telling him that perhaps, after all, he had been wrong.
I realised, though, that one of those present had that zombie-like manner which I had once seen in Tulyar's behaviour. I remembered the earlier voice, murmuring away to me while I was carried through a cloud. It had spoken of humanoids infected by enemy programmes—humanoids, in the plural.
"No, 673-Nisreen," said the pseudo-Tulyar, "we do not intend to destroy the macroworld. It is we who intend to save it, and to save thousands of our brethren with it. The macroworld might have destroyed itself, if the power buildup within the starshell's peripheral system had been allowed to continue, but we are here to prevent that happening. You should be thankful that your human friends finally met their match—had they succeeded in killing us all, Asgard might well have been doomed."
"What is your ultimate purpose?" asked Nisreen uncertainly.
"We intend to return power to the macroworld. In fact, we intend to flood Asgard's systems with power. We will send such a blast of energy into the labyrinth that it will devastate every system through which it passes—a tidal surge of power, which will destroy the godlike beings who have opposed us in this long and bitter war. But you need not fear for our fellow humanoids; they are not the target of the assault. Some will undoubtedly be inconvenienced. A few may die as an indirect result of our action, but they will be innocent bystanders. Our real enemies are entities of a different kind. It is the artificial intelligences created by those who built Asgard—the gods which they made to guide the destinies of their creation—that we must annihilate. From here, you see, we can direct the power-surge exactly as we wish, protecting those systems that we control and destroying those that we do not. We will certainly injure the macroworld slightly, and life in some of its artificial habitats will never be quite the same, but we shall do as little harm to your kind and mine as we can. We aim to preserve life— and to preserve ourselves. If our enemies were in our place, it is by no means certain that they would act as kindly."
673-Nisreen stared at the creature that had once been his kin.
"What are you?" he asked. He seemed to be no longer angry, but simply curious.
"I am 994-Tulyar," said the other, calmly. "I do not deny that I am more than I once was, but I remain who I have always been, and I demand your obedience to my authority. When the present task is complete, there will be much work still to be done, and the Tetrax are the natural heirs of that mission. The people of the macroworld must be brought into the brotherhood of humanoid species, and the remaining enemies of that brotherhood—the Isthomi and their kin—must be destroyed. There is much for the Tetrax to do, and much for humans, too."
The last was said with a sidelong glance at John Finn. I could see that Finn looked unhappy and uncertain, but he was listening as intently as Nisreen.
"What kind of war is it that you are fighting?" asked Nisreen, levelly. "Rousseau represented it as a war between two kinds of life, or between life and anti-life. I could not understand."
"Rousseau could not understand," Tulyar's voice replied. "Our allies are minds, like the minds which humanoid beings evolved and then set free within their machines, but they had different makers. Their ultimate origins, like ours, must be sought in the dark dust that drifts between the stars, but for what it is worth, it was their kind and not ours that were the first intelligences of the universe. The substance of life is the stuff of second-generation stars, while theirs had its origin in simpler matter. It is of little significance now, for both kinds of mind have transcended the matter that gave them birth. Material entities created gods, and now the gods dispute for control of the material entities that gave them birth. Asgard is one battleground; when this battle is settled the galaxy will become a battleground. But what you must understand, 673-Nisreen, is that it matters not at all to entities of flesh-and-blood which side they choose; they must have one or the other, but they owe no essential loyalty to either. We are Tetrax, 673-Nisreen, and our only loyalty is to the Tetrax, and to the galactic community whose ideological leaders we are. We must make whatever alliance will serve Tetra and the galaxy best, and that alliance is already forged."
673-Nisreen seemed less than totally convinced, but he glanced sideways at John Finn. Neither he nor Finn said anything, but the glance spoke volumes. John Finn was turncoat through and through. He didn't give a damn which side he was on, as long as he was looked after. Nisreen cared, but he didn't know any longer which side was the side of right. He'd listened to my side of the story, based on what I'd experienced in my dreams—but how much could a human's dreams count for in the eyes of a sceptical Tetron?
