Emerald Eyes

by Emerald Eyes (new ed) (mobi)

  One on the roof; there would be at least one, then, at the slidewalk entrance, and perhaps more.

  Carl cut the fans. The Lamborghini dropped in a steep glide, wings at their fullest extension, and he guided the vehicle down in a deadly silent rush and with the front fender struck the Peaceforcer in the back at 150 kph. The Peaceforcer fell from the roof in two different pieces. Carl brought the fans back up and took the Lamborghini around in a tight bank. He landed gently atop the roof, cracked the canopy and, carrying both the autoshot and Series Two Excalibur, descended into the Eastgate Hotel.

  Mohammed Vance found himself speaking to a Space Force Colonel. The disparity in their ranks was great; and yet, without surprise, Vance found that the Colonel deferred to him.

  "I want a tactical thermonuclear strike on the Complex," he said flatly. "I shall take full responsibility for the action; clear it with Commander Breilleune if you must. How long will it take you to arrange such a strike?"

  The Space Force Colonel said, "How quickly can your men be safely outside of the blast radius?"

  "Not quite five minutes."

  The Colonel shrugged. "Five minutes, then."

  Mohammed Vance sighed. They had never expected him to succeed. "How long have you been in position?"

  The Colonel seemed suddenly cautious, but answered, "Since this morning, Elite Sergeant."

  Vance nodded. In his deep voice he sounded particularly grim. "Perform the strike."

  At the Eastgate hotel in mid-Manhattan, two French Peaceforcers in black patrol fatigues held vigil, deployed at opposite ends of an otherwise empty lobby. The junior officer, Maurice Charbonneau, sat in one corner on the hotel's carpeted floor, autoshot covering the entrance to the hotel. Outside, on the opposite side of the street, he could see a pair of wrecked cars, burning in the fierce rain. A car came down out of the sky as he watched, blossoming into flames as it struck an apartment complex across the way. The shock wave of the explosion rattled the long glassite panels that faced the street.

  Maurice sat and watched Nils Logrissen walk up and down before the entrance to the hotel. Logrissen, a terrorist of the Erisian Claw, was the only man Charbonneau had ever killed. Occasionally Logrissen's body stumbled and then jerked back up again like a marionette on strings. Logrissen's bulging, dead-man's eyes were fixed on Maurice, never left him except once; when the car struck the building across the street, Logrissen turned and watched the accident for a while.

  Charbonneau was grateful for the respite. He was trying to pretend that everything that had happened in the last few hours was part of some particularly unpleasant sensable he had made the mistake of playing. (A sensable where you're the star, the voice whispered. Right.) It hadn't worked yet, but perhaps that was because he wasn't trying hard enough.

  Charbonneau was deathly afraid that Logrissen was getting up his nerve to come inside, and if that happened Charbonneau was not certain what he would do.

  At the other end of the lobby Charbonneau's superior officer, Peace Keeping Force Sergeant Georges D'Argentan, paced restlessly back and forth in front of the maglev lifts, chain smoking, his multifrequency combat laser held loosely in one hand. With every few steps he left the carpet and crossed onto the tile area immediately before the maglev. It was the only sound in the echoing emptiness of the lobby: the clicking of the boots, followed by silence, followed by boots, followed by silence. The rhythm of it had grown so comforting, so predictable, that Charbonneau was startled when it ceased. He glanced over at Sergeant D'Argentan, saw the older Peaceforcer standing motionless, finger touching a point immediately below his right ear.

  D'Argentan stood still while listening in on the command channel. Finally he shook himself slightly, resumed his pacing. Maurice.

  Charbonneau was not certain that the voice in his head was real; his father, dead these fifteen years, had been talking to him for the last hour, ever since the Castanaveras telepaths had struck out at the world around them, at the United Nations Peace Keeping Force that was trying to destroy them. After a moment Charbonneau touched his own earphone. Sergeant? Is that you?

