Gillian sat up and wrapped a sheet around his body.
“Bashful,” suggested Martha, still staring at his covered crotch.
“How did you get in here?” Gillian challenged. He felt vaguely annoyed that someone had managed to get this close to him while he lay here sleeping. Unprotected.
Buff shrugged. “Nick gave us the combo to your lock. He told us to go in and wake you up.”
Gillian glanced at the wall clock. 5:30 a.m. The colony had not even faced sun yet. Something must have happened.
“You look like you could use some more sleep,” suggested Buff. “Sorry, but Nick said to fetch you right away.”
More sleep was not what he needed. Last night, flexing dreams had plagued him—strange flights into worlds seething with realistic visions of his youth, when Empedocles had been whole, when Catharine had been a separate living entity. In one of the rapidly sequencing dream images, he and Catharine had been walking through the jungle beside a narrow stream. Gurgling water and the noisy chatter of local animals had filled his ears; the intense heat of the noonday Brazilian sun beat down across his bare shoulders and sweat trickled from his brow. Yet despite feeling physically uncomfortable, he had the sensation of being emotionally free, unencumbered by the terrible pains and oppressions that would threaten to drown his spirit in later years.
Catharine, pausing beside an immense quebracho tree, suddenly turned to him. Her pale elfin face crinkled into a frown; her whole body seemed to twist into a grimace of pain, distorting her natural beauty. In that instant, the weight of the world resettled upon Gillian. Emotional freedom was snatched away.
Catharine’s lips moved.
You must bring on the whelm, Gillian. We must be united forever.
It was not Catharine. It was their Ash Ock monarch, Empedocles.
He argued: We cannot be united forever. Don’t you understand? Catharine is dead. She’s just a memory-shadow.
Bring her back, ordered Empedocles. Bring on the whelm.
Gillian sighed, distressed that his monarch could not perceive the obvious.
“I think Nick really likes me,” proclaimed Buff. “Last night, he told me I had a body that reminded him of a pre-Apocalyptic toilet facility constructed from hardened clay.”
Martha clarified: “Nick said she was built like a brick shithouse.”
Buff clapped her hands in delight. “That’s it!”
Gillian stood up, wiped the last vestige of sleep from his eyes. “Next time,” he suggested, “knock on the door first. Okay?”
“Yes,” said Martha indifferently, running skinny fingers through her acorn-streaked blond hair. She wore pale blue bunhuggies and an oversized black jacket. He wondered what weapons the jacket might be hiding.
“Nick said there’s important news,” added Buff, obviously trying to hurry him along.
“What news?”
“That returning starship . . . it’s been intercepted by our defense network.”
“Should we leave while you dress?” asked Martha, her voice brimming with challenge.
Gillian threw off the bed cover and stood up, naked. Buff grinned. “Not bad, huh, Martha?”
“I’ve seen better.”
Gillian ignored their banter and slid into a pair of open-top black pants. By the time he snapped on a shirt, the trouser’s auto-waist had pulled snug. Buff handed him his boots.
“I suppose,” he concluded, “that you two will be spending the day with me.”
Buff smiled. “Nick thought it would be a good idea.”
* * *
Outside the huge A-frame, the Lion was pacing the length of the elevated ridge of shaved albino grass, his tall form silhouetted by the faint red glow of an Irryan dawn. Nick sat below him at the lawn table, sipping coffee. To their left, the huge end plate of the colony rose majestically, its innumerable pinpricks of light diffused by a creeping fog; a shadow wall reluctant to accept the encroaching day. Most of the tiny lights emanated from homes located on the end plate itself—perpendicular chalets boasting spectacular views, yet undervalued in comparison to other Irryan real estate because of the end plate’s unnatural gravitation and the perpetually damp air. The overabundance of moisture was a peculiar quality inherent to the end plates of all cylinders. The Costeau Santiago had recently mentioned the anomaly to Gillian.
