“Did I?”
“I distinctly remember.”
“You’re mistaken.”
She felt a swell of anger. “You’re lying. The other day, you said that—”
He swept his closed hand upward, thrust a palm full of sand into her face.
“Bastard!” she cried, roaring to her feet, spitting the grainy particles back onto the beach.
“Remember yesterday’s lesson,” he said sternly. “Allow your anger to assume a shape, and it will inhibit your natural body-thought. Allow your fury to reign, as you did just now, and you become vulnerable to—”
“You could have gotten it in my eyes!” she spluttered.
He laughed. “Yes, I forgot. You can’t take either of your eyes out for cleaning . . .”
“That’s not funny,” she said sternly.
Timmy’s jowls folded into a frown. The effort looked forced.
“I’m leaving now,” she warned. “And don’t look for me tomorrow. I’ve had enough of your stupid games.”
“Sit down,” he ordered.
Susan plopped herself back down on the sand. She shook her head, confused. She had wanted to leave. But Timmy did not want her to go. And now she was passively obeying his wishes.
What’s the matter with me? Have I suddenly turned into a masochist?
“Susan, you must learn to control your anger. You don’t have to repress it—emotional outlets have to be maintained—but you must not permit strong feelings to warp your body-thought.”
“And just how do I do that?” she snapped.
“When you feel rage, or any strong emotion, beginning to wash over you, allow the emotion to function as a signal. Become conscious of it. With practice, you can detect the precursors of any outburst. That is all that it takes. In time, your body-thought will do the rest. Strong feelings will be aligned with your body-thought, not against it.”
She thought about his words for a moment, feeling her anger beginning to dissipate in the process. She scowled.
“But I want to be angry with you! You’re always throwing things at me!”
He scooped another handful of sand. She regarded him warily.
“Good,” he said with a smile. “See, that wasn’t so hard. You’re still a bit mad at me, yes?”
“Yes.”
“But not so mad that you blind yourself to the possibility that I may throw more sand in your face.”
She nodded slowly.
He opened his palm. Sand trickled onto the beach.
Susan studied him: the round face, aflame with fat; the scalloped bangs of gray hair, the encroaching double chin. For the first time, she noticed that his right eye—the removable one—bore a thin film of moisture, as if it were suspended in a liquid film.
“Are other parts of your body . . . wetware?”
He smiled faintly. “No, I’m afraid that the rest of me is merely aging flesh—one hundred percent natural organics.”
Susan found herself growing angry again, but hot at Timmy. I’m angry at myself, for feeling so . . . confused. She shook her head. Not confused, that was not exactly right. It was something else, something about being with Timmy that made her feel . . .
“You look frustrated,” he offered.
Yes, that was it: frustrated. She suddenly found her thoughts racing toward new junctures, new possibilities.
“You’re more than just a caretaker here at the cloister, aren’t you?”
Timmy shrugged. “I make sure that what’s broken gets fixed, what’s loose, gets tightened—”
“—what’s twisted, gets straightened,” she finished wearily. “Yes, Timmy, I know about those things. But I also spoke with an old priest last night and he told me that you are—”
“Odd, but tolerable.”
“Pardon?”
“Odd, but tolerable. That’s what I hear many of them say about old Timmy.”
She sighed, “Actually, this priest said—”
“A description worthy of any man.”
“Stop interrupting. This old priest said that you ask too many questions and you know too many answers. He said that the reason you’re so big is that you’re packed full of secrets.” She drew a deep breath, feeling like she had just gotten something important off her chest.
Timmy chuckled, but his effort sounded forced.
“I think that a few of those secrets concern me,” she prodded.
“Do they now?”
Something in his tone frightened her. But she forced herself to continue.
“I believe that you know all about me. I think that Lester Mon Dama told you about my troubles—about the Honshu massacre, the Paratwa . . . about everything.”
For a moment, she thought that he was not going to respond.
He stared at her keenly and his wetware eye seemed to pulse slightly, like a slow camera lens adapting to changes in light. Then: “Yes, Susan, I know all about you. Lester Mon Dama talked to me.”
She nodded, relieved that things were coming out into the open.
“Lester felt that you needed a companion,” Timmy explained.
“Oh.” She felt a bit disappointed. “Do you know when Lester’s due to return?”
“I think that Lester Mon Dama will not come to the planet again. This is the time of the Paratwa, the time that everyone has been anticipating for these many years.” Timmy’s eyes grew distant; a droplet emerged from the wetware eye, ran down his cheek. It appeared to be an artificial release of some kind, not a real tear.
“You’re going away again,” she warned, but he did not seem to hear.
“A time of the Paratwa,” he continued, gazing out over the lake. “A time when the colonists must face their future.”
His attention abruptly returned to her and he spoke like a man possessed. “Did you know that for the past fifty-six years your entire culture has been preparing for this? Do you have any idea of the psychological provisions that have been assimilated, consciously and unconsciously, by your society? On the conscious side, citizens representing all professional aspects of colonial life—including religious leaders like Lester—have been trained to make the turmoil of the Paratwa return more bearable.
