Questor

by L. S. Gibson

  To make matters worse, Jon remembered how Manny had intended to drag Charod under the damnable light, until he’d stopped him. Why? Why did I stop him? Did I stop him just to impress Triena, was that it?

  “No, Jon,” Triena spoke in his thoughts. “I just reminded you of your own morality. I don’t believe Manny would have gone through with it either. You can’t blame yourself for this.”

  He whirled to look at her. He’d forgotten she was there. For a second all his anger, all his pain, all his guilt was aimed at her, and she recoiled from the shock of it. He felt her shock reflected back at him, but somehow he couldn’t stop the anger, the pain, or the guilt. And for the first time, her presence didn’t help him; it just reminded him of his culpability.

  He balked and ran. Jon ran after the one other person he saw as more culpable than he was. Charod.

  “Jon, no. Stop. Stop!” Triena called after him, but he didn’t even look back.

  “You can’t stop him, not this time. He’s hurting too much,” Lector said. She stared at him with pain-filled eyes, and he must have sensed her pain. “I’ll go after him. If I can’t stop him, I’ll help him.”

  She watched as Lector hurried after Jon, feeling that same hopelessness again that she’d felt when Jon was a prisoner of Charod. If truth be told, wasn’t he still a prisoner of that beast? She stared at Manny whose head still lay in her lap. Perhaps he’d been correct all along when he said Charod deserved the treatment of his own machine. What had Manny said? Something about tasting one’s own medicine? Poor Manny. Jon was right about that; you didn’t deserve to die.

  Mychlo broke her reverie. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mistress, at such a time.” He waited until she acknowledged him with a look. “We need to destroy this machinery, now. All the Questor crew has gone after the Mideans, except for Manny,” he said softly, sounding apologetic. “If I could have his weapon I think I could do it,” he concluded.

  She glanced at him, an eyebrow rising. “Of course, of course. The shield. I’d forgotten.”

  “I know. Everyone has. It was such a shock. Poor Manny.”

  With care she moved Manny from her lap and laid him on the ground. She removed the weapon from his already stiffening hand. “Let us pray he has no company,” she said, passing the weapon to Mychlo. She meant to leave but then stopped. “No, wait. We must find something to cover him with,” she added, looking around.

  “Cover him? Whatever do you mean?”

  “It’s their way to show respect for the dead. We found that out in Haven. Doesn’t he deserve our respect?”

  “Of course, Mistress. What kind of something?”

  “A cloth, anything.” She spied Lector’s bag lying nearby. She grabbed it and pulled from it one of the thin blankets he carried, laying it over Manny’s still figure.

  Martin Henson led his crewmates in the headlong rush after Charod and his Mideans. They had not, however, gone a great distance. The caves were vast and full of too many side branches; it was far too easy for one group to hold up and ambush the other, and the Mideans had done just that. Now both groups were taking pot shots at each other, but managing to keep out of the line of fire. The breathing space gave Martin time to calm down, time to reflect on the suspected loss of a friend. He knew a bad wound when he saw it, and he didn’t think Manny could survive it. He couldn’t afford to dwell on that just now.

  What he didn’t expect was confirmation of Manny’s death in such an outrageous fashion. Jon Hardesty came tearing past Martin’s hiding place and out into the passageway between the two opposing forces. He appeared to have lost total control, and it seemed all concern for his own safety. He’d eyes for just one thing and one man.

  The supervisor could be glimpsed to the right at the curve in the passage, behind one of his men. How Jon managed to pick him out in the confusion, Martin was at a loss to understand, but what Martin understood all too well was the danger Jon was flinging himself into.

  The Mideans began firing at once, and how they missed Jon was nothing short of a miracle. Perhaps they were as fazed by Jon’s behavior as Martin was—as the rest of the Questor crew was. Many voices could be heard calling to Jon, but he seemed to hear none of them. He moved forward inexorably.

  Jon’s target was backing away perhaps recognizing the possibility of his death in the charging man.

