Nest of Worlds

by Marek S. Huberath

  “Killing a man in his house . . . it’s awkward. Particularly a man who is innocent, legally, of any crime. Also, they wanted to understand the phenomenon. At first the tests were genuine, following Siskin’s plan.”

  “But then they tried to cut me up alive on the table.”

  “They made that decision earlier, when Balakian died. They all switched to Thompson’s plan, wanting to save their sorry asses. Medved’s statistics only added to their fear. Those numbers made an impression. And then, the failed attempts.”

  “Attempts? What did you people do?”

  “Well, first Winslow was supposed to put alcohol in your IV. Then Chechug was supposed to give you an x-ray dose strong enough to melt a tin can. When that didn’t work, Winslow tried to inject you with cancer cells, except she stuck herself instead, and no doubt is growing something from that, if she’s still alive.”

  “Saalstein . . . Did those dogs do something like that to my wife?” Gavein went pale.

  “I never heard anything along those lines. Her illness resulted from a time when no one knew that you were Death. Whatever the guards did to her during her trip from Lavath has nothing to do with us.”

  He appeared to be telling the truth.

  “Setting all this up for me must have been a ton of work,” Gavein said.

  “Meetings that ran for hours: how to do it in such a way that you wouldn’t guess. Votes taken in the middle of the night. Then Lee . . . He was to hook you up to a high-tension wire, but you got him first.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “He died; that’s not nothing. And then your dissection was interrupted by an earthquake. You ended up pulling the plug on the division, not the other way around.”

  “The volcano pulled the plug, not I.”

  “Amounts to the same thing.”

  “There was voting, you said. How did you vote?”

  “For, of course. It seemed the best line of action.”

  “Then why don’t you push me from this hiding place when one of the squadrons is overhead? A blast of machine-gun fire, and that’s the end of me. And Thompson wastes no more of the government’s money.”

  “There are three reasons,” said Saalstein after a little thought. “I give them in no particular order. First, you saved my life, pulling me from the rubble. Whereas Thompson and company would have killed me. If not for you, I’d have been blown into little bits by their missiles.” He pointed toward the ruins. “Second, if Thompson’s boys catch sight of you, it won’t end with machine-gun fire. The whole area in the radius of a kilometer will be hit with such a quantity of bombs and rockets that not one molecule of me will be left intact. And third, even if I decided to lay down my life for humanity, I am convinced that I would be the only one to die. You would come out of it in one piece, once again. Death can’t be killed.”

  “So you, too, believe that I am Death.”

  “It’s not a matter of belief. I’m accepting the simplest explanation of the facts. You are what you are.”

  Thompson’s squadrons flew over, one after the other, and pounded the remnants of the DS to even finer dust. As the ruins grew lower to the ground, the volcano emerged more: a lake of flame, still without a crater. From the depths spewed tongues of lava, red-hot boulders flew, and smoke gathered in a dark cloud. The rising cone, Gavein thought, will bury forever what is left of the DS. Several times the copters threw shells so close that he could hear the fragments whiz by, but the hiding place on the slope was never hit.

  58

  They waited until evening, though by then the copters hadn’t shown for a couple of hours. Despite the darkness, barely lit by the flashes from the volcano, they had to pick their way past the overhanging sod and slabs of asphalt. Gavein climbed first and helped Saalstein up. At the top, they looked around: the land toward the ocean had sunk several dozen meters with respect to Davabel. They saw rivulets of lava flowing from the volcano’s rising mound. The entire stretch of land was crumpled and cut by a hundred cracks and fissures. Beyond this, hidden by the cliff and darkness, lay the ocean.

  It was hard for Gavein to believe that three weeks ago an imposing complex stood here.

  They set out toward the skyline of the city, visible in the distance. All around them lay rubble, sections of wall, broken window frames, and other pieces of the buildings that had been leveled in preparation for Gavein’s arrival at the Division of Science.

  A thought troubled him.

  “Saalstein, do you think the murders of Zef and Laila were part of Thompson’s plan?”

