Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  “Yes!” screamed the crowd, coming to life.

  O’Donahee thrust out his left arm, fisted his fingers twice. This time, almost the entire assembly followed his lead. Seven hundred left arms saluted.

  “Long live the Order of the Birch!” he shouted.

  “Long live the Order of the Birch!” screamed the crowd.

  “Long live the Great Hot Head!” shouted the heckler, and his voice seemed to drown out the entire assemblage. Necks craned toward the left front of the auditorium, seeking a better view of the disrupter.

  O’Donahee glared. The disrupter had snapped a pair of miniature blast speakers onto his shoulders and a lip mic onto his chin. His voice now boasted enough amplification to overwhelm a sixty-piece queen-rock orchestra.

  It was time to deal with this obnoxious fatix. O’Donahee signaled to a pair of his own security people standing in the rear of the hall. They nodded and began moving toward the center aisle. O’Donahee turned his attention back to the heckler. “You, sir, are not welcome here. You must leave this auditorium! At once!”

  “And you, sir, must shut your mouth. At once! For if you do not, the Great Hot Head will descend upon you!”

  O’Donahee started to respond, but hesitated when he noticed a plume of black smoke rising from an empty section near the back of the hall.

  “Well, now you’ve done it!” warned the heckler. “Now the Great Hot Head has arrived to burn up your meeting!”

  The curl of smoke abruptly contracted into a dense ball, blocking O’Donahee’s view of the rear exits. The people closest to that section began to rise from their seats, nervously eyeing the cloud. A wave of emotion swept through the hall: anger and surprise, tinged with fear. But no one vaulted from the hall in panic. As yet, there was no fire, just the weird-looking smoke.

  O’Donahee cleared his throat, stalling until he could think of something to say. He was relieved to see that his two security men were approaching the spot where the smoke had originated. Things would return to normal momentarily. The heckler—and his distraction—would be removed from the hall.

  But suddenly, the black cloud—as if it had a life of its own—hurtled upward and splattered against the center arch of the high ceiling. A collective gasp of surprise and relief cut through the auditorium. It was now obvious to everyone that this was not real smoke. O’Donahee suspected that they were looking at some sort of very sophisticated holoprojection.

  The black cloud coagulated into a tight ball, assuming the shape of a distorted, evil-looking countenance. Burning red eyes emerged from its depths.

  “Behold!” shouted the young heckler, his amplified words cutting through the hall. “Behold the Great Hot Head!”

  Everyone looked up, momentarily transfixed. And O’Donahee found himself following the crowd’s gaze even as a sinking feeling nestled in his guts. He had lost control of the meeting.

  Anger came over him and he tore his eyes away from the ominous black cloud-face and aimed a finger of righteous reproach toward the heckler’s seat.

  But the young man’s chair was empty. He had disappeared.

  A wrenching scream cut through the crowd’s confusion, casting a momentary silence over the assembly hall. A chill raced up O’Donahee’s spine.

  The wail had come from an elderly man, who was standing next to where the heckler had been seated. O’Donahee saw the senior’s face twisting in torment and then the old man was jerked sideways, as if his feet had been yanked out from under him. He fell to the floor, vanishing behind the row of seats.

  Before O’Donahee could even register surprise, a second hideous scream filled the auditorium. The next man in that same row shuddered violently and a frothy spray of blood erupted from beneath him, cascading high into the air. People in adjacent seats began screaming as the dark fluid splattered onto them.

  The second man fell backwards with a gaping hole torn in his midsection—a bloody pulp of ripped membranes and severed ribs. Next in line, a skinny middle-aged woman wearing a fluorescent sun bonnet emitted a pitiful wail before she too slid out of sight behind the chairs.

  The last man in the row made a desperate leap for the aisle, but the invisible force that was cutting through that rank like an angry domino swept the man’s feet out from under him. His legs were sheared from his torso above the knees, and the screaming man crashed down onto the carpet, his blood-soaked stumps kicking at the floor, body writhing in death-shock.