Nisreen looked at Myrlin, then, calmly appraising the state of the android. Myrlin's eyes were glazed, and he was saying nothing, but he had a needier in his hand and he was all-too-obviously capable of using it.
The question I had asked myself before came back to mind: Where was I? Where was the Rousseau of flesh and blood, from whose brain I had been mysteriously born? As I looked at the thing that had once been my friend, I remembered the other Myrlin, and the strange light that had flared in his eye as he was about to die. In the moment of reaching out to save me, he had changed. Perhaps, if death had not claimed him, he might have destroyed me. I was overcome by the horrible suspicion that the Myrlin of flesh and blood had been used by some alien master to destroy the fleshly Rousseau.
Nisreen was looking at Tulyar again, but the thing that was wearing Tulyar's body had turned away now. He was sitting down in front of some kind of console. It had a lot of controls—manual keyboards, and mechanical levers.
The intelligence in 994-Tulyar's body took no further notice of the other Tetron. He seemed quite absorbed in his rapt contemplation of the console. He reached out tentatively to turn a couple of knobs, but then turned back again. He was as inscrutable as any real Tetron now, but I inferred that the final shot in the crazy war which had raged inside Asgard for hundreds of thousands of years was not quite ready for firing. On the other hand, he seemed to expect that the mechanical omens would become auspicious at almost any time. It was a matter of minutes rather than hours—and there didn't seem to be anything that anyone could do to stop it.
It was nice to know, of course, that Asgard wasn't going to be blown to bits after all, but if I read pseudo-Tulyar's meaning right, the blast he was going to unleash would be a holocaust to consume all those inhabitants of software space who had opposed his kin.
Including me.
And there didn't seem to be a damn thing that anyone could do about it.
But then the disembodied voice chipped in again, and
said: No time at all, Michael Rousseau. You know what to do, even though you do not know that you know. There is no hope of establishing any physical interface by means of which we can transcribe you, and we believe that it was once explained to you that the transmission of personalities in any wave-encoded form is difficult in the extreme. There would be no hope of success, save that we are transmitting you into a brain which is already configured to contain you.
We are going to put you back into your body, Michael Rousseau, if we can—we must fire you like a bullet from a magical gun. We do not know if it will work, and we cannot tell how badly your body has been injured, but there is nothing else to be done. You are the very last shot that we can fire. We are sorry for the indecent haste, but there simply is no time to. . . .
37
I awoke with a horrid, nauseous shock, as if some mysterious beam of malice had jolted my grey matter.
I felt very numb, as though I was floating. I was as high as a kite on some kind of pain-killer. That was due to the life-support system on my back, which was still hooked into my flesh. It had fed me enough anaesthetic to knock me out, and now it was letting me down again, as gently as it could.
I moved the hand that was clutching my abdomen, touching the fingertips very gently to the wound where the needles had gone in. There was a rough edge, but it was only the lacerated plastic of the suit. The
entry wound had already scarred over. Whatever the Nine had done to me had given my powers of self-repair a considerable boost. I tried to sit up, and immediately regretted it. It wasn't exactly pain, but it was a dreadful sensation of nausea. The needles were still inside me, and the damage they'd done was going to take a good deal more than half an hour to make good.
I lay back against the pillar, wondering whether it could possibly do me any good to be alive. I looked from side to side, hoping to see something reassuring. My headlight was still working, but its feeble beam showed me nothing but dust and wreckage—including a skeleton which must have been sprawling in much the same position as myself, against another pillar. When I tried to turn my head, though, I realised that there was another light-source not too far away. At first
I thought that it must be Susarma Lear's helmet-lamp, but it was actually an open doorway in a wall some thirty metres away. I couldn't see inside from where I was lying, but I could hear 673-Nisreen's voice over the radio link, and I had to bite my tongue to stop myself exclaiming in surprise.
