Get in!
Rubra’s mental voice contained a strong intimation of alarm, which Dariat could hardly credit. If you’re fucking me, I’ll come back. I’ll promise myself to Anstid for that one wish to be granted.
Imagine my terror. I’ve told you, I need you intact and cooperative. Now get in.
Dariat closed his eyes and took a step forwards, directly into the carriage. The door slid shut behind him, and there was a faint vibration as it started accelerating along the track. He opened his eyes.
See?rubra taunted. Not such a bogey man after all.
Dariat sat down and took some deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He used the sensitive cells to watch an apoplectic Bonney Lewin jump down from the empty platform to fire her Enfield along the dark tunnel. She was screaming obscenities. The accompanying hunters were standing well back. One of her boots was treading on the magnetic guide rail.
Fry her,dariat said. Now!
Oh, no. This is much more fun. This way I get to find out if the dead can have heart attacks.
You are a complete bastard.
That’s right. And to prove it, I’m going to show you Anastasia’s secret now. The one thing she never showed you.
Dariat was instantly wary. More lies.
Not this time. Don’t tell me you don’t want to find out. I know you, Dariat. Fully. I’ve always known. I know what she means to you. I know how much she means to you. Your memory of her was strong enough to power a grudge over thirty years. That’s almost inhuman, Dariat. I respect it enormously. But it leaves you wide open to me. Because you want to know, don’t you? There’s something I’ve got, or heard, or saw, that you didn’t. A little segment of Anastasia Rigel you don’t have. You won’t be able to live with that knowledge.
I’ll be able to ask her soon. Her soul is waiting for me in the beyond. When I’ve dealt with you, I’ll go to her, and we’ll be together again.
Soon will be too late.
You’re unbelievable, you know that?
Good. I’ll take you there.
Whatever you like.dariat pushed his weariness behind the thought, showing just how unconcerned he was. Behind that, clutched away from the bravado and outward confidence, his teenage self huddled in worry. That same self which so idolized her. Now there was the chance, the remotest possibility that the image was flawed, less than honest. The doubt cut into him, weakening the core of resolution which had supported him for so terribly long.
Anastasia would never keep anything from him. Would she? She loved him, she said so. The last thing she ever said, ever wrote.
Rubra guided the tube carriage to a starscraper lobby station and opened the door. It’s waiting on the thirty-second floor.
Dariat glanced cautiously out onto the little station and the wide passage which led to the lobby itself. His mind could sense the thoughts of the possessed camped outside the lobby. No one showed any interest in him. He hurried across the floor to the bank of lifts in the centre, reaching them unnoticed.
The lift deposited him at the thirty-second-floor vestibule. A completely normal residential section; twenty-four mechanical doors leading to apartments, and three muscle membranes for the stairwells. One of the mechanical doors slid open to show a darkened living room.
Dariat could sense someone inside, a dozing mind, its thought currents placid. When he tried to use the observation sub-routines for the bedroom he found he couldn’t, Rubra had wiped them.
Oh, no, my boy, you go right in there and face your fate like a man.
Dariat flinched. But . . . one unaware non-possessed. How bad could it be? He walked into the apartment, ordering the electrophorescent cells to full intensity. Thankfully, they responded.
It was a woman who lay on the big bed, a duvet had worked downwards to reveal her shoulders. Her skin was very black, with the minute crinkles which spelt out the onset of middle age and the start of weight problems for anyone without much geneering in their ancestry. A tangle of finely braided jet-black hair was fanned out over the pillows, every strand tipped with a moondust-white bead.
She groaned sleepily as the light came on, and turned over. Despite a face which cellulite was busy inflating, she had a petit nose.
NO! For one moment horror claimed his senses. She was similar to Anastasia. Features, colour, even the age was almost right. If a medical team had gone out to the tepee, they might have reanimated the body, a hospital might conceivably have used extensive gene therapy to regenerate the dead brain cells. It could be done, for the President of Govcentral or Kulu’s heir apparent, the effort would be made. But not a Starbridge girl regarded as vermin by the personality of the habitat in which she dwelt. The cold shock subsided.
