The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  "And now that the freelancers know your identity, it won't be long before E-Tech Security and the local patrollers find out as well. In fact, I'd say there's a possibility that the authorities have already been alerted to your presence here. Throughout Sirak-Brath, you have managed to inform a great number of people that you are searching for me. A priest from C of the T even came to my home this morning, seeking to make contact with Cohe-wand man."

  "A priest?” wondered Gillian. He pointed to the third man, who stood below the others. “Is that him by any chance?"

  Faquod stared for a moment. “Yes, that is him. Perhaps he got here by following the freelancers?"

  Gillian did not reply. A priest from the Church of the Trust, looking for me? Why?

  Buff coughed. “All the more reason for us to go about our business and then get the hell out of here. Yes, Faquod?"

  The smuggler shrugged.

  "We're looking for another salene. Plus a couple of those fancy little three-tube thrusters. And if you have any other new weapons available—"

  Faquod waved his hand. “Yes. Nice toys. All illegal. All hard to come by. All very—"

  "Expensive,” concluded Buff. “You can save the shitline, Faquod. I know—business is tough. You're not making much of a profit anywhere. Life is difficult. Taxes are killing you.” She sighed. “So how much for two of these thrusters and another salene?"

  "More money than you have, unfortunately."

  "That sounds a bit too expensive,” Buff quipped “How about fifty thousand for—"

  Faquod held up his hand, pleading silence. “Buff, we cannot do business. Yes. I am sorry. You and Cohe-wand man, are, at the present time ... how shall I put it ... bad risks? There are too many people looking for you. It is too dangerous for me to sell you anything. You are unacceptable bets."

  "Whirl crap!” snapped Buff. “You can arrange it so no one would know."

  "My booth could be under hostile surveillance at this very moment. The patrollers could be watching. Even E-Tech Security. Both of you could be arrested the instant you leave here."

  "We won't be arrested,” promised Gillian.

  Faquod grinned. “Yes, Cohe-wand man, it would take a great deal to arrest you, I am sure. But the fact remains: we cannot do business, not now. Perhaps in a few weeks. When things are calmer.” The smuggler paused. “There is, of course, the possibility that I could arrange to have you visit one of my professional compatriots. Yes. I am not the only one who deals in these toys."

  Buff scowled. “That would be most generous of you, Faquod. Could this be your week for good deeds? Or is it possible that you want something in return for such information."

  "I do wish a small favor, actually. The simplest of things."

  "You want my Cohe wand,” concluded Gillian.

  The smuggler yawned and stretched out on the sofa. He looked like a cat extending to its full length.

  "Yes. Not to keep, of course. Just to borrow. Let's say for one week. A mere seven days. Surely, Cohe-wand man, you can survive without your little toy for that length of time. In return, I will put you in touch with a supplier of high-tech playthings Yes. I will even guarantee that he charges you reasonable rates."

  "You can't duplicate the Cohe wand,” Gillian pointed out. “It's been tried before. The wetware batteries, the manufacturing techniques, they're long lost."

  Faquod, still stretched out on the sofa, rolled over onto his stomach. Gillian had the feeling he was going to start purring.

  "I am aware of such difficulties. But new-tech is always happening. Yes. Possibilities can become probabilities, theories can become designs. What do you say to my proposal, Cohe-wand man?"

  "No."

  Faquod smiled and shrugged. “A preordained answer. Warriors are not easily separated from their weapons."

  Buff stared coldly at the smuggler. “I hope you're not going to hold this against us, Faquod."

  "Business, Buff. Yes? Vendettas are reserved for personal affronts. Which leads me to ask: how is your search going for Martha's killer?"

  Buff rubbed her palm across her shaved head, as if physically touching the crisscrossing blue and red lines made it easier to answer. “No luck."

  "Indeed. Last week, if I recall, the Order of the Birch assassins struck that transport facility in Kawala Port, Big Tunisia. Sixty dead, wasn't it?"

  Buff grimaced. “We'll find him. And when we do, the bastard's going down. Count on it, Faquod. This assassin's going to pay for what he did to Martha."