  In the back of the auditorium, people were pressing forward, actually trying to gain a better view of the screams and commotion up front. O’Donahee shouted into his microphone:

  “Get out of here! Get out of the hall!”

  But another voice contradicted him. Soothing words:

  “Please do not panic. This is merely a test. You are experiencing the new anti-Paratwa weapon, designed to create confusion among our enemy. Long live the Order of the Birch!”

  People hesitated, their attentions divided among the disturbance up front, the evil-faced black cloud overhead, and that soothing voice urging self-control.

  O’Donahee knew that those pacifying words had come from the blast speakers mounted on the shoulders of the murderous heckler. Even as that realization struck, the assailant emerged from the devastated third row, on his hands and knees, crawling and hopping like some sort of wild animal, fists clutching twin caricatures—blazing knives—unreal, as if they were being painted onto the very air from instant to instant, dancing to the sharp jerky movements of his hands. O’Donahee recalled an ancient video, where vividly colored cartoon images were superimposed over real-life figures. And suddenly he understood what was happening.

  It was Slasher—one of the killers terrorizing the Colonies in the very name of their Order. “Get out of here!” O’Donahee shouted. “Run! Get out of the auditorium!”

  Panic finally took hold and the entire hall erupted into a mass of screaming human beings racing for the exits. O’Donahee watched in grim horror as people fell and were trampled by the stampede.

  On the stage beside him, the other six presenters had risen from their seats. All were shouting madly, adding their unamplified voices to the general bedlam.

  Slasher was on his feet now, racing up the center aisle, flash daggers lashing out, slicing off heads and arms and hands—anything that came within range. And suddenly, from behind O’Donahee, another terrible sound erupted. It was the wail of a thruster firing with impossible speed, like ten guns going off simultaneously. The other six presenters beside O’Donahee jerked their heads forward and collapsed neatly into their chairs. The back of each man’s skull had been crushed inward by multiple blasts from the high-powered weapon.

  I don’t want to die! prayed O’Donahee, turning around in dread, unwilling to face the killer, but unable to stop himself.

  The second assassin—Shooter—emerged from stage right: a grim-faced man garbed in the regulation gray uniform of the conference center’s maintenance staff. Shooter held his weapon in his right hand, at arm’s length, a wide-mouthed stubby cylinder tapering into a spongegrip handle. It was the spray thruster—the virgin-tech weapon that even La Gloria de la Ciencia seemed unable to fathom.

  O’Donahee could not move. He realized that he had begun to mutter to himself. “Why is this happening to me? I don’t understand.”

  The spray thruster came to life again, drowning out his mumbling as Shooter fired into the crowd and O’Donahee knew without actually seeing that each single blast, each discrete packet of projected energy, had found a target. And he noticed that the thruster was emitting tiny puffs of white steam from beneath its barrel, and he felt fascinated by those discharges, those minute puffs that seemed to clash so oddly with the destructive fury of the weapon itself.

  So gentle, he found himself thinking. So very soft. At that moment, he realized he was going to die.

  Sparkles of red light erupted around Shooter. Someone from the crowd had managed to get off a shot, but the counterattacker’s single thruster blast
had dissolved harmlessly against the killer’s defensive energy shield—Shooter’s crescent web.

  With unnatural movement, Shooter pivoted, his spray thruster belching invisible fury at the new target and O’Donahee realized, again without looking, that there would be no more counterattacks from that quarter.

  And then Shooter’s weapon was pointed at O’Donahee, and more delicate puffs of white steam were spurting out from beneath the barrel.

  O’Donahee felt his guts compress together and then he was lifted into the air, and a brackish stream of liquid was pouring from his mouth, and he could not seem to catch his breath. There was no pain, just the odd sensation of not being able to inhale.

  He was off the stage now, airborne, flying backward over the audience. Why? he asked himself, feeling that there must be a reason. Why is this happening to me?

