss it.
He sank into the lounger and watched a fair-complexioned, well-groomed young man take shape on the screen.
“AND NOW,” croaked the man, his voice brimming with menace, “FOR THOSE WHO DEMAND THE LATEST IN INTERCOLONIAL NEWS COLLATION . . .
“FL-SIXTEEN PRESENTS THE AWARD-DRENCHED FEEDBACK EXPERTS . . .
“OUR PRIME COVERAGE ILLUMINATORS . . .
“KARL ZORK AND THEANDRA MORGAN!”
The announcer’s face exploded.
Glittering streaks of ultrablue light shot to the right of the screen, reversed direction, then reformed into a second computer-generated countenance: a beautiful older woman, ivory hair swirling behind her, angled cheekbones rapidly changing color under the glow of an airborne auraflector.
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