  The smuggler chuckled. “Righteousness, Buff. Yes. Admirable. But I notice you said bastard, not bastards—you refer to this creature in the singular. Does that mean you believe the freelancer stories? That these Order of the Birch massacres are being done by a single Paratwa assassin?"

  "I wouldn't bet against it."

  "How sure are you?'

  Buff hesitated, looked at Gillian. He shrugged. There was no reason not to tell the smuggler what they knew.

  "It's a tripartite assassin, composed of three tways.” Gillian went on to explain what they had deduced about the killer. When he finished, Faquod looked genuinely pleased.

  "And you, Cohe-wand man, you also were once of the binary spirit. Yes. You're the one from fifty-six years ago, the one who destroyed Reemul the Jeek."

  Gillian raised his eyebrows.

  "I have contacts in E-Tech Security,” explained Faquod. “They tell me that they can't seem to locate the stasis capsule you and your midget friend were sleeping in. They're beginning to think you're awake. On the loose. They are very worried."

  Gillian shook his head. “When Meridian and the rest of the Paratwa return, I'm going to be the least of their concerns."

  Faquod laughed.

  Buff raised her eyebrows. “You're not worried about the starships?"

  "Worried about what? Business will change—old fortunes will disappear, new ones will come into existence. Yes. The return of the Paratwa presents both inconvenience and opportunity."

  Buff muttered, “I think things are going to get a lot worse than all that."

  "She's right,” said Gillian. “I wouldn't underestimate the changes that might occur. This is the Ash Ock, Faquod. It won't simply be an exchange of taxation authorities."

  The Siamese redheads, giggling with delight, stood up. Carefully, they turned to face their master.

  "Este!” said the first. “We beat our old score!"

  The second grinned mischievously. “Don't you think we should be rewarded?” She threw him a kiss.

  "Yes. Rewarded.” The smuggler rubbed his belly. “I would like to discuss the changing political structure with you all day, but I'm afraid other duties must take precedence. It is time for you to leave. Good-bye, Buff—may your vendetta be bloody.” He turned to Gillian. “I'm glad we could meet, Cohe-wand man. Someday, perhaps, when the immediacy of the moment is less hostile, I would like to see you in action, down on the field. You would make a formidable Upside whirler. But then again, perhaps such a game would not prove attractive to one who plays for real. Yes?"

  Faquod opened the door for them. Without another word, Gillian and Buff left the booth.

  "Well,” grumbled Buff, as they headed back down the stair between the sections of the grandstand, “now what the hell do we do?"

  Gillian pointed openly to the two freelancers, who were still trying to pretend that their interest was in the game. “Let's go down and challenge that pair to a fight."

  "Very funny."

  "Who says I'm joking?"

  Buff gripped his arm securely. “I've got a better idea. Let's go get a room and have sex again."

  "I'd rather fight."

  Buff sighed. “Yeah, Faquod can really put a person in an extra foul mood."

  A few steps below the freelancers, the mysterious priest caught their eye. He began smiling and waving at them.

  "Should we?” asked Buff.

  "Why not?"

  As they passed the two freelancers, Gillian
observed that both wore high-laced transparent plastic boots with mismatched argyle socks, one of this year's hottest fashion concepts. He also noted that they stood pressed tightly against each other, so close that one man's right boot was pressed against the other man's left boot. Gillian smiled.

  He snapped his wrist, launched the Cohe wand into his palm. A gentle squeeze of the egg ... a sharp flick of the wrist...

  The black beam flashed for only an instant, curling between the freelancers’ legs, the incinerating tip of energy lancing across their boots, melting the two pieces of adjacent plastic into one mass. Their boots sizzled. A waft of oily smoke rose.

  "Hey!” shouted the closest freelancer, staring down at his smoking boot. His eyes widened with fear as Gillian leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  "Don't follow us anymore, okay?"

  The second freelancer, not realizing exactly what had happened, saw the plume rising from his feet and jerked sideways in panic. But his right boot was now completely fused to his partner's left one. Both men lost their balance at the same instant, fell backward onto the landing. A wreath of spectators, not knowing what had actually happened, roared with laughter. The freelancers cursed and tried to tear apart their cojoined feet.