  And then a tremendous crash broke his concentration, and he felt his backbone snapping across some hard unyielding object, and he gave up trying to understand.

  O}o{O

  The Lion met Inez in the corridor outside the Council chambers. She dashed from one of the elevators just as he emerged from the lavatory.

  “Are we the only ones here?” she demanded, approaching breathlessly.

  He shook his head. “Blumhaven and Losef are inside. We’re waiting for Van Ostrand to come on-line again.”

  “My god,” she muttered. “This late in the evening. You would have thought that someone’s timing would have been a bit better. Whenever I imagined it, I always assumed that it would happen during the day.”

  The Lion managed a smile. “I used to imagine that it would happen in the morning. I’d be sitting at breakfast, discussing the finer points of auraflector artistry or some such thing with my wife. A call would come. My wife would answer. She wouldn’t say anything. She’d just look at me, and I’d know.”

  Inez whipped off her hat—a wide-brimmed purple Carlisle—and twisted the front of the band. Internal ribs energized, quickly folding the headpiece into a one-inch slab. She stuffed the condensed hat into her pocket. “My god—what a night! First the Birch massacre, and now this.”

  “And now this,” the Lion murmured.

  “Jerem, do you realize that we’re probably going to remember this night for the rest of our lives—what we were doing at each moment, what we had to eat, where we were . . .” She shook her head. “At least I’ll remember. Everything’s going to be engraved on my mind, like one of those ancient wooden plaques that people used to present as awards. And the plaque will say: ‘Friday morning, August 7, 2363, three a.m.—the night we detected the return of the starships.’”

  “I’ll always remember how tired I was,” offered the Lion.

  Inez sighed. “Fifty-six years ago . . . I wasn’t even born then. And for all those years, the human race has been preparing itself for this moment.”

  “You sound tired, too.”

  “Yes, Jerem,” she said, favoring him with a sad smile. “I am.” She threw her arms around him and crushed him in a surprise bearhug. “But it’s more than being just tired. I usually don’t babble when I’m tired. I babble when I’m scared.”

  He squeezed her tightly.

  “Oh, Jerem! I feel like I’ve been waiting for this moment since I was a little girl . . . waiting my entire life to find out what it all means.”

  The Lion understood. “Waiting your whole life to find out whether you—and the rest of the human race—are destined to become slaves to the Paratwa.”

  “Yes. And the waiting . . . it changed me, I think. I never told anyone this before, Jerem, but . . . the reason I didn’t marry, the reason I chose not to have children . . .”

  She stopped and suddenly buried her face against his chest. The Lion rubbed her back reassuringly.

  Just as quickly, she pulled herself away from him. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, wiping a palm across a wet spot beneath her left eye. “You know I’m not usually like this.”

  “We’ve had a few hectic days.” The Lion recalled his own intense emotions brought on by seeing Gillian again. He shrugged. “There’s a Costeau saying: Either feel the fool, or fool the feel.”

  Inez forced a smile. “I don’t think I could even say that without stumbling.”

  “Most can’t.”

  She swallowed. “I suppose there’s still no word on Susan.”

  The Lion shook his head. Inez now called him at least three or four times each day to ask for an update on the search for her missing grandniece. “Nothing, yet. But that shouldn’t be cause for despair. My people still maintain that Susan probably went into hiding. Given her psych background, and all that she’s faced over these past few days, that certainly would be an understandable reaction.” He hesitated. “Does E-Tech know about her disappearance yet?”

  “No. I’ve been covering for her. As far as I can tell, no one’s yet making any fuss. I informed La Gloria de la Ciencia’s progress inspection department that Susan has been temporarily transferred to a new position. They should accept that story, at least for a while.”

  The Lion nodded thoughtfully. “Why don’t you leak the details of Susan’s disappearance to Edward Huromonus’s action/probe?”

  Inez raised her eyebrows. “Do you think that’s wise? I mean, this isn’t exactly the first major investigation into the questionable doings of E-Tech Security. For all we know, this will turn out to be another whitewash—Huromonus could be working hand-in-hand with the very people he’s attempting to investigate. Informing them could very well place Susan in an even more dangerous position.”

