The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga)

by Christopher Hinz

  Ghandi drew a sharp breath. Twelve-fifty-seven—only a few minutes to go. Colette had asked Ghandi to be present in the chalet at one o'clock. To meet a visitor. To take part in an important event.

  Is she going to kill me today?

  In the back of his neck, the familiar twitches began anew—the silent shriek of the microbes—his body's way of protesting the split in his life, between the way it was and the way that he secretly—in the throes of dreamtime—wanted it to be.

  I've betrayed the human race. Twenty-five years ago, I fell in love with Colette, tway of Sappho. I sold my future to the Paratwa. And there is no turning back.

  Would his death be a quick one, at the hands of Colette? A dagger in the night, perhaps? Or something more subtle, like a male-specific poison, vaginally introduced during intercourse, in the manner of the Roki Katill, that crazed sisterhood of twenty-first-century prostitutes whose worldwide mandate to decimate the male of the species had, for a brief period, led to a statistically relevant increase in monogamous relationships.

  Or maybe Colette would not do the actual deed. Perhaps killing Ghandi, her lover and partner for a quarter of a century, would prove too torturous, too arduous a task. She did, after all, love him; his murder would not be a rejection or betrayal of their close personal relationship but rather a grim recognition of an altered reality. Colette's tway, the other half of the Ash Ock Sappho, would soon be returning from the stars. And a ménage à trois between Ghandi and the tways of a Paratwa simply did not seem practical.

  The microbes reached their familiar threshold of agitation, then polarized into the dark energy of a shiver that bolted the length of Ghandi's spine.

  Maybe Colette will allow the maniac to kill me. The maniac—Calvin the Ash Nar—the one-of-a-kind tripartite assassin, hater of most things human. Calvin would certainly carry out any execution with great relish. Especially Ghandi's.

  Or perhaps it would be Meridian, Jeek assassin, errand boy for the Royal Caste, who would soon arrive in the Colonies to address the Council of Irrya and provide them with the ultimatum that was expected to force their surrender.

  There was no way out. No hope remained.

  He sighed abruptly, realizing that he had temporarily overloaded consciousness with a crushing myriad of possibilities for his own termination. Even with the end drawing near, even with disparate events beginning to coalesce and centuries-old Paratwa plans beginning to yield the genetically bred binaries their ultimate victory, a respite was needed.

  The last twenty-five years have been pretty good, he reasoned. Having Colette as a lover, being wealthy beyond his childhood dreams, being the ostensible head of CPG, fifth largest corporation in the Colonies—those were tangible rewards.

  But he recognized the rationalization for what it was.

  I could kill myself.

  He drew a fragile breath and moved closer to the window, stared down across the snow-covered hillside to the bleak gray road far below the level of the chalet, to the side of the small garage where the traded snowrovers were housed. There, in front of a small permanent snowdrift, varying only in depth as Pocono's weather crept through its slight seasonal variations, lay a faint depression, signifying the existence of a helix core. Ghandi watched the spot carefully, his attention increasingly focused, waiting with an expectation far beyond the consequence of what was to occur, almost managing to convince himself that something of great importance was destined to take place.

  The wind picked up; the side of the garage served to channel the swift breeze, intensifying the eddies. The faint depression in the snow erupted to life; a swirl of newly fallen flakes abruptly levitated into a six-foot-high double helix—a near-perfect imitation of the DNA signature. The helix held its shape for only a few seconds before disintegrating into a graceful swirl of dreamy white puffs.

  Ghandi pulled back from the window. Pocono's helixes were a frequent oddity, occurring throughout the leisure colony. Researchers claimed that Pocono's odd windshapes were caused by a combination of the Coriolis effect—induced by the colony's rotation, the presence of powerful ground-level air currents—common to most cylinders, and the proximity of the tubular speed slopes. Some of the more romantically inclined tourists tended to believe that the double helixes represented the vibrant struggle of the colony itself to attain organic integrity. Life from the lifeless.

