The Hate Parallax

by Allan Cole

  Despite this verbal attack, Apollion remained relaxed.

  “Noble Simionte, the large donations sent by thee to the Treasurer cannot cancel politeness.” This was said in a dry and icy tone, meant to intimidate.

  Simionte only grinned.

  “We all must be a bit more natural,” he said, leaning forward to pierce Apollion with his gaze. “At this particular point I know all there is to know about the incident. So does the rest of the Council, I warrant.

  “Noble Sirs Mamri and Infeligo— what wouldst thou say? Noble Sir Syrr? Noble Sir Apollion? And, I daresay once more— why shall I sit and listen to all thy cunning phrases, noble Apollion?

  “Answer me, please. Say it and be done!”

  Simionte smiled.

  Apollion’s eyes burned with wrath.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” interrupted Syrr, a tall thin man with white hair and strange red eyes, like the eagle’s. “Noble Simionte! Noble Apollion!”

  “With or without thy agreement, noble Simionte,” Apollion said coldly, “I shall proceed.”

  He took off his spectacles, cleaned them once more, then slowly and even solemnly drew them back on.

  “As you all know, the missile was launched…”

  The story he told was long and filled with many secret details. The intelligence services of both Russia and America would have been quite upset if they had been able to monitor his speech.

  The other seven members of the Council listened carefully; even Simionte, who liked to pretend indifference. The expressions around the table were stony— but tense.

  Apollion finished his little talk, then started torturing his poor spectacles with the cloth.

  “Well, noble sires. Thy opinions must be spoken. I announced pure facts, nothing more. But the crucial question is, noble sires, what will follow?”

  “What will follow!” snorted Infeligo. “War, to speak the truth.

  “The Americans and Russians will tear one another in pieces. Thou, Auerkhan! Thou, Pilyardock! Why haven’t the two of you kept an eye on this?”

  “Yes, yes, why?” broke in Syrr and Mamri.

  Simionte and Apollion remained silent.

  “Why?” the word hammered heavily, like a great battering ram.

  Everyone looked at the two men sitting on opposite sides of the great table. Heads turned to the right and to the left as if the owners were watching a tennis match.

  Auerkhan and Pilyardock exchanged grim looks. Each man was a jealous guardian of an enormous fiefdom filled with countless souls to torment and feed upon or to trade for favors with the other members of the council. One man held sway over all that was the Russian Empire. The other kept the Americans in his horny grip.

  The first, Auerkhan, was broad-shouldered, even broader shouldered than the giant Simionte. He was short and because of that looked almost square. Deep arched brows leaned above cold, gray, deep-set eyes.

  His face was also broad, with thick cheeks and a double chin. He was wearing a black kosovorotka, a Russian shirt with the collar fastening on the side. The collar was decorated with small rivers of pearls. He had huge hands— thick fingers that seemed capable of rolling coins into tubes, or ripping apart iron chains.

  “Nonsense,” boomed Auerkhan, and clenched his great right fist. “Why do you all look at this noble sneak, Pilyardock? Perhaps that noble sir will answer what the hell an American ship was doing sneaking so close to my Russian base? What doest thou want— to be welcomed there with drums, flowers and a boy’s chorus?”

  Pilyardock made an evil smile. He was almost a head taller than Auerkhan. Thick black hair fell to his shoulders. He was wearing a dark yellow leather jacket with fringed sleeves. His hair was pierced with a long white eagle feather.

  He said, “Noble Auerkhan is blaming me because ‘the best defense is offense,’ isn’t that right? Well, well, well. Much rueth me indeed, as Spencer used to say.

  “Look, gentleman, how deep is noble Auerkhan’s fall— he did not hesitate to use even the death and last fear of those unhappy creatures from the civilian ship.

  “Doest thou, o noble Auerkhan, doest thou know that my Amer liner was coming on a free space path? Didst thou know that it was unarmed and unprotected? Well, didst thou know what reaction there wouldst be? But no, noble Auerkhan’s dogs scoured the ship and tore it to pieces!