Whoever she was, as soon as she saw him, she screamed.
“It’s all right,” Dariat said. He couldn’t even hear his own voice above her distraught wails.
“Rubra! One of them’s here. Rubra, help me.”
“No,” Dariat said. “I’m not. Well . . .”
“Rubra! RUBRA.”
“Please,” Dariat implored.
That silenced her.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m running from them myself.”
“Uh huh?” Her gaze darted to the door.
“Really. Rubra brought me here, too.”
The duvet was readjusted. Slim bronze and silver bracelets tinkled as she moved.
Dariat’s chill returned. They were exactly the same kind of bracelets Anastasia wore. “Are you a Starbridge?”
She nodded, wide-eyed.
Wrong question,rubra said. Ask her what her name is.
He hated himself. For giving in, for playing to Rubra’s rules. “Who are you?”
“Tatiana,” she gulped. “Tatiana Rigel.”
Rubra’s mocking, triumphant laughter shook his skull from the inside. Got it now, boy? Meet Anastasia’s little sister.
Another day, another press conference. At least this new technology had progressed beyond flashbulbs; Al had always hated them back in Chicago. More than once he had been photographed raising a hand to ward off the brilliant bursts of light; photos which the papers always ran, because it looked as if he were trying to hide, confirming his guilt.
He had held the press conference in the Monterey Hilton’s big ballroom, sitting at a long table with his back to the window. The idea was that the reporters would see the formation of victorious fleet ships which had just returned from Arnstadt, and were holding station five kilometres off the asteroid. Leroy Octavius said it should make an impressive backdrop for the dramatic news announcement.
Except the starships weren’t quite in the right coordinate, so they were only just visible when rotation did bring them into view; the reporters had to look around the side of the table to see them. And everybody knew the Organization had conquered Arnstadt and Kursk, it wasn’t new even though this made it sort of official.
Drama and impact, that was the sole purpose. So Al sat at the long table with its inappropriate vases of flowers; Luigi Balsmao on one side, and a couple of other ship captains on the other. He told the reporters how easy it had been to break open Arnstadt’s SD network, the eagerness of the population to accept the Organization as a government after a “minimum number” of key administrative people had been possessed. How the star system’s economy was turning around.
“Did you use antimatter, Al?” Gus Remar asked. A weary veteran of these affairs now, he reckoned he knew what liberties he could take. Capone did have a weird sense of honour operating; nobody got blasted for trying to work an angle, only outright opposition earned his disapprobation.
“That’s a dumb kinda question, pal,” Al replied, keeping the scowl from his face. “What do you want to ask that for? We got plenty of interesting dope on how the Organization is curing all sorts of medical problems which the non-possessed bring to our lieutenants. You people, you always look for the bad side. It’s like a goddamn obsession with you.”
/> “Antimatter is the biggest horror the Confederation knows, Al. People are bound to be interested in the rumours. Some of the ships’ crews say they fired antimatter powered combat wasps. And the industrial stations here are producing antimatter confinement systems. Have you got a production station, Al?”
Leroy Octavius, who was standing behind Al, leaned forwards and whispered something in his ear. Some of the humour returned to Al’s stony face. “I can neither confirm nor deny the Organization has access to invincible weapons.”
It didn’t stop them from asking again and again. He lost the press conference then. There wasn’t any chance to read out the dope Leroy had prepared on the medical bonus, and how they’d prevented the kind of food shortages on Arnstadt which were being reported as affecting other possessed worlds.
Asked at the end if he was planning another invasion, Al just growled: “Wait and see,” then walked out.
“Don’t worry about it, we’ll embargo the whole conference,” Leroy said as they took a lift down to the bottom of the hotel.
“They ought to show some goddamn respect,” Al grunted. “If it wasn’t for me they’d be possessed and screaming inside their own heads. Those bastards never fucking change.”