  There was a moment's silence before D'Argentan spoke, and Charbonneau could guess at his thoughts. Councilor Carson had actually ordered that Maurice be sedated; D'Argentan had ignored him, and now he was rethinking the wisdom of the decision. Yes, it's me. Your father is dead, Maurice. So is Logrissen. They have been for a long time.

  Charbonneau knew better than to argue with Sergeant D'Argentan. He was sane enough to know that he was quite mad at the moment. Charbonneau remembered burying his father, remembered killing Logrissen more clearly yet. Yes, Sergeant. I'll try to remember that.

  I've just been told that Space Force is ready. Secretary General Amnier has approved Elite Sergeant Vance's request; Vance is going to order a thermonuclear strike on the Chandler Complex.

  Charbonneau was silent a moment. So they're dead, then. All the telepaths are trapped inside the Complex.

  Across the length of the hotel lobby, D'Argentan nodded. So they say.

  Charbonneau clutched his autoshot more tightly. Except for the two Carson's got upstairs.

  Just children, said D'Argentan sharply. They don't have the power yet. Only the adults do, and the adults are soon dead.

  Yes, Sergeant.

  At that moment, thirty-five floors above them, Carl Castanaveras had just finished killing the Peaceforcer guard stationed on the hotel's roof. At the moment that Maurice Charbonneau turned back to continue his observation of Nils Logrissen, the oldest and deadliest telepath on Earth was riding down in the maglev to Unification Councilor Jerril Carson's room, to the eighth floor; autoshot in one hand, Series Two Excalibur laser rifle in the other.

  Coming for his children.

  I have found the access code, Ring announced.

  Trent came to his feet. His mouth was very dry. He had no idea what he would do when the door slid aside. "Open it."

  A moment, child. Wait.

  Instants later, the walls of Trent's cell shook. "What was that?"

  A diversion to aid in your escape.

  "What was it?"

  I seized control of a hovercab from TransCon and crashed the cab through a wall of the Peaceforcer station; the side furthest from your cell.

  "Oh, no." The horror upon him was palpable. "Were they--did you kill them? In the cab?"

  The cab was empty, child. I do not kill without reason. Relief washed through Trent, and Ring continued, Several Peaceforcers were slain when the vehicle struck, however.

  "Why?"

  It seemed prudent, Trent. As a further diversion. Abide a moment longer; I shall open the door shortly.

  Denice Castanaveras had ceased crying only a few minutes ago. They were not tears of fear, but of anger. She had passed into a place beyond fear, into a rage so vast and elemental it bore only a passing resemblance to any emotion she had ever experienced before.

  She was nine years old and she was going to kill Jerril Carson if given an opportunity.

  She sat on the floor with her twin: two black-haired Caucasian children with pale skin and green eyes. Both she and David had their hands snakechained behind their backs, with tape covering their mouths. Her feet were free, as were David's; they could have stood if allowed. A few hours prior David had made the mistake of trying. A bruise on the side of his face was slowly turning purple; Councilor Carson had knocked David back down to the floor without even looking at him.

  She sat with her rage, not thinking. She did not understand how the situation she was in had come to pass; did not comprehend the details of the conflict between Carson and her father, how it had come to be that the personal animosity between Carson and her father had grown into a conflict that had, this night, pitted the Castanaveras telepaths against the armed might of the Unification.

  Denice did not understand, and did not care.

  She sat and thought about killing him.

  Councilor Carson clutched an autoshot in his right hand; he hardly paid att
ention to the twins. Denice watched him, sitting in front of a huge holofield that showed an image of their home, of the Chandler Complex. He had turned off the audio; except for the whistling sound of the wind and the drum of the rain it was silent inside the hotel room.

  The image of the Chandler Complex vanished suddenly, was replaced with a split field; the Chandler Complex in one half of the field, a shot from the hotel's security holocams in the other. The security holocams showed the long stretch of corridor outside, and the two Peaceforcers who guarded it. One of the Peaceforcers stood in front of a bank of elevators, covering the entrance with an autoshot; the other lay on his stomach at one end of the corridor, covering his partner with a variable laser.

