It did not take long for his optimistic plans to disintegrate.
Boarding the shuttle with the partial “tway” in tow, Empedocles had utilized the tiny android to send the proper command sequences to Sappho's ship. Their ascent from the depths had been fast and uneventful ... provided one ignored the unknown technology that rendered depressurization effects inconsequential. Nevertheless, the first hint of trouble did not occur until he had reengaged the shuttle's monitoring system.
Harsh urgent warnings blanketed every intercolonial channel that he could tune. Each network was broadcasting a variation of the same basic message: all Earth personnel, whether in E-Tech bases or Church of the Trust cloisters, whether on the surface legally or otherwise, were to evacuate the planet immediately. No explanation was given for such an unprecedented communiqué.
But Empedocles had a pretty good suspicion of what must have occurred. Freebird had been cracked open, its secrets spilled. The Irryan colonists had discovered the Achilles’ heel of the Paratwa.
Quickly, he had blasted off. Hull microcams revealed the artificial fog bank dissipating, the massive Os/Ka/Loq probe ship automatically sinking back into its watery sanctuary. Empedocles was not certain whether two miles of ocean would be enough to spare the cell from decimation, but there was little enough he could do about it at this point. Without time to familiarize himself with its navigational systems, any attempt to lift off in the probe was sheer folly.
By the time his shuttle had achieved the relative safety of high orbit, hundreds of nuclear-armed missiles already were being fired at the planet. He was thirty-three thousand miles out when he encountered the actual first wave of attackers.
Alarms wailed. Navcoms screens erupted. Several of the approaching shuttles blipped E-Tech IDs at him, then proceeded to transmit additional warnings to his craft. He allowed the navcom to phrase his response, providing them with assurances that he was indeed heading back to the Colonies with all due haste. Under normal conditions, the E-Tech vessels probably would have challenged his presence here; he was, after all, flying a smuggler-owned craft. But conditions clearly were not normal.
Onboard sensors provided real-time documentation of the planetary destruction. At his command, the navcom created a spinning holo of the globe, wrapped in geothermal overlays. A hundred pinpricks of light erupted across the Earth's landmasses; within minutes, that number had increased into the thousands. Long-range cameras displayed an even more engaging symmetry as mushroom clouds expanded, overlapped, melded into a vast carpet. For a few extraordinary moments, the landmasses of the planet seemed to become solid wavering sheets of golden flame.
And then the firestorm relented and the fierce light faded, and the atmosphere grew dark, almost opaque. Empedocles disengaged all planetary imagery, knowing that there was nothing more of consequence to be seen. He permitted himself twin sighs. Radical alteration of his plans had become necessary.
Originally, he had intended to dock the shuttle in Sirak-Brath—the Gillian/tway's initial point of departure—then take a standard flight back to Irrya. That had seemed the safest way to proceed. But now, there was no time for such caution. He had reset the navcom for an Irryan rendezvous.
Upon docking in the small minor terminal, located nearly twenty-five miles to the south of the Capitol district, he realized that the remainder of his carefully-wrought plans also had been rendered useless.
There was madness on the streets of Irrya.
Side by side, he walked up the terminal's exit ramp and out into a sun-swept boulevard overwhelmed by rioting humans.
There appeared to be thousands of people involved, screaming and ranting and smashing their way through the ground-floor windows of this secondary shopping district. E-Tech Security was out in full force but, obviously, they had lost control of the situation. Most of the troopers were huddled tightly along one side of the street, their multiplicity of active crescent webs filling the air with a solid hum that was, somehow, clearly discernible above the shrieks of the rioters. It was impossible to discern motivations for the destructive rampage.
Empedocles turned and dashed back down into the bowels of the docking terminal. He shoved his way through a small group of frightened individuals surrounding an arrival/departure grid. Someone had retuned the monitor to an emergency network and a gray-suited kronkite—a machine-generated newsreader—was reporting on the extent of the intercolonial disorders.