  “I know nothing about that, but it wouldn’t surprise me, judging by today’s performance. Maybe Thompson was told some little theory about isolating the contagion of this death.”

  “You know something about Ra Mahleiné!” shouted Gavein, grabbing Saalstein by the jacket. “Out with it, you dog, or so help me, I’ll open your head with a rock.

  “Easy, Throzz. I know nothing. Yesterday, she was alive. If yesterday was to have been your operation . . . Carry on like that, and you’ll bring a patrol down on us.”

  That worked. Gavein lowered his head and walked quietly.

  They passed an area where puffs of steam came from the earth. Again the stink of sulfur dioxide. On the ground were bright efflorescences and small irregular humps like mushrooms or little pegs.

  “Fumaroles,” said Saalstein. “We’re getting volcanic activity with all the trimmings. I’ve seen this only in a textbook. Volcanoes are in Ayrrah, nowhere else, in the north there and the southernmost tip.”

  They walked on in silence.

  “Tomorrow Thompson will come here with tanks. My guess is he’ll get the idea tonight. He won’t sleep, wondering if he’s done everything he can.”

  “How do we pass the cordon that surrounds this region?”

  “The quake was powerful. If houses in the city were affected, there may be no cordon.”

  “And if there is?”

  “We let ourselves be caught. They’ll do nothing to you—learning from experience. And they have no quarrel with me.”

  At last they reached the first houses. There was no cordon. They went down a dark street, walking on broken glass. Under the star-filled sky they saw that many of the buildings here had suffered considerable damage. There were no lights on in any of the windows. Occasionally an abandoned car. Saalstein tried to start one, then another.

  They found keys in the ignition of a station wagon, and the engine started. They got in. Saalstein steered with his good hand; Gavein shifted. They drove slowly, uncertainly. Saalstein decided to risk turning on the lights. The city seemed deserted. They took an avenue in order not to move away from the coast. It was impossible to read the number of the avenue in the dark.

  After an hour of driving, they came to streets that were lit. Gavein breathed a sigh of relief. All of Davabel had not been destroyed in some cataclysm; everyone had not been killed.

  Now and then they passed another car. Now and then they saw a pedestrian on the sidewalk. Saalstein turned right, to the north. There was no sign here that the southeast part of Davabel had experienced a quake.

  59

  They pulled into a gas station. Saalstein took out a bill.

  “Fill her up,” he said to the attendant, not getting out. That his arm was in a sling and that he was in uniform could appear suspicious. Gavein, as befitted Death, sat in a shadow.

  The man came back for the money. “You feel the shaking too?” he asked. “My alarm clock fell off the dresser.”

  “We had a bit more than that,” muttered Saalstein. “I thought my stomach would come out of my mouth.”

  The man sniggered. “They took care of that Death guy today. Bombed the shit out of the whole area. A mouse couldn’t have lived through it. It was on television.”

  “We heard the copters.”

  “Either the vol
cano got him or our boys did. We’ll have peace now.” He looked into the car. “Hey, your arm’s hurt. You should get help.”

  Saalstein gave the man the bill. “I can manage,” he said. “I can move it.”

  “You’re wearing the DS uniform . . . You’re not that Death guy, are you?” The man’s eyes narrowed, and the smile died on his lips.

  “Death’s skeleton, don’t you know, jumped out of his pants, and off he ran with his chattering skull,” Saalstein said, repeating the nursery rhyme.

  “Yeah, and that skeleton went flying in every direction when our boys bombed.” The man laughed and gave Saalstein his change.

  They drove off.

  “You think he bought that?” asked Saalstein.

  “I think he’s calling the police right now,” said Gavein.

  Saalstein nodded. “I think so too. Any ideas?”

  “I have a complete froze.”

  “What?”

  “Turn off and drive for a couple of intersections, then go parallel to this avenue as fast as you can.”

  “That’s not brilliant.”

  “I agree. So let’s do it. And take off that sling. Your arm won’t fall off. Why have everyone look at it?”