“You want us to lean on them a little?” Bernhard Allsop asked.
“No. That would be stupid. The only reason the Confederation news companies take our reports is because they’re from non-possessed.” Al hated it when Bernhard tried to be tough and demonstrate his loyalty. I should have him wasted, he’s becoming a complete pain in the ass.
But wasting people wasn’t so easy these days. They’d come back in another body, and carry a grudge the size of Mount Washington.
Goddamn the problems kept hitting on him.
The lift doors opened on the hotel’s basement, a windowless level given over to environmental machinery, large pumps, and condensation-smeared tanks. A boxing ring had been set up at the centre, surrounded by the usual training paraphernalia of exercise bikes, histeps, weights, and punch bags: Malone’s gym.
Whenever he wanted to loosen up, Al came down here. He’d always enjoyed sports back in Chicago; going to the game was an event in those days. One he missed. If he could bring back the Organization, and the music, and the dancing from that time, he reasoned, then why not the sports, too?
Avram Harwood had run a check on professions listed in the Organization’s files, and found Malone, who claimed to have worked as a boxing trainer in New York during the 1970s.
Al marched into the gym area trailed by five of his senior lieutenants, Avram Harwood, and a few other hangers-on like Bernhard. It was noisy in the basement anyway, with the pumps thrumming away, and in the gym with music playing and men pounding away at leather punch bags you had to shout to be heard. This was the way it should be: the smell of leather and sweat, grunts as sparring blows hit home, Malone yelling out at his star pupils.
“How’s it going?” Al asked the trainer.
Malone shrugged, his heavy face showing complete misery. “Today’s people, they gone soft, Al. They don’t want to hit each other, they think it’s immoral or something. We ain’t gonna find no Ali or Cooper on this world. But I got a few contenders, kids who’ve had it hard. They’re working out okay.” A fat finger indicated the two young men in the ring. “Joey and Gulo, here, they could have what it takes.”
Al cast an eye over the two boxers dancing around in the ring. Both of them were big, fit-looking kids, wearing colourful protective gear. He knew enough about the basics to see they were holding themselves right, though they were concentrating too much on defence.
“I’ll just watch awhile,” Al told Malone.
“Sure thing, Al. Help yourself. Hey! Gulo, close the left, the left, asswipe.”
Joey saw his opening and landed a good right on Gulo’s face. Gulo went for a body lock, and both of them bounced on the ropes.
“Break, break,” the ref cried.
Al pulled up a stool and gazed contentedly at the two combatants. “All right, what’s the order of play for today? Speak to me, Avvy.” The ex-mayor’s body twitches were getting worse, Al noticed. And some of the weals still hadn’t healed over despite a couple of attempts by Al’s possessed lieutenants to heal them. Al didn’t like having so much resentment and hostility festering close by. But the guy sure knew how to administrate; replacing him now would be a bitch.
“We now have fifteen delegations from outsystem who have arrived,” Avram Harwood said. “They all want to see you.”
“Outsystem, huh?” Al’s flagging interest started to perk up. “What do they want?”
“Your assistance, basically,” Avram said. He didn’t hide his displeasure.
Al ignored it. “For what?”
“All of them are from asteroid settlements,” Patricia Mangano said. “The first bunch that came here are from Toma, that’s in the Kolomna system. Their problem is that the asteroid only has a population of ninety thousand. That gives them enough energistic power to shift it out of this universe easily enough. But then they realized that spending the rest of eternity inside a couple of modestly sized biosphere caverns which are totally dependent on technology wasn’t exactly going to be a whole load of fun. Especially when nearly a third of the possessed come from pre-industrial eras.”
“Goddamn, this is what I’ve been telling people all along,” Al said expansively. “There ain’t no point in vanishing whole planets away, not until we got the Confederation licked.”
Several of the trainee boxers had drifted over to stand close by. As if aware of the growing interest, Joey and Gulo were increasing their efforts to knock each other senseless. Malone’s rapid-fire monotone picked up momentum.