“Even so, your society has paid an enormous cost. Few could really accept the notion that their future—and their children’s future—might end in slavery to a master race. And as it has been with all imminent confrontations throughout history, people have been catalyzed into two basic response patterns. They prepare to fight or they prepare to flee.”
Susan stared at him, astonished by his sudden outpouring. It was so uncharacteristic.
“There are two million Guardians,” Timmy continued gravely, “waiting at the outer reaches of our solar system, the vanguard of those who would fight. But there are many millions more who have turned inward, retreated beneath the haze of self-indulgence, denying even the possibility of the coming storm.”
He speaks like a member of the Order of the Birch.
“They have fled into the degeneracy of their own souls,” Timmy proclaimed, as if quoting some great passage. And with that, the strained passion suddenly departed from his face and the familiar, easygoing smile returned. “Running away does not build character, Susan.”
She shook her head, not knowing what to say.
“Do you fight or do you flee, Susan Quint?”
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Who are you?” His palm scooped a fresh ball of sand but she snapped a hand across his wrist before he could release it.
“Excellent, Susan! You thwarted the attack before it occurred. You are learning.”
“Learning what?” she demanded, her anger returning in a fierce torrent. She did not release his wrist. “Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?”
“Excellent. Barely contained fury, yet fully attuned to body-thought. A natural fight response.”
She twisted his wrist but he just smiled, ignoring the pain.
“And what about you?” sh
e challenged angrily. “You don’t even have to bother making a decision about fighting or fleeing. You’re down here in your own little world, far from the reality of the Colonies. Whatever happens, it probably won’t affect your status. And whether this cloister was a Paratwa place or not, I sincerely doubt whether they’re going to be too overly concerned about wanting it back. Ontario is not exactly Irrya.”
“It’s certainly not,” he said ominously.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll tell you if you let go of my wrist.”
She released her grip, but remained alert. He still had a fistful of sand.
“The Earth, Susan, is a more valuable place than most people assume. This world is humanity’s past, as well as its future.”
“Now you sound like a Church of the Trust recruiter.”
He chuckled. “I told you before. It’s a silly religion. And too inflexible to survive for many more years. No, Susan, I speak now as a loyalist to the human race. The Earth is important. And I suspect that when the Paratwa return, it is the planet which they will ultimately covet, not the Colonies. The Earth offers roots. The Colonies do not.”
Susan sighed. Perhaps Timmy did not realize just how much of the Church of the Trust doctrine he had absorbed over the years. She stood up and gazed toward the buildings of the cloister. Her anger had disappeared again and she had a sudden desire to be alone, to rest. “I’m tired.”
“Of course,” he said graciously.
“May I go now?”
“Yes.”
As she headed away, he called after her.
“Susan?”
“What?”
“I believe that tomorrow will be a special day for you. I believe that the time has come for you to become. I’ll meet you out here right after lunch.”
“Maybe,” she replied, knowing that she would indeed keep their rendezvous no matter how much she thought about not doing it. What’s happening to me?
“I think that you are the one, Susan. Tomorrow we shall learn for certain.”
It was all so confusing. Frustrating.
“Tomorrow, Susan, I may give you something even better than a sunburst.”
O}o{O
Gillian, flanked by Martha and Buff, entered the spacious lobby and headed for the central security desk. Halfway there, his attention was drawn to a pair of floating holos—a naked man and woman, icons of baby-flesh perfection—dissolving out of the far wall to embark on a choreographed hip-wiggling dance across the tile floor. From the opposite side of the lobby emerged a quartet of ruby-red serving platters, each bathed in a steaming cloud of attractive smokeshape. One tray bore a mélange of rich-looking pastries, another was heaped with gold and silver jewelry, and the other two overflowed with neatly folded exotic garb—complementary sets of male and female attire. Prancing servants met ruby-red platters near the center of the vast space, melted into a laser-crisp geyser of orange light that soared thirty feet into the air. Holographic mutation brought clarity as the geyser slithered into a set of fiery vertical letters: VENUS CLUSTER.
“I think I used to have one of those in my day room,” quipped Buff.
“You never had a day room,” clarified Martha.
“Yeah, but if I did, I would have had an expensive holo in it.”
“May I direct you?” asked the gray-haired security man, as they arrived at the central desk.
“Indeed, you may,” Gillian announced, mimicking the formal mannerisms he had observed yesterday on one of Venus Cluster’s commercial spots. “I am Troy Spencer De Fevre, good lord willing, and I am here for an eleven-thirty appointment with one of the vice presidents of your company: Mr. Cochise.”
The security man nodded politely and then scanned his monitor. “Yes, Mr. De Fevre, here we are. And you are representing Valsacko Industries?”
“Indeed, at last perusal, I certainly am. I am their legal counsel, intercolonially bonded, and I am here with the full blessing of the Lord and Lady Valsacko themselves.” For their visit here, Inez Hernandez had again utilized her numerous connections to fabricate a cover story.
The security man glanced at another monitor and then favored Gillian with a tense smile. “And your two companions, Mr. De Fevre?”
“Why, my bodyguards, naturally!”