The riots were not isolated events; they were occurring throughout the cylinders. In a serene voice, the kronkite also confirmed what Empedocles already knew: the entire Earth had just been nuked in an attempt to deter the returning Paratwa from their goals. The newsreader offered no commentary on just what those goals might be.
Frustrated, the monarch pushed his Susan/tway through the small crowd, leaped over a high counter, and flipped monitor channels until he located a live freelancer who was reviewing the riots in the context of an entire spectrum of deliriously newsworthy events. Empedocles's rudeness was not appreciated by the assemblage.
"Hey!” yelled a large fingerless man wearing prosthetic gloves. “We're watching for local riot updates! We want to get out of here without being killed! Who the hell do you think you are?"
Empedocles came up behind the man with his Gillian/tway. He raised his leg and slammed his boot heel into the man's kidney. The protester went down. Several humans stared angrily at his Gillian/tway, but a quick stereo glance confirmed that there would be no other challenges.
On screen, the rather elderly male freelancer was recapping the most notable incidents of the past few days. Empedocles listened with growing apprehension.
The reasons behind the riots were varied and complex. Initial protests apparently had come from Order of the Birch sympathizers who objected to the Irryan Council's cowardice in agreeing to meet with Meridian. But the rioting had exploded into uncontrollable proportions over the past few hours, after it was learned that the returning Paratwa vessel—the Biodyysey—had annihilated a small force of Guardian targeters.
And then new fuel was poured over the growing conflagrations. Unsubstantiated rumors began to spread that the Paratwa had planted deadly viral bombs in all of the cylinders and that the Council of Irrya—by refusing to accede to Ash Ock demands—was jeopardizing the lives of each and every citizen. There were even reports—as yet unconfirmed—that one of the colonies already had been contaminated by the aerobically transmitted disease.
Right now, full-scale riots were occurring in nearly three-quarters of the Colonies. Order of the Birch fanatics, demanding a total attack on the Biodyysey, were clashing with civilians who insisted that the Council of Irrya heed Meridian's threats. None of the rioters seemed to be overly concerned that the Earth had just been nuked; if that issue carried weight, its pull remained an unconscious influence.
Martial law had been declared in most cylinders, but the rioting was so out of hand—E-Tech Security forces so severely outnumbered—that the declaration held little meaning. Colonists were either too angry or too terrified to be overly concerned by governmental threats.
The elderly freelancer provided a wealth of other news as well. Empedocles learned about the decimation of the E-Tech archives, an event that was being widely blamed on “Crazy Eddie” Huromonus, whose tenure as E-Tech director was anticipated to be the shortest in the history of the organization. But Empedocles now understood just how the humans had been able to strip Freebird of its secrets. And he realized that there was a high probability that Huromonus had not been acting alone. The Czar, that ancient and implacable Ash Ock enemy, doubtlessly was involved. Destroying the entire archival network just to ream Aristotle's cursed program smacked of the Czar's boldness.
The freelancer also reviewed last week's massacre at the Lion's retreat—a report that held absolutely no interest for Empedocles. He did not care that Adam Lu Sang, Buff Boscondo, and a number of other humans had been slain. But deep inside, he sensed a tinge of emotion emanating from his Gillian a
malgam.
The next item riveted Empedocles's four feet to the floor of the terminal.
"There's still no word on the fate of Colette Ghandi, wife of CPG Corporation founder Corelli-Paul Ghandi. For reasons as yet unannounced, E-Tech Security raided CPG's Irryan headquarters and arrested this woman.” An angry scowl spread across the elderly freelancer's face. “No formal charges have yet been filed. E-Tech is refusing to make any comment on what many Irryan judicial experts currently believe may be an illegal detention."
Empedocles released a short bitter laugh. This freelancer was actually upset by an issue, which was, under the circumstances, remarkable only for its irrelevance. But his monarchial humor quickly died away.
The tway of Sappho had been taken.
He considered his options, quickly realized that only one course of action remained open to him. It was not going to be easy to get to the Irryan Council chambers. And once there, his chances for survival would be impossible to predict; too many variables now existed.