  After the long silence the sound of the Peaceforcer's voice rang shockingly loud. "We've lost contact with the roof."

  Carson stood with startling abruptness, turned and glared wildly at the twins. Denice met his eyes for a long moment and returned the glare: I'm going to kill you. The Gift had not touched her yet, and Carson was as deaf to thought as any normal human; still he froze for a second under the sheer physical impact of her rage. He shook himself visibly then and crossed the distance between them in two strides, pulled the twins to their feet and turned them to face the door. He stood behind them holding the autoshot with his right hand, holding their snaked hands behind them with his left. Where his hand gripped her Denice could feel Carson shaking.

  The holofield moved with Carson, came to hover in front of them, a meter off to the right so that Carson's view of the door was not obscured.

  For a very long time nothing happened. Twenty seconds. Thirty.

  In the holofield, Denice watched the maglev doors curl open.

  No stairway led down from the roof; Carl took the lift. He punched for the eighth floor. This close he could feel Carson, the fear and hatred pulsing bright and sharp and near, drowning out everything else.

  The hotel was thirty-five stories high; it took the lift several seconds to drop down to the eighth floor. Carl lay belly-down on the floor of the lift and waited until the doors opened. The Peaceforcer was simply standing there, as he had expected, autoshot leveled to cover the lift at waist height. Carl shot him with a single burst from the Series Two; the Peaceforcer stiffened, ionization corona crackling around him; the black uniform he wore burst into flames and he fell. The stench of burnt meat filled the hallway. With his left hand Carl extended his autoshot out through the elevator door and fired twice to the left. He was flipping the autoshot over to fire to his right when the wash of maser flame struck the hand. The hand and most of his forearm cooked instantly. He grabbed the autoshot with his right hand and pumped two quick shots down the right-hand passage. The lift doors tried to close on him; still on his belly he lunged forward out of the lift and fired again at the crumpled form on the hallway floor fifteen meters away. The man's body twitched slightly when the shotgun blast struck it, but did not move otherwise.

  Carl stood slowly. The pain from his arm was astonishing, and he staggered, rising.

  So much for surprise. He hoped Jerril Carson did not have many more guards for him to deal with.

  Frontal assault was all he could think of that was left to him; his mind was not functioning well enough to offer him any other option. The poisons from the dead meat his arm had become were already slowing the rest of his body. He walked carefully, almost casually down the hallway, to the double doorway where the second Peaceforcer had been standing.

  He dropped his autoshot and switched the Series Two over to X-laser. The twins were inside; he could feel them vaguely through the malignant haze of Jerril Carson's mind. He did not want to use a weapon that might result in injuring one of them accidentally.

  He stood just to the side of the doorway. If somebody shot through the door, he did not intend to be standing in front of it. He was not certain what he was waiting for, and finally the thought occurred to him: Open the door.

  He had not intended to do anything of the sort; he had not thought he was angry enough. He simply looked at the door.

  The door exploded inward.

  The door slid aside with a beep.

  Trent stood at the doorway, only listening for the moment. Far away he heard a hysterical babble of voices, French and English. A loud voice yelled in French, "What are they doing?"

  He took a step into the corridor and looked both ways. A group of adults milled about off to his left; none of them looked toward him. To his right the admittance desk was empty. He turned and walked calmly past the admittance desk, looking neither right nor left. He walked past an office whose door was open; a Peaceforcer in full uniform was in a conference with a pair of un-uniformed men. They did not look at him.

  A voice behind him stopped him dead. "Boy!"

  Trent did not even consider running. He turned and faced one of the two men in civilian clothing whom he had just passed. "Yes?" The corridor was not very bright; Trent hoped there was not yet a bruise where the Peaceforcer had struck him.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  Trent stumbled intentionally, as though he were embarrassed. "I--I'm looking for the bathroom, sir."