  “That’s possible, but I tend to doubt it. I know Edward Huromonus. Years ago, he served as a temporary counsel for the United Clans.” The Lion smiled. “There’s a reason that they call him ‘Crazy Eddie.’ I don’t believe he can be bribed or threatened. His integrity is unimpeachable. And he has many formal connections that the Costeaus lack. He may be able to locate Susan. And he’s certainly smart enough not to involve E-Tech Security people in his action/probe. He’ll recruit investigators from outside the organization.”

  “If that’s all true,” said Inez, “I wonder why Doyle picked him to head this action/probe?”

  The Lion shrugged. “E-Tech Security—and Doyle Blumhaven—have been coming under a lot of fire lately, and from many different directions. Doyle probably felt that he had to give this action/probe some teeth, or else everyone would assume that it was just another cover-up.”

  Inez nodded slowly. “All right. I suppose your idea makes sense. I’ll arrange for a data leak later today.”

  “But don’t give Huromonus too much information,” warned the Lion. “I would let him know only that Susan vanished on the night that Donnelly and Tace were slain and that there could be a connection. Give Crazy Eddie too many leads and he’s liable to end up investigating us.”

  “That wouldn’t do,” said Inez, biting her lower lip.

  No, it wouldn’t, thought the Lion. He did not even want to consider the furor that would arise if Edward Huromonus—or anyone, for that matter—learned that they had illegally brought Gillian and Nick from stasis.

  Inez took a deep breath. “Things are getting scary, Jerem Marth.”

  “I know. I’m a bit frightened myself.”

  She regarded him strangely for a moment. Then a cynical smile swept across her tanned face and dark pupils regarded him with amusement. “But Jerem—you’re a Costeau. You’re not supposed to get scared.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  At the end of the corridor, the huge black door slid open. On the other side, within the Council chambers, stood Doyle Blumhaven; a solemn figure perfectly framed by the rectangular portal.

  “Inez—just in time.” His voice seemed rigid, more controlled than usual. “Admiral Kilofski has reported that Jon’s specialists have completed the first phase of data analysis. Jon himself will be coming back on-line momentarily, with a full report.”

  They followed Blumhaven into the chamber and
took their seats. The E-Tech councilor began typing rapidly into his terminal. The Lion imagined that most of E-Tech must be awake by now, each department standing by, ready to do their duty. The Lion wondered idly whether Adam Lu Sang had been swept into the turmoil yet.

  Across from the E-Tech councilor sat Maria Losef calmly trimming her DI haircut with a suction razor. She did not appear tense like Blumhaven, nor emotionally agitated like Inez. If anything, she looked bored.

  In the center of the polished round table, the five-sided FTL displayed the blocky countenance of Admiral Kilofski, one of the Guardians’ fleet commanders. He was carrying on a conversation with someone off-screen.

  As the Lion gazed at the admiral, he found himself reflecting on the Guardians: on the great changes that had occurred within that organization since the time of his youth, since the cylinders had first learned that the Paratwa had also survived Earth’s Apocalypse.

  When the Lion was a boy, he remembered seeing Guardians, impressive in their crisp black-and-gold uniforms, patrolling the cylinders; a military/police force nearly a million strong, responsible for maintaining intercolonial law and order. But over the years, the Council of Irrya had gradually altered their duties, assigning to them the formidable task of defending the Colonies against the returning assassins. Today, few Guardians remained in Earth orbit. E-Tech Security, in cooperation with various local policing authorities, currently enforced justice within the cylinders. Almost the entire Guardian force was now scattered out beyond Jupiter: over two million men and women, a rotating contingent of volunteers, the main force sequestered in miniature support colonies, the vanguard diligently poised in defense satellites and nuclear-armed attack ships. All were waiting for the possible invasion, waiting for the day when they might be ordered to go to war. That day might have arrived.