Recently? Gillian repressed a bitter laugh. In his own frame of reference, Santiago’s remark—and the pirate’s subsequent death during their violent confrontation with Reemul—had occurred only weeks ago. But in the real world, a half century of stasis had served to rob the event of any social immediacy. Stasis-jumps required radical adjustments in perspective, and to excessively dwell on an event, which felt like it happened only weeks ago yet had actually taken place decades earlier, could lead the mind into a mélange of severe cultural shocks.
Gillian found himself arriving at a sudden decision, simultaneously realizing that the parameters behind his choice had been taking shape for a long time.
I won’t allow myself to go back into stasis. Not ever again.
The Lion stopped pacing as they approached.
“Mornin’,” said Nick, grinning and holding up the coffee pitcher. “Want some?”
Gillian shook his head. Martha and Buff plopped down at the table, attacked a setting of egg-crusted flake toast.
Gillian moved close enough to Jerem to see the haggard look on the older man’s face. “Up all night?”
The Lion nodded. Being tired was a luxury he could not afford just now. “I just returned from another emergency session at Council. A few hours ago, the intruding starship was met by one of our attack fleets. The intruder opened a line of communication. The message was short and simple.” The Lion read from a hand prompter:
“I am the tway of a Paratwa, an emissary of the Ash Ock. I have come in peace, to help the Colonies of Irrya develop a mutually satisfactory solution to our fears, and to end these centuries of hate and mistrust. As a token of my good faith, I have dismantled my shuttle’s defenses and have jettisoned my weapons. I am at your mercy.”
Nick smiled. “It just so happens that this tway is an old friend of yours, Gillian.”
“Who?”
“A Jeek Elemental,” said the Lion. “The same breed that Reemul came from.” The Lion found it difficult to remain stationary. His body insisted on moving, on releasing energy, a futile panacea for too much anxiety and too little sleep.
Gillian knew. “It’s Meridian.”
“It sure is,” chortled Nick. “And, naturally, they’re going to let the son of a bitch through the network.”
“There’s no other real choice,” argued the Lion. “You know that.”
Nick sighed. “Yeah, I know. Still, it’s nice to engage in a little wish fulfillment now and again. And my intuition tells me that we ought to nuke the bastard while we have a chance.”
The Lion faced Gillian. “This Meridian . . . he was once your teacher, wasn’t he?”
Gillian nodded. “And my friend.”
Martha set down a slice of toast and stared at some fathomless point above Gillian’s head.
The Lion continued, “He is to be transferred to one of our fastest ships and ferried straight here, to Irrya. His vessel will remain at the bounds of the defense network until our technical people are certain that it is safe.”
Gillian suspected that whatever might be hidden aboard Meridian’s ship would prove less of a danger than this wily Paratwa in the flesh.
“How long till he arrives?”
“About four and a half weeks,” said Nick.
“The Council has agreed to allow immediate public dissemination of this development,” added the Lion. “We thought that Meridian’s peace offering might help allay tensions.”
Gillian frowned. “You don’t believe him, do you?”
“As an Irryan councilor, I must keep an open mind.” The Lion shrugged. “As a Costeau, however, I wouldn’t trust this Meridian to carry my odorant bag.”
“Just one tway,” mused Gillian.
“Yes,” said the Lion, “although our penetration gear has also detected two nonhuman life-forms aboard Meridian’s vessel. A pair of dogs. We’re not yet sure of the species.”
Nick shrugged. “One tway makes sense. That simply means that his other half will be able to report everything firsthand. As for the dogs, who knows? Maybe the bastard’s become a pet lover in his old age.”
His old age, thought Gillian. Meridian was a mere Jeek Elemental, and not blessed with an Ash Ock extended lifespan. “Do you think he’s been in and out of stasis over the centuries?”
“That seems the likeliest scenario,” said Nick, gazing at him oddly. “Then again, maybe his Ash Ock masters found a way to extend his lifespan as well.”
“Questions that today cannot be answered,” stated the Lion.