The security man seemed relieved. “Yes, sir. That explains the weapons my scanners are picking up. I’m afraid that I must ask your bodyguards to either disarm or leave the building.”
“Of course,” said Gillian, idly wondering whether the guard’s detection gear was capable of identifying the outlines of a Cohe wand. Not that it mattered. Gillian’s Cohe was still safely back at the Lion’s retreat. There had been no sense in taking unnecessary chances.
“Venus Cluster does not permit guns and such on the premises,” continued the guard.
“An admirable policy, good sir. Well, ladies?”
Martha, glaring coldly at the security man, stepped back a pace. For just an instant, Gillian thought that she was not going to comply. But then she smiled and inserted her hands in her wide jacket pockets and slowly withdrew the needlegun from her left side pouch. She laid it on the desk.
The guard’s face twitched into a smile. “Thank you, ma’am. And now your thruster.”
Martha’s other hand emerged from her right pocket, gripping a rare triple-tube thruster. The security man raised his eyebrows. The thruster was attached to her body—two thin coils of wire snaked out from beneath the gun and slithered into a tiny implant junction on her wrist.
“A PAL box,” murmured the guard.
Martha unsnapped the two cables from her arm and handed him the unit. The security man gingerly placed it beneath his desk.
Gillian hid his concerns. A PAL box—E-Tech-banned sync hardware—able to align a gun trigger directly to a human nervous system. He hoped the guard would not report her.
Buff favored her partner with an annoyed glare, then removed a standard thruster, a miniature sandram, two slender throwing knives, and some sort of projectile gun from beneath her jacket.
“Starting a war?” asked the security man, still smiling, but looking about as tense as a cat confronting a rabid dog.
“Such show-offs!” uttered Gillian, hoping to dispel some of the guard’s uncertainties about the excessive armaments. He emitted a loud sigh. “Sure, they’re streetsmart and hard as nails, but just try to get them to take out the garbage!”
The guard stared at him, confused. Gillian had heard the amusing phrase the other day, uttered by one of the Colonies’ most popular freelancers during a news report. Obviously, the security man did not tune to the same channels.
He tried another tack. “Well, I’m really not complaining, you see. The Lord and Lady Valsacko are sticklers for protection and, goodness knows, we’re all glad for it these days. Order of the Birch massacres, Paratwa coming back from outer space, and who knows what else!” He leaned over the desk and spoke conspiratorially. “And not to mention these damn Costeaus, and please don’t tell me about how mainstreamed they are!”
His last remark struck a nerve. The security man’s face dissolved into a collaborative scowl. “Yeah, those damn pirates, we ought to shuttle them all down to the planet. Give ’em Earth. That’s where they belong.”
“Absolutely!” agreed Gillian, glancing at Martha and Buff, and deciding that it was time to change the subject.
“Good sir, I notice that your building is blessed with convators.” He pointed to a pair of larger-sized portals next to the regular elevator shafts. “Since I am, unfortunately, seventeen minutes early for my appointment, I wonder if we might utilize one?”
The security man shook his head. “Sorry. The convators are normally reserved in advance.”
Something in the guard’s tone caught Gillian’s attention. “Yes, I believe I understand. A fee is involved. Good sir, we would certainly be willing to pay for usage.”
The security man glanced around the empty lobby, then nodd
ed. “Cash cards only and no receipt.”
“Naturally.”
It took only a moment to agree on the proper amount. Gillian placed the bribe on the desk and then headed across the lobby. One of the larger portals slid open and they entered conference elevator number one.
Buff looked astonished. “Extra yes! It’s bigger than my apartment!”
The convator spread out before them, twenty feet wide and at least thirty feet long. A twelve-station meeting table occupied the main area, with each station boasting senso-adjust chairs, doubleport terminals, a forty-four-hose liquid refreshment system, and an extendable dining tray. Walls and ceiling were covered in a seamless coat of dark fur—a solitary mass of organic matter—gently writhing and pulsating as if it had been disturbed by their entrance. Brown-pelt neurofab: one of the latest and hottest items on the ever-turbulent Irryan social scene.
In addition to the lobby entrance, there were two other closed doors at the far end of the room.
“Toilet cubicle and control room?” wondered Buff.
As if in response to her question, the first door slid back and a young male emerged. Gillian recognized his getup as that of a twenty-first century corporate attendant: patched blue jeans, frayed leather jacket, and open-faced Bell motorcycle helmet.
“Good day, Mr. De Fevre,” he said warmly. “I’m Jocko, your CV escort. I’ve programmed the convator for a fifteen-minute trip so that you can maintain your appointment with Mr. Cochise. However, due to the very short duration of our transfer, I regret that I cannot offer you more than a few basic con services.”
“Those will suffice,” said Gillian. “Tell me, Jocko, is this CV surveillance-secured?”
“Absolutely, sir! I just swept it myself not ten minutes before your arrival. Venus Cluster insists on cleanliness at all times.”
“Thank you, Jocko.” Gillian was wearing his meshwire tracking system and he too had scanned the chamber upon entering. There were no detectable bugs. But it did not hurt to get confirmation. He believed the escort was telling the truth.
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