  Charod’s path took him farther away from the rest of his men, but he’d seen Hardesty—the one person ever to have defeated him, and the man he’d been unable to shoot just a few minutes before—run through a barrage of blaster fire unscathed. There was something special about this man.

  Charod felt an unaccustomed fear; and that specific thought stopped him cold. He’d never feared another being before, never accepted anyone was superior. Even these supposedly superior people of Rhiava had fallen before him. He chose not to remember that they’d also kept their secrets. He wouldn’t surrender now before this man. He stopped his backward momentum and waited for Hardesty, weapon still in hand. He brought it up, ready to take aim.

  Hardesty rushed around the bend after him, and Charod knew the man’s entire focus was on getting him. The man charged straight through a fire-fight to get to him. As Hardesty saw Charod ahead, he slowed his approach, but he didn’t stop, no less threatening in his slow determination to reach Charod, ignoring his own danger.

  Instead of taking aim at the now unprotected Hardesty, Charod lowered his weapon. Charod's pride wouldn’t allow him to just shoot Hardesty out of hand. There was no achievement in that. He holstered his weapon and moved to meet Hardesty.

  Lector arrived at the sight of the ongoing battle just in time to see Jon reach the far side unharmed. He must lead a charmed life, but not for long, Lector thought to himself. Lector wasn’t so weak he didn’t feel Jon’s overwhelming grief at his friend’s death. A grief tinged with guilt. It made Jon impetuous, thoughtless. He needed protecting from himself. That’s my responsibility now. He had promised Triena and he wouldn’t fail her.

  He summoned what strength he had left and moved around the edges of the conflict toward the passageway.

  Morovny was across the other side of the passageway when Jon blundered through. He’d taken aim, careful aim, but somehow he’d missed and Jon had kept going. Charod had run. Morovny felt an unaccustomed shame at Charod’s flight. He’d never have thought Charod would behave so. But then, Charod had never failed before the way he had with this one. Morovny realized Charod had fled without even attempting to shoot Jon. The supervisor wasn’t thinking clearly, unusual in itself. Morovny ducked and weaved his way across to the passage down which Jon had followed Charod.

  Jon saw the thoughts flitting across Charod’s face. Charod lowered his arm and returned his weapon to his holster. It was in that moment he understood Charod could have had the drop on him.

  Charod moved forward and stopped when he saw Jon's expression change. “Ah, that smile again,” Charod said. “You do seem to smile at the oddest times.”

  Jon couldn’t trust himself to answer. He just waited.

  Charod continued his slow move forward. “I was pleased to see Triena at last, by the way,” he said in a conversational tone.

  Just a little nearer, you bastard, Jon thought.

  “She’s younger than I expected, prettier too. I understand a little now, I think.”

  Jon clenched and unclenched his fists, and began to move. He could no longer just wait.

  Neither of them noticed Morovny move around behind, taking a moment to get a clear shot.

  “No!” A voice shouted, echoing through the enclosed space, almost intersecting with the sound of the blaster being fired.

  Jon swung to the sound of the voice he knew so well, just in time to see Lector leap between him and his unknown attacker—and fall in a heap just a couple of feet from him, Jon’s own voice echoing that shout, “No!” Not again. There was no doubt poor Lector was dead, half of his head was missing.

  “Jon, for God’s sake, down!” yelled Mar
tin Henson, taking aim at Morovny who was now taking aim again at Jon. Jon reacted to Martin’s shout and dropped to his haunches. Martin felled Morovny even as Morovny’s blaster shot hit the wall just to the left of Jon.

  It had all taken just a few seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime to Jon. Yet when he twisted back to face Charod, the Midean hadn’t moved. He stood in the same position, staring at Morovny lying a few feet away. He raised his eyes back to Jon, and in a voice devoid of inflection he said, “Back to you and me again, I think.”

  Martin called, “Jon?”

  “Don’t interfere, Martin. It’s gone way too far for that, now,” Jon answered, tone sharp.

  Martin frowned, seemed about to move forward, then thought the better of it. Instead he backed away and holstered his weapon.