“That’s right,” said the midget. “And we’ve got more than a month to worry about Meridian. Meanwhile, Gillian, we’ve got something more immediate for you to handle: a lead in the Birch murders. Adam Lu Sang still hasn’t been able to penetrate E-Tech Security, but he did manage to collect a lot of raw data on the previous massacres, mostly unclassified stuff floating around the network.
“Anyway, Adam and I have been collating all the available information from the six Order of the Birch attacks, concentrating on victim profiles, looking for correlations. So far, there’ve been over four hundred fatalities. We’ve cross-indexed these names, dredged up every scrap of data we could locate, no matter how innocuous it might appear at first glance. We were scanning for common denominators, of course, connections that might lead us to the purpose behind these honeysucks.” The midget smiled at Martha and Buff. “But lo and behold, it was the modern science of plasma necropsy that provided our first clue.
“From the fluid linkages that Martha and Buff performed, we discovered that a larger-than-expected number of massacre victims were suffering from minor colds or viral infections. In most cases, the degrees of infection were so slight that most of them would have gone unnoticed during regular autopsies. But the plasma necropsy tests found these infections and also indicated that most of them were recent.
“But we still couldn’t prove anything; a bunch of victims were under the weather, and so what. Even the viruses weren’t the same, although I realized that we could be dealing with a wild mutater—all the infections could still have a common source.”
Nick rose from his chair, began pacing beside the table, obviously excited. “Playing a hunch, I had Adam work up a list of all the unsolved murders and suicides that have occurred in the past four months throughout the Colonies.”
Gillian gave a nod of understanding. “Other possible targets of this assassin.”
“Exactly. And guess what?”
Buff jumped in. “There were slightly more viral infections discovered during the autopsies of these murder and suicide victims than could be accounted for by population averages.”
“Give this woman a medal,” chortled the midget. “From there it was easy. Adam and I collated this new list of names—all of the massacre victims, suicides, and unsolved murder victims who showed positive viral infections—and scanned for common denominators. Bingo! Over seventy-five percent of our names had recent contact with a certain Irryan-based company called Venus Cluster.”
“They’re a large service corporation,” explained the Lion. “Venus Cluster provides custom-trained domestic employees for wealthy clients throughout the Colonies.”
Nick continued. “Some of our victims worked as specialty servants for Venus Cluster, others represented their own corporations in trade business, a few served as intermediaries between their own employers and Venus Cluster, et cetera, et cetera. But whatever their involvement, almost all of them visited the company’s Irryan headquarters within a week of their deaths.”
The midget favored Martha and Buff with another grin. “You two look a little bored lately. How would you like to accompany Gillian on a nice friendly visit to Venus Cluster?”
“I can hardly wait,” said Martha dryly.
“Who owns this company?” Gillian asked.
The Lion frowned. “We’re not sure. The complexities of control and ownership have become much more convoluted since the last time you two were awakened from stasis. The ICN has loosened many of its regulations in this area and, consequently, many large companies have shielded investors. We’re not certain just who has financial control of Venus Cluster.”
Gillian raised his eyebrows at Nick.
“I know,” answered the midget, chuckling. “A secretly controlled corporation sounds as suspicious as a nun in black leather. But it’s very common today. Fifty-six years ago, the ICN wanted to encourage more corporate investments. The idea was this: With the Paratwa destined to return, more seed money was needed for R and D, especially weapons development. Deregulating the investment process was just one of the ways in which the ICN sought to open the doors for new venture capital. And their strategy appears to have worked. As a result, an enormous amount of R and D has taken place over the last half century.”
“Dirty money,” suggested Gillian.
“Yeah,” agreed Nick, “no doubt about that. The ICN practically encouraged cash laundering. If Mr. X had some illicit funds, he was invited to buy into a legitimate corporation, and no questions asked. No one but the top execs of the corporation would ever have to know just where the money came from. All a legitimate company had to do was rake in the cash, keep their mouths shut, and pay nice dividends.”
Gillian frowned. “Someone would have to know. The ICN wouldn’t totally blind themselves.”