  A hot seismic shudder lanced up Ghandi's spine: an echo of his microbe dance, straining to reach some distant epiphany. He rubbed the back of his sleeve across his forehead, wiped away beads of fresh sweat. I can't kill myself. I wouldn't know how to do such a thing.

  And Colette knew that as well. She knew Ghandi was a survivor, had known it that very first day when he had entered her shuttle, in the dead city of Denver, Colorado, twenty-five years ago. Colette would never have chosen a lover/partner who displayed the weakness of one who would forfeit his own life. The tway of an Ash Ock would never permit a human to exist that far beyond her control.

  Sounds from the adjacent storage room. Footsteps.

  Ghandi turned away from the window, stared through the open door into the smaller chamber, into the stairwell. Colette came first, hips swaggering beneath the folds of a pleated lemon skirt. She strode purposefully across the anteroom, a secret smile framed by her perfect oval face, golden curls ensconced by the transparent sheen of an electrostatic cap. Behind her, panting from exertion, trod Doyle Blumhaven.

  Colette shimmied through the open doorway, halted, slapped her palms against her narrow waist, then began to wiggle her butt rhythmically; like a hermit dancer with limbic implants, regurgitating private symphonies from random synaptic activity. Blumhaven, his thick chest sucking down air, obviously straining from the exertion of three flights of stairs, glared solemnly at Colette's coquettish display.

  Colette laughed. “A female!” she urged, arresting her swivels, grinding to a stop. “I could get you one, Doyle. A genuine female of the species Homo sapiens. It would be something different for you. A challenge—a new semiotic referent.” She laughed again. “Life's far too short to place limits on experimentation."

  Blumhaven, scowling, continued to suck air.

  "How about a fifty-fifty?” goaded Colette. “A constructed herm with an extendable penis in the vaginal canal. A pleasant surprise for your tongue."

  "Disgusting,” managed Doyle, even as a flicker of excitement played across his face.

  Colette giggled and turned to Ghandi, licking her lips, playfully, seductively. He restrained an urge to embrace her, sweep her off her feet, carry her to the bedroom, allow her to drive the microbes into retreat, banish his pain to nether lands free of self-corruption.

  She clapped her hands. “Corelli-Paul, lover of loves—Doyle has brought us wonderful news.” Her aquamarine eyes seemed to dance across Ghandi's face, like the eyes of a child trying to study all aspects of a thing simultaneously in order to comprehend its reality. Ghandi repressed a shiver.

  "Doyle's news is so important that I urged him to come here directly, deconstruct the relevancies in person, so that we might address ramifications within a more intimate environment."

  Ghandi did not understand, but he remained silent. Usually, scrambled telecommunications sufficed for their frequent contacts with the E-Tech director, since E-Tech's own official policies served to discourage—if not prohibit—Blumhaven from private socializing with corporate citizens over whom his organization served as watchdog. And in this particular instance, it was even more important to maintain distance. Doyle Blumhaven had, after all, been bought and paid for by Colette more than two decades ago.

  His wife read his concern. Her smile faded to a mock sigh. “Doyle, I believe my husband feels anxious about your presence here."

  Blumhaven bobbed his head. “Nothing to worry about, Corelli-Paul. I took ample precautions. My itinerary has me visiting Pocono's history library, seven miles away. I told my security people to take the afternoon off, enjoy some of Pocono's sights, and I entered the l
ibrary alone.” Jowls twisted; a tiny smile emerged from between the thick red cheeks. Ghandi was sure that Doyle had put on some extra pounds since their last face-to-face encounter, months ago, at an import restrictions conference in Flying Detroit.

  "I bundled myself into a hooded parka,” continued Blumhaven. “I drove a snowrover—a one-shot rental—and parked it nearly half a mile away from here, in one of those crowded elevated lots that overlook this Speed Slope. And I walked from there. Quite a hike up to your chalet."

  "Quite a hike,” agreed Ghandi, glancing at Colette, wanting her expression to provide answers. Why ask him to come here? Why risk a face-to-face meeting?