  "Cute,” muttered Buff. “A Cohe wand in front of five thousand people."

  "No one noticed."

  "Yeah, well, let's get the hell out of here anyway, okay?"

  "In a minute."

  The priest appeared to be in his mid-forties. He had long dark hair speckled with gray, and a well-kept beard. His right hand clutched a small suitcase. He smiled as they approached.

  Gillian said, “I understand that you've been looking for us."

  "True, but now that I've found you, I must admit to being somewhat fearful. My boots ... they are of genuine restored leather. I hope they will not be damaged by your wand."

  Gillian frowned. “What do you want?"

  "My name is Lester Mon Dama, and I have been sent to find you and deliver a message.” He sighed. “I've been trying to track you down for weeks now, ever since my master learned that you and the Czar were awakened."

  "The Czar?"

  "Yes, the Czar—your partner, Nick. During the pre-Apocalypse, you know, he was known as the Czar."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The priest shrugged and leaned forward, whispering, “I'm afraid that you do. Your name is Gillian, and you are the surviving tway of the Ash Ock Paratwa Empedocles."

  Gillian scowled. Buff put a hand under her coat, preparing to unsheathe a weapon.

  Lester Mon Dama raised his hand. “Please, you have nothing to fear from me. I am simply a messenger."

  "Then give your message,” demanded Gillian.

  The priest opened his suitcase and withdrew a small data brick from beneath an antique telephone directory. The faded yellow cover was labeled bell atlantic.

  "I've a weakness for twentieth-century telephonic materials,” said Lester Mon Dama, smiling apologetically. “I've been collecting this sort of thing since I was a boy."

  "Whatever keeps you out of trouble,” muttered Buff.

  The priest continued. “It is understandable that you may not have heard of the Czar. That name was known only to the ruling Ash Ock—Sappho, Theophrastus, Codrus, and Aristotle—and their minions. But there is another name that I believe you will know.” He paused. “Does Jalka trigger any memories?"

  Gillian's mouth almost dropped open. Inside, Empedocles erupted into turmoil; monarchial thoughts burned across Gillian's awareness like tracers from a geo cannon.

  Jalka!

  It was a name only Gillian and his monarch could know, a name learned ages ago, in the pre-Apocalypse, before the Earth had been reduced to a near-barren wasteland. Gillian and Catharine had still been children, maybe seven years old, still in training at the Ash Ock's secret camp in the Brazilian rain forests. One day, their Ash Ock proctor, Aristotle, had called them into the deep privacy of a training den. There, Aristotle had revealed the secret name of one of his own tways: Jalka.

  Aristotle had sworn them to secrecy. Jalka was never to be uttered, never written, anywhere, even in the presence of Aristotle himself. Jalka was to be their absolute secret, known only to Aristotle and Empedocles—and their four composite tways.

  At the time, Gillian and Catharine had not deduced their teacher's deeper intentions, but they had been suitably impressed by his grave manner and had vowed to keep the name secret. And Gillian knew that neither he nor Catharine—nor Empedocles—had ever broken that vow. Months after the event, Catharine had come to a conclusion about their proctor's intentions.

  Jalka is our password, she proudly announced. If we have to contact Aristotle secretly someday, or he us, then we use that word. And Aristotle probably has other passwords linking him with other Paratwa.

  Gillian understood then, but he did not understand now.

  Jalka was a tway of Aristotle, but Aristotle's tways had perished during the final days. Jalka had been dead for over a quarter of a millennium.

  Inside, Gillian sensed Empedocles withdrawing, deep into the recesses of his mind, shearing the links between their shared consciousnesses, pulling back until he became simply a dark blur of thoughts on the perimeter of awareness. Gillian's monarch was as deeply disturbed by the revelation as he was, and probably desired time alone—as separate from Gillian as possible—to consider the extraordinary ramifications of this priest's revelation.

  And when Empedocles retreated, Gillian felt instantly calmer. His muscles relaxed and his cauldron of emotions fell below the boiling point. He thought about how truly wonderful it would feel to be forever free of his Ash Ock monarch, to be able to live always as a single solitary creature.