But lesser destinies simply were not worth consideration. He had come too far to ever again accept vanquishment. There would be no more postures adopted to face the possibility of defeat. From this point on, he would live or die as an Ash Ock.
Buff's dead, projected Gillian.
Susan felt his hurt. She was a good friend.
Yes. He repressed all echoes of sadness, consigned them to that dark place beyond the horizon of immediate consciousness. Later—if there was a later—his memories of Buff might be recalled. Now was not the time for mourning.
His anger was more difficult to contain.
Susan held her composure. What do we do now?
Gillian forced his thoughts back into the flow of an icy stream. We stick to the plan. When the time comes, when conditions are right, we act—cleanly and without hesitation. Remember, we'll probably only get one chance. Empedocles won't allow himself to be fooled twice by such a tactic.
Susan allowed an instant's hesitation to mark her uncertainty. There's no other way?
No other way, insisted Gillian. I can feel Timmy's mnemonic cursors. I can perceive the outlines of the mental prison that I'm confined within. I cannot return to my body.
She argued, But Timmy also implanted a mnemonic cursor inside me.
We've been over this before, responded Gillian, suspecting that her contention sprouted not only from a refusal to accept the unpleasant parameters of Timmy's mind trap but from a genuine fear of what needed to be done if they were to dissolve the monarchy. Your mnemonic cursor is not the same. You told me so yourself. Timmy implanted your control nodule for the distinct purpose of forcing you to seek him out when certain conditions arose. But Catharine and I received the implants for a totally different reason, as a means of controlling Empedocles's tways, in the event that the monarch ever became a threat to the Ash Ock.
Susan continued to express doubt. How do you know that Timmy didn't secretly implant other cursors inside my mind?
He would not have considered it necessary. Gillian paused. Catharine and I ... we were different from the other Ash Ock ways. We were the only ones who did not require a mirror for regular interlacing. We were the only ones who could come together merely by thinking about it. And once, when Aristotle was whole, he knew of our special ability.
You see, Timmy claimed to possess all the memories of his monarch and tways. But I know better. He was lying. I too remember the pains, which rise to overwhelm you when you're torn in half, when you lose a tway. Timmy's monarch and surviving tway melded because it was the only way they could truly come to terms with the enormity of that pain.
If you try hard enough, you can blot anything from awareness. And Timmy would not have had to make a great effort to forget memories having to do with individuality, with authentic freedom of choice—those things he had forever lost.
I don't understand, projected Susan.
It's simple. Timmy forgot about the special gifts of Gillian and Catharine. He forgot the power that we alone possessed—our ability to create or destroy monarchy without the need for any sort of external contrivances. And when he forgot that simple fact, he was led to the assumption that Empedocles's permanent monarchy could be maintained merely by blocking me—Gillian—from returning to my body.
But he forgot about your body. He realized that the amalgam known as Susan Quint, by herself, could do nothing to break the interlace. But he forgot what Catharine and I were capable of doing. Timmy did not remember the extent of my abilities. Therefore, he did not take the added precaution of implanting the more sophisticated varieties of mnemonic cursors inside your mind.
Susan whispered, Your plan terrifies me.
I know, he responded gently. And it's a fear that I cannot help you through. But unless we are to spend the rest of our days as amalgams, we have no choice.
She did not reply. There was no need.
O}o{O
The private limo had a snow-repellant rainbow roof, a passenger compartment capable of comfortably seating six, that same number of tires—each embedded with rubberized twistik for better traction—and a broad-shouldered woman driver with a minimalist approach to conversation.
"Where?” she asked, holding the left-side passenger door open for Ghandi and tway Calvin.
"Drive south,” ordered the Ash Nar, as he slid into the forward-positioned seat. Ghandi sank into the cushioned elegance of the equally wide couch that faced the rear of the limo, directly across from Calvin.