  Colette revealed nothing. “Ah, yes, Corelli-Paul, Doyle has wonderful news. Utilizing his own resources, he has managed to track down the traitor in the E-Tech vaults, the one who probably awakened Gillian and the Czar."

  Ghandi reached toward the control panel beside the huge picture window, intending to clench the glass.

  "No,” said Colette firmly. “Let us continue to enjoy the view, Corelli-Paul. I doubt if anyone can see us."

  Ghandi shrugged and allowed his hand to drop away from the shading controls. She was probably right. Pocono's permanent cloud cover, combined with the chalet's sensor field—a plethora of antisurveillance devices—seemed to ensure their privacy. The enclosed veranda was visible from the opposite bank of the suspended speed slope, some sixty feet away. But today happened to be the one day this month that the slope was closed for reicing of the winding trough's upper entrails. No jetpak skiers would scream the tube.

  She plans everything, thought Ghandi. A chill swept across his shoulders.

  Blumhaven's gaze wandered across the small veranda, obviously searching for a place to sit. But no chairs slid from the walls or spiraled out of slice grooves on the thickly carpeted floor. Sensors refused to acknowledge his presence.

  And the veranda itself remained bare of stable furnishings. Only a pair of nineteenth-century polished silver spittoons placed in opposite corners disturbed the room's simple rectangular geometry. They were antiques acquired by Ghandi several years ago during a particularly virulent purchasing spree in the weird sunless streets of Bangkok Colony. He could no longer recall what had prompted his interest in the cuspidors.

  Blumhaven squinted as he took notice of the faint disturbance of air in front of the picture window. Intrigued, he raised a curious eyebrow toward Colette. But she just smiled at him, offering no explanation for the illusory presence of the zephyr.

  The councilor, concluding that sitting was not an option, cleared his throat.

  "The name of the traitor is Adam Lu Sang. He's a young programmer with high-level clearance in the vaults. A born troublemaker. Always contradicting his superiors, that sort of thing. Anyway, he's the one, no doubt about it. Adam Lu Sang is the only programmer who could have possibly arranged for the switching of that stasis capsule containing Gillian and Nick. After weeks of cross-checking and candid interviews with everyone who has full access to the vaults, my operatives have determined that Lu Sang is our boy."

  Colette's smile remained in place, but it suddenly metamorphosed into an unreal caricature, drained of emotional significance, a form without substance. “Do you have actual proof?"

  "This Lu Sang's too clever to leave us anything so clean as a hard-evidence trail in the computer net. But he's not quite as sharp when it comes to physical movements. Apparently, he's never realized that E-Tech Security routinely operates spot surveillance checks on all of our high-level programmers. And one of those surveillance checks revealed that Adam, within days of the period when we suspect the stasis capsule switch was actually made, changed his itinerary and rather furtively tramped off to Irrya's northern extremes."

  "The Lion's retreat,” murmured Ghandi.

  "Precisely,” said Blumhaven.

  Colette moved to the window, gazed up at the winding Speed Slope, the twenty-foot-wide banked ice trough suspended by delicate cables disappearing into Pocono's slate skies. The cables were ultimately hinged to a reinforced nexus in the gravity-free core of center-sky, miles overhead.

  She said, “It's going to snow."

  Blumhaven shook his head. “I don't think so. I was listening to the forecast on the way over. The programmers have nothing on the schedule until the end of the week..."

  His voice drifted away as the first flakes began to fall. Oversize crystals rapidly blossomed into a cascading series of white sheets, plastering the window, blotting the view.

  Ghandi turned to Blumhaven. “Why did it take you so long to learn of this Adam Lu Sang's visit to the Lion of Alexander? It seems to me that your Security people should have been pretty suspicious when they found out that this programmer was secretly visiting an Irryan councilor."

  The E-Tech director shrugged. “Nearly everyone—even high-level programmers—occasionally tend to commit acts that could be construed as suspicious. But it was not until we cross-referenced departments—studied Lu Sang's movements in conjunction with his other deeds—that his visit to the Alexanders’ retreat took on true significance."