  "How did you get into this area?" The Peaceforcer looked down at Trent with a perturbed expression.

  Trent's mind raced like an engine with the load removed. "The door was open, sir?"

  The Peaceforcer stared at Trent a moment longer and then swore under his breath. "Come on." He strode down a pair of corridors Trent had not known were there, muttering to himself, "No wonder the damn city's burning, we can't even keep little boys out of Operations," and brought Trent at last to a door no different from any other in the long hallway. He placed his palm on the pad at the side of the door and ushered Trent through. He pointed out into a wide bright lobby. "Over there, public restrooms. The waiting rooms are back the other way. You here with your parents?"

  "Yes, sir," said Trent instantly.

  "Don't get lost again," the Peaceforcer said, almost gently. "This isn't a good night to be out wandering around." He turned and was gone. A few of the people in the lobby looked up at Trent with some curiosity, but Trent ignored them and walked without haste to the building's entrance, through the wide glassite doors, and out onto the street, into the rain.

  He crossed the block without haste, turned a corner, and ran for his life.

  There was a brightness behind Mohammed Vance. He sat in the passenger seat of the PKF hovercar, and did not look back.

  Halfway across the world, an ex-Peaceforcer named Chris Summers watched a holograph. In the holograph the bright mushroom cloud climbed into the black, cloud-filled skies over New York City, and he covered his face with his hands so that he would not have to see any more.

  The Person barely had time to realize that it was being ended.

  --the images flowed through its mind in stately procession. The Person was dead already, time had simply not caught up with reality. It continued to fight, sent the nightmares screaming after its attackers, both rioters and the Peaceforcers who had been sent, not to defend it from the rioters, but to destroy it. The future cascaded through the filter of the present as the fireball ate away at it and diminished it into nothingness. The children were alive, the children would be safe, David and Denice, and the boy, Trent, in whom destiny ran so very strong--

  The fireball climbed toward the sky, and in the flames nothing lived.

  The door exploded open:

  At that instant a flash of bright light appeared in the holofield Carson had been watching, lit the hotel room in unreal colors.

  Carl appeared in the doorway, a grinning bloody apparition with emerald eyes--and hesitated at the sight of his children standing before Carson as a living shield.

  In the holofield that had moments before shown an image of the Chandler Complex, a mushroom cloud was climbing into the night sky over lower Manhattan.

  Carson's autoshot blast took Carl square in the chest and lifted him off his feet and slammed him backward out
into the corridor. He knew that he had only one shot and he used it correctly. He fired one-handed, in mid-air, the beam of light from his Series II Excalibur slicing through the tiny space between Denice and her brother, reaching past them to touch Unification Councilor Carson. Carson's skull came apart and Carl struck the corridor wall hard. He slumped, sliding down to the floor, leaving a long trail of blood on the wall.

  Next to her Denice saw David on the ground, bringing his bound hands under his feet and around to the front. David ripped the tape off his mouth, and in a voice rusty with disuse said, "Turn around." Denice knew what was coming; she felt Carson's dead hand being placed up against her wrists, the lifeless thumb being pushed against the snakechain until the snakechain recognized it and released her. The sudden freedom of movement sent spasms of pain through her shoulders. She worked the tape free from her mouth with hands grown numb from lack of circulation.

  Their father's thoughts touched them both. David, get the lasers.

  Her twin vanished down the corridor, came back holding the laser with which their father had been shot.

  Sitting in the corridor, Carl knew that he was dying, that he was nearly dead. But this last thing they had to do correctly, or it was all for nothing. He forced himself to release the laser, and it dropped to the floor. Take it, Denice.

  Denice bent, scooped the laser up off the floor quickly, before her nerve could fail her. Her father's thoughts were faint, unlike anything she had ever felt from him before. Fading. Listen. There's a Peaceforcer downstairs, maybe two, and I can't kill them, so you have to.