  “And now— Russians and Americans are on the very edge of full-scale war! That’s his object, noble ones! To launch a war— and to get filled to the brim with war’s juices. To bring large donations of human souls here… to occupy the highest place, which justifiably belongs to our noble Apollion!

  “But, never mind all that— doest thou hearken to me, noble Auerkhan? All will be ruined by this war. All humanity! What shalt we do then? Become naked and helpless and hungry whilst he eats his fill?”

  His voice sank to a low growl “Before Him, the Planetar Demon!”

  “Can the wise Auerkhan explain all this?” Pilyardock’s face was almost black because of blind rage. “Well, noble Apollion declared that everyone must speak openly. So do I.

  “And here’s my word! Noble Sir Auerkhan, the Rooskie’s Keeper, must be cast out from our Council of The Eight. He must be banished, at the very least.”

  Pilyardock paused and Auerkhan immediately rushed into the breach. He was as angry as his opponent. His eyes burned with an wrath.

  “Banished?” he rumbled, leaning forward and trying to spear his enemy with his eyes. “I daresay, someone here must be banished. But what about thee, o noble Pilyardock, Keeper of the Amers?

  “It’s a strange incident, isn’t it? A liner shot to the dust! Oh, for certain, my Rooskies are very fond of shooting down Amer’s liners! They have a dozen ships passing to and fro around their station. Amers and others. Were any of them ever shot down or even stopped?

  “And suddenly an experienced soldier opened fire! Can you all imagine that these soldiers could have some reason for this? I mean some other reason than the noble Sir Pilyardock proclaimed here so expressively.

  “Why art all listening only to one side? The civilian ship could have been taken as a military one.

  “From what I have been told, the battle station Borodino reported that the ship appeared to be a military destroyer, camouflaged as a civilian liner. Why must we cast aside this version? This most truthful version.

  “And why must we cast aside one simple explanation— that our noble Sir Pilyardock once upon a time sat down, sucked his finger and created a plot. How he would launch a war, bring a donation… etcetera, etcetera, etcetera! And claim that my Rooskies are all murderers! And blame me for all that, as well!

  “Nice plan, wasn’t it?”

  The others broke in. Angry words flew like missiles on a warstruck night. Auerkhan and Pilyardock glared wrathfully at one another.

  Apollion raised his hand.

  “Silence, noble Council, silence and patience. Our brave comrades must calm themselves. As far as I can judge, not thou, Auerkhan, nor thou, Pilyardock, art ready to answer for this incident?”

  The two main opponents nodded grimly.

  “That’s what I expected.” Apollion took off his spectacles. “You are pointing fingers of blame in opposite directions. And, of course, you both hath prepared enough tricks.”

  Simionte broke in. “We the noble Council must investigate this!” he demanded. “This I, Simionte, the largest donor to our cause, demand!”

  The others all turned to stare at this strange creature, who was rising from his seat. Simionte was all wrinkled, crunched, blazed by suns and sins, with dark brown skin and round eyes gleaming with blue. The hooded figure hobbled to the head of the table, bowed low, and whispered to Apollion.

  Suddenly Apollion grinned, interrupting Simionte.

  “My dear noble Sir Simionte,” Apollion began with a malicious glint in his eyes. “I’ve just received a message. Thy donation caravan was intercepted and destroyed. A trick of the Planetar, I daresay. And thy precious tyr
anny was overthrown… the tyrant Kozarra was hanged… that is the message.”

  Simionte sat stunned, his eyes wide and staring. Silence fell like death come to rest.

  Then Infeligo grinned broadly and winked at Mamri.

  “We all grieve with noble Sir Simionte,” Apollion said, barely disguising his glee over his enemy’s plight. “We shalt discuss this on our next meeting… and now— to return to the subject of this day.”

  Simionte fell back into his chair. It seemed as if all other issues had vanished for him.

  “Let noble Simionte rest for a time.” Apollion advised, face much more mournful than his true feelings. “Well, what shalt the others say?”

  “Inspection. Close and careful inspection,” hurried Mamri. “What were the circumstances?…”

  “And if the answer means war?” asked Syrr.