  “Yes, we’ve much to account for, haven’t we?” Charod said and, in a flash of movement that made Jon jump, he drew his blaster and fired at Martin.

  Martin’s mouth fell open as he slipped in silence to the ground. Charod's weapon held loose in his hand as he faced Jon again.

  Jon was still looking down at Martin, unable to tell if he was dead or alive. How many more? How many friends am I to lose to you? He whirled back to Charod, eyes blazing with hate. No more. No more!

  This time it was Charod who smiled. “That’s better, isn’t it? Alone again. Now where were we?”

  Jon no longer knew how he felt, how he ought to feel. His guilt faded to be replaced by so much pain, so much anger, a deep hatred he didn’t know he was even capable of feeling. He was numb. All he could think about was revenge. Revenge for Manny, revenge for the others, revenge for himself. Part of him felt it was wrong to feel like that, but another part told him it had to be. There had to be a reckoning. The tally had to be paid.

  “Ah, of course,” Charod said, holstering his weapon again. “Just me and you, that is how it should be, right? Now for the reckoning.” He began to move forward. One step. “You and my little room.” Another step. “The Rhiava.” One more step. “This one,” he said, indicating Martin, “and of course, your friend. I never knew his name.” A step.

  Charod was goading him; trying to make him lose control, gain the upper hand. Keep coming, Jon thought, keep taking one more step, then I can get my hands around his neck, squeeze his throat, slow, make the pain last as I choke the life from his worthless body.

  Mychlo held the strange weapon, looking at the controls. He frowned.

  “Here, let me show you,” Triena said. She soon ran through what Jon had told her about the various settings, and the safety release catch. “I think this is one occasion when it might be best to use the maximum setting, just to be sure,” she said.

  “Yes, perhaps that might be necessary. But, unless you object, I will try it on medium first,” Mychlo replied with a smile.

  “Whatever you think best, but hurry, Mychlo, hurry.”

  Mychlo aimed the weapon and pressed the fire control. There was an immediate and all too satisfactory result. He was happy to repeat the action and destroy the other console.

  Triena felt her strength return as if someone had flicked a switch. There was no doubt it was successful. The Rhiava all over the planet would have felt the destruction of the shield. So, too, would all the Mideans.

  At once Triena reached out to search for Jon and Lector. At first, she didn’t understand why she couldn’t link with Lector, but a split second later she understood, much to her deep sorrow.

  She found Jon without any trouble whatever, and it was so easy to read the outer levels of his consciousness, and in a flash she knew all he knew, felt all he felt. Lector, oh no. Lector. You were a truer friend than even I appreciated. She also had to get through to Jon, and now.

  It should’ve been easy for two who were in contact as they were, especially now she was in full control, however it wasn’t. She came up against a barrier, a barrier comprised of a torrent of confused, tormented emotions that even she couldn’t break through.

  Jon’s feelings were breaking against her like waves on a rocky shore; desperation, fear, a towering anger, lingering pain, deep hatred, and through it all guilt—guilt that he could have prevented all of it from happening. He was desperate for revenge on Charod, revenge for the deaths of his friends, revenge for his own suffering; but underlying all of that, his subconscious was also exacting a price he must pay himself. Guilt made him want to pay for the failure to dispose of Charod before anyone else had to pay the price. He intended to face Charod and kill him; even if he died in the process, it would be worth it, and it would provide justice.

  Triena felt horror at what she learned. Not just at the fate of poor Lector, but the predicament, the terrible confusion of guilt that Jon faced. Triena believed he was being far too hard on himself, none of what had happened was at his instigation, and his own action, or rather lack of action as he saw it. None of it was worthy of blame. However, she remembered the conversation with Dr. Mannion, seeming so long ago now, when she’d first come to realize how little she truly understood of how Jon had been affected by his experience at the hands of Charod. Now with her full powers restored she could comprehend so much more of the layer upon layer of emotional resonance weaving its powerful way through Jon’s mind, twisting and contorting one around the other. No wonder her poor love felt such overwhelming confusion.