  Cross-referenced departments? True significance? Ghandi scowled, thinking that Colette's latest appraisal of E-Tech was doubtlessly correct: after years of Doyle's mindless leadership, the regulatory organization had mutated into a bureaucracy of immense proportions, with interdepartmental communications obscenely handicapped.

  His wife turned away from the window. The barest trace of annoyance now colored her tone. “And how about your Security precautions, Doyle? I hate to review this, but can you be absolutely certain that your own current movements are not under surveillance by your own Security division?"

  "Impossible,” uttered Blumhaven, with the conviction of a political candidate.

  "What about the Edward Huromonus action/probe?"

  "I would know if I was under surveillance,” insisted Blumhaven.

  Colette sighed.

  "I was not followed. I'm certain of it."

  Again, Ghandi wondered why Colette had insisted on a face-to-face gathering.

  Her tone softened. “Adam Lu Sang ... he was probably one of the first programmers to dispute our cover story about the origin of the sunsetter, that built-in terminators were responsible for the date decimation."

  "Yes,” said Blumhaven. “From the beginning, Lu Sang believed that there was a sunsetter in the archives. Which brings up another matter, Colette. When are you going to call off this sunsetter? If you recall, our original arrangement called for your program to remove itself from the archives following the specific data decimation of a number of old programs—the ones that you claimed could someday threaten CPG's monopoly on a number of high-tech products—"

  "Change of plans,” interrupted Colette. She turned back to the window, stared out into the raging storm. “Doyle, did you know that Pocono's weather has never been fully controllable? Cold temperature maintenance, combined with a heavy moisture base, occasionally exhibits properties of its own. The result is periodic random behavior—a price that one pays for dealing with an exotic system."

  Blumhaven frowned. “You mean that sometimes it snows by itself?"

  "Yes. That is what I mean. And once in a great while, an exotic system actually begins to get out of control. Chaos occurs. And often the only way to regain control is to amplify the very distortions that are creating the randomness within the system. Sometimes you must allow the noise to overwhelm the music, or permit forty days and forty nights of rain, or pull out the rods and permit the fissionable mass to achieve nuclear glory. Sometimes you must do these things to elevate the system to a new plateau—cause a new stasis to be achieved so that fresh lines of control can be created."

  Blumhaven continued to frown. “Do you want Adam Lu Sang ... do you want something to happen to him?"

  Colette chuckled. “Delicately put, dear Doyle. Yes. I want something to happen to Adam Lu Sang. In fact, in a very short time, I am going to have a handwritten message delivered to o
ur young programmer—a beautiful forgery, with the Lion of Alexander's own DNA prints included for authenticity's sake. This message will instruct Adam to go immediately to the Lion's retreat. It will warn him not to attempt any contact with the Lion, either through the computer net or via regular com channels. This message will command Lu Sang to take extraordinary precautions to ensure that he is not followed. The very tone of the note will suggest great urgency, great secrecy.” Colette paused. “You did manage to acquire the Lion's DNA signature during your visit."

  Blumhaven's eyes widened with understanding. He nodded and withdrew a tiny data brick from under his jacket. “Here's the Lion's prints, plus what fragments of the retreat's security profile I was able to obtain before the devices were confiscated."

  "Excellent,” murmured Colette, slipping the brick into a fold pocket of her skirt. “Was the Lion suspicious?"

  "Not unduly so. When I handed him the surveillance units, he gave no indication that he thought the static spark was anything more than the reactive field of highly charged sensors. I'm certain he never suspected that the units—in tandem—were acquiring cellular specimens. And when the Lion's security officer returned the units to me a short time later, I double-checked them immediately, as you instructed. They had not been tampered with."

  "And you retrieved the data from the surveillance devices as I asked? And then destroyed the units?"

  "Yes,” said Blumhaven, with a thoughtful nod. “But I'm still curious, Colette. Where did you get such devices? I did a basic scan of the archives, and I could not locate anything more than references to such hardware. And the prototypes that were mentioned were lost ages ago, during the Apocalypse."