  “Gentlemen,” Apollion said, “the last thing we all desire is war between the Americans and Russians. We have kept them at each other’s throats for more than a thousand years, feasting on their misery. Surely, we cannot allow our differences to ruin such a hearty meal.”

  His speech mollified no one. Bitter jealousy still reigned in that dark hall.

  “I ask again,” pressed Syrr, “what if the answer means war?”

  “There is still some time to prevent it… a short period, but there just the same,” Infeligo broke in. “What if we send…” He searched for a likely candidate…

  “… A soldier from our Corp?” Apollion suggested.

  “Which man?” Auerkhan roused himself. “From…”

  “Odysseus Corp, surely,” Pilyardock smiled coldly.

  “No!” Auerkhan growled. “I’m not a fool and neither are my noble brothers on this Council. Two investigators! Two men. One from each side! From Odysseus and the Sword Church! If this plan is adopted, all will soon be revealed to us.”

  “And all thy dirty plots, as well,” spat Pilyardock.

  “Heaven and hell!” his enemy roared. “That’s thy plot to be unmasked!”

  “Gentleman, gentleman!” Apollion admonished. “I think noble Sir Auerkhan’s plan is a wise one to follow. Two investigators— one from each side— is the best course to follow.”

  “And do not forget about the UWP,” Syrr inserted..

  “Oh yes. Good of you to remind me, noble one. The United Worlds Police have someone on this…”

  “Tanya Lawson,” Pilyardock said. “Their best Master Investigator.”

  “An Amer…” Auerkhan made a face.

  “This Amer will fight for the Russians till the last drop of her blood if she finds another Amer is to blame,” Apollion said.

  “I know that girl. Oh, what a girl!..” he smacked his lips.

  “Well, so we must protect her,” interrupted Infeligo. “What if she dredged up something…” he looked first at Pilyardock, then at Auerkhan. Both enemies nodded.

  “I’m innocent,” proclaimed Auerkhan. “So— not a single hair will fall from Tanya Lawson’s head.”

  “I vow the same,” Pilyardock said. “I’ll also guard her.”

  “Very well,” concluded Apollion. “But what to do with our men?”

  “I’ll order them to find out who was responsible for the launch,” Auerkhan said. “To learn everything there is to know about the circumstances of this incident.

  “And I’ll order them to deal appropriately with the traitors!” He threw a stinging glance at his enemy, ‘the Amer’s Keeper,’ adding, “And both our men must report all important information to our officials. We must block any possibility of war.”

  “Yes, we must,” Apollion agreed. “And I think it’s clear— the information given to the governments must assure them the accident was indeed only bad luck. I suppose our men can manage this problem well enough. And we must be ready to help!”

  “But only after our own investigation is over,” Pilyardock insisted. Auerkhan suddenly agreed.

  Simionte stirred in his chair.

  “Still arguing?” he asked in a tired voice. “Well, well, continue… what shall you all do without my donations?”

  A long pause… and then:

  “We’ll discuss that tomorrow, my good and noble Sir Simionte,” was Apollion’s grave reply.

  And the meeting of the Council of Eight was over.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The beetlecraft hissed along the Rio Grande, riding the glowing spirit-rail that hurled Davyd toward his goal.

  He shielded his eyes against the New Mexico sun, studying the river traffic shooting along on both sides of him.

  It was all military, naturally— nearly the entire Southwest was military. A great Forbidden Zone that had absorbed all of New Mexico and good portions of Texas, Arizona and Colorado.

  The river itself— more of a huge canal, really, with plasment walls and bottom— carried only military craft: huge tube-like freighters, flat-bottomed barges, troop transports, etc., all gleaming black-on-black high-tech. Embracing the spirit-rails in their drive slots as they sped along mere inches above the water.

  The Rio Grande Courseway was a vital part of America’s military might on Earth, carrying top secret goods and people from the fortressed wizard laboratories in the Rocky Mountains all the way to the military spaceport at Old Laredo on the Gulf of Mexico.

  Davyd had seen all this before. He’d traveled this route each time he was blessed with a mission for the holy cause of America. So the traffic was nothing unusual to him. However, the speed surprised him.