  Lester Mon Dama appeared to be waiting for Gillian to say something. When no response was forthcoming, the priest gingerly—so as not to arouse the now-wrathful looking Buff—handed the data brick to Gillian.

  "This is from Jalka, my master. It will lead you to him."

  A loud roar filled the arena. They turned to the playing field. Three whirlers had collided; two of them lay on the ground, unmoving, apparently knocked unconscious by the force of the crash.

  The priest said, “I must go now. I have been away from my parish for quite some time, and in these days of increasing troubles, the Trust requires my renewed attention."

  Buff grabbed his arm. “I'm sure the Trust can survive for a little while yet without you. For all we know, you've just handed us a bomb."

  A weary smile crossed Lester Mon Dama's face. “If my master desired your deaths, then you would already be dead.” He turned to Gillian. “You know Jalka. You know his power."

  Gillian nodded slowly. “Buff, let him go."

  Scowling, she released the priest's arm.

  "Jalka is in a hurry,” said the priest. “The package—please open it as soon as possible.” Turning, Lester Mon Dama made his way down the stairs and disappeared into the crowd.

  "So who the hell is this Jalka?” quizzed Buff, glancing back at the two freelancers, who had finally managed to remove their melted communal boot.

  "An old friend,” answered Gillian. And one who can't possibly be alive.

  O}o{O

  Corelli-Paul Ghandi wondered how he would die.

  He sat in Colette's favored zephyr chair, on the top floor of their three-story Pocono chalet, on the fully enclosed veranda overlooking Speed Slope Fourteen. The near-invisible web of the zephyr, a body-shaping fountain of powerful airjets, nestled his body with a cradling mother's security, its hesitant touch and gentle cries of melodic protest providing an equilibrium as indulgent as flesh. But the zephyr seemed to be blessed with an even greater symmetry than flesh; as the chair held him in its structured balance, persistently redefining the interface of body and air, Ghandi fell into the illusion that he was seated on nothing at all. Deeper senses decreed that a barrier remained a barrier, that the zephyr was as real as the sprawling picture window
that fronted this floor of the chalet, separating inner warmth from the chill of outside air.

  Will I die quickly?

  The zephyr whined as he leaned slightly forward; pinpoint streams of air rippled across his back as the chair reacted to a rhythmic set of spasms lancing up his spine. Colette claimed that the zephyr was the most comfortable seat ever designed. Could Ghandi dispute her?

  His thoughts returned to a day, maybe five years ago, when Colette had asked him to update his will. He was to change the prime beneficiary from Colette, his wife of two decades, to CPG Corporation. Colette's stated reason had been that in the event of Ghandi's death, his personal finances should flow directly back into the corporation, where they could be redistributed most effectively, where the least amount of legal wrangling would need to take place. A minor readjustment.

  Was she planning my death even then? For Colette, the tway of an Ash Ock, with a lifespan upward of half a millennium, five years hardly constituted advance preparation. Five years was nothing for a Paratwa of the Royal Caste, whose complex plans for conquering the Irryan Colonies may have been initially conceived over two hundred and fifty years ago.

  Ghandi shook his head and hunched forward, allowed the zephyr's airjets to contribute to his forward motion, lift him upright. I'm being paranoid. I'm attaching significance to an event that was more likely nothing more than what was stated—a minor readjustment.

  And the words of Sappho, uttered weeks ago, seemed to lend credence to his irrationality.

  We must provide our enemy with a suitable shadow to chase. You will be that shadow, Corelli-Paul. It is you who will be called upon to make the great sacrifice, to become the public scapegoat.

  Throughout history, most public scapegoats were more useful alive than dead.

  He touched the tiny band encircling his wrist, felt twelve-fifty-seven enter awareness as the chrono's field pulsed the time into his neural circuits. The chrono was circuitously new—just one of a number of high-tech luxury items that CPG's subsidiaries were reintroducing into the vast marketplace of the Irryan Colonies. At the present rate of reinnovation, only a few more decades would have to pass before the cylinders theoretically ascended to that epitome of technological accomplishment that had strobed the waning years of the twenty-first century. Of course, reaching the wild heights of the pre-Apocalyptics assumed that the Irryan Colonies would not follow their ancestors down a similar path of self-destruction.