The chauffeur assumed her place in the separate driver's compartment, started the car, and accelerated out into a snow-free speed lane. Ghandi stared blankly through the window, barely cognizant of the white-caked hills and skier's valleys that defined the very essence of Pocono Colony. He might as well have been riding through the void.
The tway withdrew a tiny device from beneath his jacket, waved it around the compartment, then nodded to Ghandi.
"Limo's clean. We can talk."
What's the point, thought Ghandi, feeling another overwhelming surge of bitterness rising from his gut. But he replied anyway, the words flying out of him, sarcastic and uncontrolled. “No holotronic letters today, Calvin? Straight talk, right from the mouth? I'm damn honored."
The tway's eyes seemed to dance from one side of Ghandi's face to the other with a kind of surgical precision, as if he was examining Corelli-Paul's countenance for possible dissection. “Colette's capture merely serves as a temporary inconvenience."
Ghandi forced a smirk. “She's gone, Calvin. Hasn't that registered yet?"
"It has registered. The ones who have taken her will be made to pay."
"You don't seem too upset, Calvin. I would have expected a bit more rage."
"I am enraged. My twins have already arrived at the chalet. They are in the gym. As we speak, I am pulverizing practice dummies with four fists. Cathartic release is most satisfying, at least on a short-term basis. You should try it."
"Not my style,” mumbled Ghandi.
The tway offered a faint smile. “Do you want me to punish you? Do you want me to make you suffer, so that you can more keenly acknowledge your loss?"
Ghandi glared. He was beginning to think that he had made an error in earning the Ash Nar's respect. I liked him better when he wanted to kill me just for the hell of it.
"When we get to the chalet, I could administer a mild beating to you. Or a severe one, if that is your pleasure. Perhaps this would help you in overcoming your emotional torment.” Calvin grinned.
"I can do without your help."
The tway turned to the window, stared up at a speed slope that emerged from the clouds to parallel the road for a short distance. “You never followed your destiny, Corelli-Paul. That is the great tragedy of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"Yesterday, in the shuttle, when you pushed it to the edge ... when you challenged me. It made you feel strong, virile. Yes?"
Ghandi did not answer.
"It made you feel
... alive."
"Do you have a point to make, Calvin, or do you just enjoy babbling?"
The tway returned his attention to the compartment. He locked his eyes on Ghandi.
"Your destiny, Corelli-Paul, was to oppose us. Your destiny was to fight the Paratwa."
Ghandi turned away. “You should have been a psychcounselor, Calvin. The three of you could have had a hell of a family practice."
The tway shrugged. “You know that I'm speaking the truth. For twenty-five years now, you've followed a dishonest path. You've lived a life held separate from your feelings. You've lived a lie."
The microbes twitched. Ghandi's shoulder jerked violently. “I love her,” he heard himself insist. “Colette's real to me. She made it all worthwhile.” He met Calvin's steely gaze. His hands began to shake. “It's true. I love her."
"Of course you do. She's your painkiller.” The tway paused. “Did you know that Sappho created me?"
"What?"
"She created me. The human tway of Sappho required a lifelong companion. So she created me."
"Human tway?” asked Ghandi, bewildered.
Calvin's laughter filled the limo. “You are like most creatures, Corelli-Paul, blinded by the immediacy of your own needs. You spent a quarter of a century with Colette, and still you walk in darkness. You know so little of what the universe holds."
"She wouldn't tell me the truth,” he mumbled.
"Of course she wouldn't. There was no need."
Ghandi found that he could barely respond coherently. Words spewed from his mouth in small streams, like bursts of vomit. His whole body began to shake. “I lost her ... even before E-Tech took her, I lost her ... disincorporated, you said ... she's gone ... she's not coming back..."
"Correct,” said Calvin. “Colette will never return. Only Sappho remains."
He could hardly hear the Ash Nar's words. Everything was becoming blurred, dreamlike. Calvin took on the appearance of some weird machine, attached to the seat, programmed to eject sentences with icy disdain.
The Paratwa (#3 in the Parawta Saga) Page 36