I tried to sit up, and succeeded. It wasn't comfortable, but I had a terrible sense of urgency. I couldn't quite think why, but I had the idea that I was in a hurry. I came to my knees, and then I managed, with some difficulty, to stand up.
I looked around, but the needier I'd been carrying had gone.
Myrlin—the thing that was using Myrlin's body—had taken it away.
From my new position I could see a pair of boots, attached to a body that was hidden by one of the pillars. They had to be Susarma Lear's. There wasn't the least sign of movement—if her powers of self-repair had managed to preserve her life they'd obviously had more work to do than mine.
I remembered that Susarma had had a crash-gun. Myrlin had shot her first, then come after me. He had disarmed me, but perhaps he hadn't gone back afterwards to disarm Susarma.
I wasn't sure that I could walk, but the low gravity gave me hope. Hyped up as I was, I didn't seem to weigh anything at all. When I took a step I thought I could feel the needles ripping my intestines, but it might have been my imagination. I clenched my teeth hard, determined not to give myself away by groaning.
I don't know how many steps I took to reach Susarma's body, but I got there as quickly as I could, and knelt down beside her.
The crash-gun was still in her hand.
I could see her face through the helmet. It was very pale and drawn, but her brave blue eyes were shut and she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. I knew that she wouldn't be feeling any pain, whether she was dead or not. I looked at the entry wound where the needles had hit her. She hadn't taken any more needles than I had, but she'd taken them higher up, around the lowest ribs. No matter how well the Isthomi had rebuilt her, she couldn't recover if her lungs had been reduced to tatters—but when I put my hand to her breast, I thought that I could feel a faint heartbeat.
I didn't dare wait until I was sure—I was in a hurry. I prised the gun out of her hand. Her fingers weren't rigid with rigor mortis, but it seemed as if she opposed me, very feebly. The reflex gave me further reason to think—at least to hope—that she was still alive, and that the ingenuity of the life-support system was equal to the task of preserving her strengthened flesh.
I checked the magazine, and found that the gun had only two bullets left. There were several spare magazines in her belt and I took two out—I didn't really think that I'd get a chance to reload if seven shots weren't enough, but I figured that I might as well have it as not.
I stood up, feeling my intestines lurch as I did so, wondering whether the superhumanity treatment the Isthomi had given me was really up to coping with aggravated peritonitis. I switched off my headlight.
I moved as carefully and as quietly as I could towards the open door. I made sure that I couldn't be seen from within the room, though they weren't likely to be able to see much looking out from a brightly-lit room into the darkness. From a distance I took a long discreet look to see where everyone was. Pseudo-Myrlin was away to the left, Finn to the right. 673-Nisreen was between them. Pseudo-Tulyar
would be the most difficult one—he was sitting down again.
Again?
I shook my head to clear the strange sensation of deja vu which had come over me. I felt dizzy, as though there were something I ought to remember, but there was no time to worry about it.
I paused when I got into position beside the door, leaning against the wall to gain what support I could while I gathered my strength. I looked back the way I had come, but it was too dark to see Susarma's body. I was as ready as I would ever be. Mentally, I rehearsed the shots that I would have to fire, and prayed fervently that I could aim the crash-gun effectively. It was a kind of weapon I'd never handled before.
My calculations weren't made any easier by the fact that I couldn't tell how many shots I'd have to fire. Whatever was in control of Myrlin's body might not have recaptured all his skills, but had been effective enough to take Susarma Lear by surprise and shoot her down. Myrlin's body was just as resistant to damage as mine, and wasn't full of needles. It wasn't going to be easy to put him away, even with a full clip. And how many shots would I need thereafter? One for Tulyar, to be sure—but what about Finn? Had he come sufficiently to his senses to realise that Tulyar was no friend of his? Might there be just enough humanity left in his befuddled brain to make him see that I was on his side?