  Saalstein stepped on the gas. They drove all night, and no one stopped them. Apparently the man at the gas station decided not to call the police, or possibly he had met other people fleeing from the DS.

  60

  The next morning they reached Central Davabel. It was as deserted as the area around the DS. There was no cordon here either.

  Maybe it’s not needed anymore, Gavein thought with a shiver.

  They went up to 5700 Avenue. Saalstein stopped the car at the intersection.

  “You can get out here, Throzz,” he said. “This is close enough. You have no more than fifty cross streets and can walk that in a day. I’m going home. Screw this. I’m not taking you all the way. You may have visitors there I don’t want to meet.”

  “That’s fine. You’ve done a lot for me already.”

  “One last favor.”

  “What?”

  “You saved my life. Don’t now bump me off in your usual fashion, okay?”

  “If I had any say in the matter, I wouldn’t be bumping anyone off . . . you included. You understand?” Gavein said, shaking Saalstein’s good hand.

  “I understand. That is, I don’t but I’d like to. In any case, may your Ra Mahleiné be well.”

  “How do you know her Lavath name?”

  “From the phone tapes.”

  Saalstein gave Gavein a salute and shut the door.

  Just then, Gavein saw them out of the corner of his eye and dove into an open doorway. He was quick enough that they didn’t see him. The patrol rounded the corner, about eight guardsmen, in helmets and flak jackets and carrying automatic rifles.

  “Hold on there!” the leader called to Saalstein. “Not so fast. Out of the car.”

  The soldiers took aim at the station wagon, and two of them had grenades. They could easily demolish the vehicle.

  Saalstein got out. Gavein stayed crouched in the doorway, not moving, watching the scene through the half-open door.

  “Hands,” said one of them, waving the barrel of his rifle.

  Saalstein raised his hands, unevenly, awkwardly: the arm in a sling went no higher than his shoulders.

  “Search him,” said the leader softly. This was a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

  “Wait, I’m Dr. Yullius Saalstein from the Division of Science.”

  “Easy. Don’t move.” The soldier prodded Saalstein in the back with his rifle.

  Another soldier unzipped Saalstein’s suit and took out a handful of banknotes. “Sergeant, he’s as stuffed as a holiday duck,” he said, showing the money to the leader.

  “Remove the stuffing, Brown,” said the sergeant. “Kratz, provide a pot.”

  The soldier began taking the money from Saalstein’s suit. He put an arm in up to the elbow and extracted more bills. The other soldier held out his helmet, and the bills were placed in that.

  “There’s a hump in back too,” said the soldier who was aiming at Saalstein’s back.

  “We’ll take care of the hump,” said Brown, reaching.

  “I am Dr. Yullius Saalstein of the Division of Science, Yullius Saalstein, Head of Biology at the DS,” Saalstein said. “I demand that you notify General Thompson immediately.”

  “Ho, he demands,” said the sergeant with a smile.

  Brown removed the money fistful by fistful. Kratz pressed it down in the helmet, to make it fit.

  Finally Brown stopped. “Enough. I’m not digging up his ass for it.”

  “All right. Brown, step aside,” said the sergeant slowly.

  “What are you going to do?” Saalstein’s voice was shrill. “You must notify General Thompson! You’ll regret it if you don’t! Thomp won’t forgive you!”

  “This is a common thief,” said the sergeant, “who just robbed a store. Don’t you think, Bobrov?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the one who had been aiming at Saalstein’s back. “We saw him cleaning out the cash register.”

  “Breaking and entering,” said another, not interested. “He broke the window with the butt of his rifle. That window back there.”

  “Look, don’t be stupid. I’m not, I won’t . . .” Saalstein suddenly turned and ran.

  The sergeant pulled the trigger. In a sharp, dry rattle, a series of shots. Cartridges bouncing on the pavement. Saalstein fell as if cut down with a scythe and flapped in a few convulsions. A pool of blood spread around him.