“So what has this got to do with me?” Al asked.
“The Toma people want to move everyone to Kolomna.”
“Je-zus!”
“They want our fleet to help them. If we chose Kolomna as our next invasion target we will receive their total cooperation for as long as you want it. Every industrial station in the system will be given over to supporting the fleet, every starship captured will be converted to carry weapons or troops, they’ll bring the planetary population into order along Organization lines. They say they want to sign up as your lieutenants.”
Al was flattered, it turned his whole day around.
Out in the ring, both boxers were perspiring heavily. Blood was trickling out of Gulo’s mouth. Joey’s left eye was bruised. Cheers and whistles were swelling from the spectators.
“Risky,” Luigi said. “Kolomna is First Admiral Aleksandrovich’s homeworld. He probably wouldn’t take too kindly to it. I wouldn’t if I was him. Besides, we’re still getting things in order for Toi-Hoi.”
Al rocked back on the stool and materialized one of his Havanas, its end was already alight. “I’m not too worried about that Admiral getting pissed with me, not with what I’ve got in store for him. Any chance we can split the fleet, send some ships to Kolomna?”
“Sorry, boss, that’s some of the bad news I’ve got for you,” Luigi said. “The Confederation is really hassling us bad at Arnstadt. They’ve got voidhawks flying above both poles dropping invisible bombs on the SD platforms in orbit. Stealth, the bastards call it. We’re losing a shitload of hardware every day. And the non-possessed population are putting up some resistance—quite a lot, actually. The new lieutenants we’ve appointed are having to use a whole load of force to establish our authority. It gives them a sense of independence, so we have to use the SD platforms to make them see reason, too. Except the Confederation is knocking the platforms out one at a time, so instead we gotta use starships to substitute, and they’re just as vulnerable.”
“Well, fuck it, Luigi,” Al stormed. “Are you telling me, we’re gonna lose?”
“No way!” an indignant Luigi protested. “We’re launching our own patrols up above the poles. We’re hassling them right back, Al. But it takes five or six of our ships to block one of their goddamn voidhawks.
”
“They’re bogging us down out there,” Silvano Richmann said. “It’s quite deliberate. We’re also losing ships out among Arnstadt’s settled asteroids. The voidhawks make lightning raids, fling off a dozen combat wasps and duck away before we can do anything about it. It’s a shitty way of fighting, Al, nothing is head on anymore.”
“Modern navies are built around the concept of rapid tactical assault,” Leroy said. “Their purpose is to inflict damage over a wide front so that you have to overstretch your defences. They’ve adopted a guerilla policy to try and wear down our fleet.”
“Fucking cowards’ way of fighting,” Silvano grumbled.
“It’ll get worse,” Leroy warned. “Now they’ve seen how effective it is against Arnstadt, they’ll start doing it here. New California’s SD network is just as vulnerable to stealth mines. Our advantage is that the Organization is now up and running on the planet. We don’t need to enforce it the way we do on Arnstadt. I think we only used a ground strike ten times last week.”
“Twelve,” Emmet corrected. “But we do have a lot of industrial capacity in orbit. I’d hate to lose much of it to a stealth strike campaign. Our outer system asteroid settlements really aren’t supplying us with anything like the material they should be, production simply doesn’t match capacity at all.”
“That’s because we essentially have the same problem as the outsystem delegations,” Leroy said.
“Go on,” Al said glumly; he was rolling the cigar absently between his fingers, its darkened tip pointing down. But he still hadn’t taken his eyes off the fight. Joey was sagging now, swaying dazedly, while the blood from Gulo’s face was flowing freely down his chest to splatter the floor of the ring. No bell was going to be rung; it wouldn’t finish now until one of them fell.
“Every possessed wants to live on a planet,” Leroy said. “Asteroids don’t have an adequate population base to sustain a civilization for eternity. We’ve started to see a lot of inter-orbit craft heading towards New California from the settlements. And for every possessed on their way, there are another ten waiting for the next ship.”
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