I couldn't spend too long wondering. Somehow, I knew that there was no time to spare.
I slid around the edge of the doorspace, keeping my back firmly against the wall—I knew that I'd need every bit of support I could get, given that the gun would have a much more powerful recoil than a needier. I was levelling the weapon as I moved, supporting my right arm with my left, as I'd seen Susarma do. Pseudo-Myrlin and Finn no longer had their guns in their hands, but they were far from relaxed, and when Finn saw me appear from nowhere and his eyes widened in horror the giant was quick to go for the needier which he had laid down near to hand.
I fired at the invader who was wearing the body of my friend, but couldn't help wincing as I did so. It wasn't a perfect shot but he was a very big target, and the bullet ripped into him just below the right collar-bone. He wasn't braced the way I was and the bullet hurled him backwards, sending him crashing into the console behind him. I wanted to fire at him again, to make sure that he stayed down, but I could see from the corner of my eye that my optimistic hopes regarding John Finn's essential humanity were not to be fulfilled. His hatred for me had corrupted his reflexes irredeemably, and he was already going for his gun with murderous intent.
I swiveled instantly and fired at him.
I saw the terrified expression on his face as he saw me turning towards him. He had already plucked his needier from his belt, but as I shot him, a convulsive jerk of his hand sent his shots straight upwards into the ceiling.
My bullet hit him in the head, and he went down as if he'd been switched off. Blood and brains filled up the space inside his helmet, and I knew that he wouldn't be back, no matter how much work the Isthomi had done on his body.
I hadn't intended to kill him, and if I'd had the option, I really would have knocked him down in such a way that he could get up again when it was all over, but I didn't have the choice.
I also didn't have a choice about what to do next, because pseudo-Myrlin was already coming back to his feet again. The bigger they are the harder they fall, but in low gee they can bounce back with astonishing alacrity. He was braced now as well as I was, and he was bringing the needier up to fire. I tried to zero in on the centre of his chest again, and blasted away. It would have done far more good to blow his head off the way I'd blown Finn's, but that had been a freak shot and I knew better than to try for a repeat. I had to hit the giant again before he cut me in half with the needier, and if I had to hit him four more times to keep him down then that was what I had to do.
Pseudo-Tulyar should have been out of it for a few more seconds, but he wasn't.
His chair didn't swivel but he had turned in it with unexpected agility, and was covered by its broad back. He must have had a gun very close to hand because it was in his fist now and he was already aiming it— but he didn't have a chance to fire because 673-Nisreen, the aging man of science, brought down upon his wrist the hard cast which was protecting his own broken arm. Pseudo-Tulyar dropped the gun, and Nisreen grabbed him, wrenching his arm downwards, using the back of the chair as a fulcrum. Pseudo-Tulyar somersaulted lazily over the back of the chair.
I had already fired a second shot at pseudo-Myrlin, who took it square in the chest. Maybe it was too square, because it seemed to have no effect at all. He couldn't be thrown back again and there wasn't enough power to stop him even in a great big bullet like that.
He fired, but the needles went wild, splashing into the wall beside me. If he'd really been Myrlin he would never have missed, but he was a biocopy of some alien software, locked in an utterly unfamiliar body—he hadn't had as much time as his brother to become accustomed to his flesh, and I realised how completely we had been taken by surprise when he first shot us down. I realised that he hadn't fired into my belly in order to hurt me more, but because he didn't know any better. It had been a mistake, and now he was paying for it.
I fired again, and again, and again.
I didn't miss once. The third bullet opened up his great big chest, sending splinters of rib deep into his vital organs. The fourth and fifth must have turned his heart and lungs to pulp.
Three or four more needles ricocheted from the floor, and one of them grazed the boot of my suit, but I was still standing, still able to fire.
673-Nisreen was down in a heap with the pseudo-Tetron on top of him. There was no way I could get a clear shot, and I had no option but to pause.
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