  Usually things moved at a somewhat leisurely, although orderly, pace. This was Government Work, after all. No need to hurry when you’re suckling on the tax teat. But now the barges and transports were moving as if the Hounds Of Hell were baying at their sterns.

  There was a sudden windshock and Davyd had to brace himself as the little beetlecraft was rocked by a big freighter booming by— heading in the other direction.

  Probably to the spaceport, Davyd mused. Somebody had forgotten to shut one of the freighter’s bays and he’d caught a glimpse of a whole battery of evil-looking djinnguns, with worried demon gunners scurrying here and there, tugging at their tie-downs.

  It was the kind of weapon used by shock troops spearing an invasion. Yet another sign, Davyd thought, that war was imminent.

  Not that he really needed another clue. From the time he’d been plucked off the Puffship to his hurried, almost violent landing at Old Laredo, he’d seen and heard nothing to refute the young lieutenant’s breathless declaration that “we’re almost at war!”

  Davyd rubbed his eyes. Jesus, he was tired. The only thing keeping him awake and moving was the smell of excitement in the air, a heady brew stirred with swagger sticks and spiced with fear.

  And he knew damned well that he was about to be thrown into the center of it.

  General Link had made that plain in their hurried meeting at CommandStar. Actually it was Link’s manner that conveyed the message. The general really had very little to say, except to give him his orders and wish him godspeed. But he’d been so nervous, so much in unseemly (for a general) awe of Davyd, that Kells hardly required a mage’s prog-casting to read the bones.

  And just like the words said in that old Odysseus Corps drinking song, they were, “… my bones, baby/my bones/bound for Rooskieland.”

  Up in front the little motorfiend shrilled back to him: “Nearing our destination, Master! On time! On time! Godblessamerica, on time!”

  Two eyestalks swiveled on top of the creature’s bony skull, peering at him to see if he heard.

  Grinning, Davyd nodded thanks. There were no beings in the entire United Galactic States who acted more patriotic than one of the spirit world folk. He knew it was a ruse, a shield against their absolute bottom-rung status in modern America.

  Davyd didn’t mind. In fact, he rather liked most of the devilish breed he’d encountered. In a strange way he even identified with them. He’d heard guys damn their black souls to the hells. Not Davyd, who believed deep
in his heart that his own soul was as black as they come and was already damned to spend all eternity in the hellfires.

  He slipped the traveling kit from an inside pocket and tidied up for his meeting with Father Zorza.

  As he rubbed the disposable depilatory napkin over his tanned face, wiping away his rough beard, he gazed through the plasbubble top of the beetlecraft, enjoying the view.

  Davyd had about fifteen minutes to get ready, most of which he intended to use flattening his nerve arcs to dead level calm. So he soaked in all of the exotic New Mexico light he could, letting the clear color waves wash over him. Trying to bathe away the effects of the last mission, which had stubbornly clung to him like cold gritty clay.

  He was just north of the Port Of Las Cruces— about seventy five miles from his destination. Shown on even the most secret military maps as Geronimo Springs Proving Grounds.

  In fact, there were no proving grounds. Or anything like proving grounds. In reality it was Odysseus Corps Headquarters. The most secret place— or so Davyd believed— in all the worlds.

  Except for the HQ of the Church Of The Sword, of course. The Rooskies were just as good as hiding things as the Americans. Of that, Davyd was certain. Underestimating his enemy was definitely not one of his many flaws.

  Thinking of the Russians, he wondered what his Sword Church enemies were up to. At this moment a Rooskie just like Davyd might be on his way to a similar meeting somewhere in Old Russia.

  Adrenaline glands reflexed into action and in the blink of an eye his whole body started pulsing with killing power, spoiling his whole effort to regain calm.

  Davyd quickly cut off that line of thinking. What was the old saying: “Save your juice for the war, kid.” Or something like that.

  Good advice. Which Davyd took to heart and then got back to admiring the view.

  He was cruising along the western edge of the San Andreas Mountains. He’d just passed Fort Hatch and was nearing the Hillsboro Lockstation. The river was about a mile above sea level at this point so he could see in every direction with nothing to impede his vision.