  If she couldn’t get through to Jon, there was just one other avenue open to her. She had to attack Charod instead. If he was out of the game, she believed it would be simple to reach Jon. Now she had full command of her powers it wouldn’t be a problem to control Charod. She could stop him just as the rest of the Mideans had been stopped.

  She concentrated on searching out Charod’s mind. She was confounded by what she discovered. Charod was no longer quite sane. His thoughts were chaotic, disjointed, out of control with the distracting confusion of unrestrained emotions, all converging on Jon. It was apparent, he’d been as affected by his interaction with Jon, as Jon himself had by Charod. Given time she could control Charod, but time was one thing she didn’t have. Both of them were right on the edge.

  She glanced back at Jon. Surely because of their contact it should be easier to get through to him? She had to try. “Jon, listen to me, please. Let me help you now. I have full control. Listen, Jon. Please!” But it wasn’t working. Her frustration was growing, but that was detrimental. She took a breath to calm herself. She tried again to break through the emotional wall, but though she felt she’d made some progress, she couldn’t break through enough to affect his actions. “Jon, please, wait. Wait till I come. I’m on my way. Jon!”

  She hurried down the tunnels, following the lead she had to Jon. The Mideans no longer posed any threat. They had no power to act except at the will of the Rhiava. She hurried past groups of them surrounded by her own people and the crew from Questor.

  Charod was about seven feet away now, and that annoying expression was back, but somehow with something extra. It was the eyes, Jon realized. In the past when Charod produced his smile, it never reached his eyes, yet now his eyes were as cold as his smile. Even as the thought flitted through his mind, Jon wondered if he wasn’t just being too imaginative. Could one’s eyes be cold? It didn’t matter, Jon told himself. Charod’s soul was ice cold. Cold as the grave to which he’d consigned so many people. Well, he’d join them soon enough now, Jon promised himself. Another step.

  All of a sudden Jon felt dizzy. He put a hand to his temple where he felt the pressure of a sudden headache. He shook his head and tried to clear his mind. He couldn’t afford to lose concentration, not with Charod so close. Triena, he wondered where she was. He’d rushed away and left her. How long ago had it been? Not now, he told himself, no time to think of her now.

  He switched his concentration back to what mattered at this moment. One more step. Not far now. The headache increased, as did the dizziness. For a second he couldn’t focus on Charod anymore. Through the cotton wool that had become his mind he thought he heard someo
ne calling to him. No one other than Charod in sight. He forced himself to watch as Charod moved one more step nearer.

  “Are you ready, my friend?” Charod asked in an ingratiating voice. Just another way to be annoying, Jon thought as Charod continued. “We both have scores to settle, yes? I think the time has come. You know, I think this is more satisfying than watching you from the glass booth. I have to admit you always seemed to be stronger than you should. Did you have help I didn’t know about? This Triena, what is she to you? Was she helping in some way, was that it? I think that I could accept that you managed to defeat my machine because you had special help.”

  Jon allowed his random chatter, but that last remark he couldn’t let pass, he couldn’t allow Charod to have the satisfaction any false belief would give him. “Sorry to disappoint you, but until they rescued me, I was all alone. Your machine isn’t—oh, sorry, wasn’t—as special as you thought,” Jon responded, with a self-satisfied grin.

  This seemed to be the last straw for Charod. His slow approach ended as he leapt toward Jon, covering the last few feet in one bound. Jon reached for him and literally grabbed him out of the air. Charod screamed unintelligible nonsense as he rained blows down on him. Jon took everything Charod aimed at him without returning a blow. He concentrated his whole being on getting his hands around Charod’s neck. It was with ease that Jon’s hands spanned the thin neck of the Midean, and Jon took great pleasure in his slow squeezing.

  Charod recognized his danger and stopped hitting Jon. Instead he clawed and scratched at Jon’s hands, trying to pry them away from his neck, but Jon hardly felt the pain as he squeezed tighter and tighter. He squeezed until he felt Charod’s life slipping away. The Midean became nothing but a rag doll hanging limp in his hands.