“You’re right,” said the Lion. “The ICN oversees the entire banking industry and, at least to some extent, they’re able to track the financial currents. But most of their sensitive data is kept in inaccessible archives.”
The midget wagged his head. “Ultrasecret nonnetworks. No way to get at them. When it comes to divulging data, the ICN are real tight-assed sons of bitches. But at any rate, their loosening of the rules did get results. Today, the intercolonial economy is booming. Corporate R and D is at an all-time high. Ultimately, the Paratwa threat has led to an incredibly wealthy culture.”
Buff released an audible yawn.
Gillian nodded slowly. “So you want Martha, Buff, and me to pay a visit to the Irryan headquarters of Venus Cluster.”
“Inez Hernandez has already made the arrangements,” said Nick. “You’re to meet with one of the company’s vice presidents. A Mr. Cochise. False IDs have been provided.”
Gillian acknowledged a sense of pleasure at the assignment. He had been sitting around the Lion’s retreat for the past few days, becoming bored. Too much free time led the mind toward introspective cycles, forced awareness to double back over familiar territory. Right now, remembrance of things past was about as desirable as walking into a thruster discharge.
“How about our missing witness?” he asked. “Any word?”
The Lion shook his head sadly. Even Inez no longer called constantly, seeking updates on the search for Susan.
“She’s gone,” shrugged Nick. “Not so much as a trace.”
Susan Quint is probably dead, Gillian decided. Inez Hernandez was correct in feeling the way she did. Most likely, the Paratwa had found and killed the young woman immediately following her escape from the hospital. “Did Susan Quint’s duties ever involve her with—”
“First thing we checked,” interrupted Nick. “But Susan never visited Venus Cluster. That company was not on her duty roster.”
Another question occurred to Gillian. “How are the Colonies reacting to the news that a Paratwa ship is returning?”
“So far, so good,” answered Nick. “No major upheavals as yet, although there have been a few incidents blamed on the announcement.”
The Lion shook his head. “The ICN reports some unforeseen trade imbalances. The leadership of one of our bigger profarming colonies rather arbitrarily
declared that they would be cutting back on their exports of certain food shipments until the crisis has passed.”
“Hoarding syndrome,” suggested Nick, frowning. And Gillian knew that the midget was thinking back to the final days, when pre-Apocalyptic shortages and illegal stockpiling had created nightmarish problems.
“A small riot in Sirak-Brath,” continued the Lion, “but then there are always riots in Sirak-Brath. The intercolonial entertainment index has reached an all-time high; they say that getting a ticket to any of the major touring dramusical acts is next to impossible.”
“Escapist syndrome,” offered Nick, “and not exactly unexpected. Still, all things considered, the Colonies seem to be taking the news quite well.”
The calm before the storm, thought Gillian.
* * *
The Lion waited until Gillian and his watchdogs had departed before turning to the midget with a scowl.
“I’m still having doubts about this, Nick. Not telling them the whole story about this Venus Cluster vice president could be a bad mistake.”
“It’s the only way,” insisted Nick. “Gillian has to be thrown into a situation where his natural abilities can take over. Right now, he’s almost useless to us.”
Not for the first time, the Lion felt a swell of anger at the midget’s callousness. “You could get him killed.”
Nick shrugged. “Ever spin a child’s top?”
“No.”
The midget smiled. “An old Earth toy. You spin it with your hand and it rotates on its axis. As long as it’s moving fast, it remains perfectly balanced on its point. But as its angular acceleration begins to degenerate, it becomes more and more wobbly. Out of balance.”
“Get to the point.”
Nick seemed nonplussed by the Lion’s curtness. “I’ve been watching Gillian carefully over these past days. His sleep periods have been restless, disturbed. His reaction times are ridiculously slow. He asks questions that he should already know the answers to, questions that betray a sluggish awareness. And this morning I had to send Martha and Buff in to wake him up. Jesus, they could have rammed a knife into him before he even thought to open his eyes!”
Ash Ock Page 25