  “He attacked me,” said the sergeant. “I shot in self-defense.”

  “Yes, sir, you shot in self-defense,” said Bobrov.

  “He was insane. Probably a rapist too,” said Brown.

  “All right, then,” said the sergeant. “We divide this eight ways, equally.”

  The guardsmen put out their helmets while Brown, counting out loud, divided the money. He shoved his portion into a pocket.

  Bobrov folded up the sleeves of his uniform. His forearms were cut; blood had coagulated in brown lines.

  “According to the rule book,” said the sergeant, “you don’t roll up your sleeves unless the temperature’s over twenty-five. You already got a lesson, Bobrov.”

  “That old whore had claws.” Bobrov put on his helmet. “And dirty hands, too. She put them in the garbage first, or in her crotch.”

  “You were standing on her hands, that’s the reason they were dirty,” Corporal Jura told him.

  “Had to, she was swinging her arms like a windmill. The old cow. I’ll have pus now for a month.” Bobrov inspected the cuts carefully. “She was fat, but she could move.”

  “Only Brown had it good,” said one of the soldiers.

  “Of course, Kratz. You’re always the one with the rotten luck.”

  “You’re not kidding. The woman was like a toad; she wouldn’t let go. I had to smack her one with the gun to make her stop clutching. Not like your Mrs. Death, eh, Brown?”

  Gavein went cold with fear.

  “Yeah, a young thing. Finger-licking good.”

  He wanted to tear them apart but felt terribly helpless. What could he do against six automatic rifles and two grenades?

  For a moment he thought of attacking them with his bare hands and relying on his weird invulnerability. But if he wasn’t invulnerable, he would die before he could punish them. And what if they were speaking of someone else, not Ra Mahleiné?

  When would they stop counting their damn money?

  From their continued conversation Gavein learned that they had murdered several people: a young girl they referred to as Mrs. Death; a couple of old women, one of whom had fought fiercely; and a sick old man, bedridden, whom Kratz ha
d dispatched with his bayonet.

  Gavein listened in horror. The vilest scenes imaginable rose before him.

  “Kratz, Brown, burn that,” ordered the sergeant, pointing at the station wagon.

  The men stepped back several paces, and two fired rounds into the gas tank. Some gas leaked out and ignited, but not enough to burn the car.

  “Shit,” said the sergeant. “He was driving on fumes. Must have come a distance.”

  “Maybe he really was from the DS. He had that kind of uniform . . . ,” said the fat one with few teeth.

  “Cut the jokes, Olsen,” snapped the sergeant and turned Saalstein face up with his boot. “This one’s from prison, not the DS,” he stated. “That Death guy, I’ve seen his photograph. He’s different, older.”

  “You’re always stepping in it, ain’t you, dickhead,” said Bobrov, laughing and offering Olsen a cigarette.

  “All right, let’s get moving. We should head back to the camp. But keep your eyes peeled, men, even behind you. Thieves like this one come in pairs, like snake eyes. If we get the other one, it’ll be that much more glory for the fatherland.” He shouldered his rifle.

  “That Sergeant Kurys, he goes by the book,” muttered the corporal.

  “Fall in,” commanded Sergeant Kurys.

  61

  He forced himself to wait a quarter of an hour in the doorway. It was a beautiful morning, full of spring and sunlight. Flies were gathering now on Saalstein.

  Finally Gavein emerged from his hiding place, his fear for Ra Mahleiné overcoming all other thoughts. He passed smashed shop windows, the burnt skeletons of cars.

  He walked faster: broken street lamps, scattered newspapers, plastic bags of garbage torn open and stinking. He began to run, clumsily, limping on his sore ankle. Saalstein had brought him closer than fifty streets. Soon Gavein recognized 5665 Avenue. He gasped for air, saw spots before his eyes, had to slow down. He ran again. A few more streets, a few more abandoned cars, and there at last were the wrecks of the military trucks and the gutted flower shop: the intersection of 5665 Avenue and 5454 Street.