by Dave Duncan
Steps were wheeled forward; guards took up position. Cedric saw two men descend, saw them board golfies, saw those carts head off in procession through the interior door. One of the two men had been squeezed between a red guard and a green, the other between a red and gold.
Cedric sat back to study his grandmother’s coldly angry face across the room. “We’re hostages?”
She nodded.
“That’s crazy!” he said.
“Of course it is.” She smiled grimly. “Bulls are worse than lawyers.”
That remark had been aimed at the guards, obviously, but Cedric asked, “How?”
She sighed. “Everyone does it. Accountants did it to bookkeeping, lawyers did it to the law, teachers to education.”
“Did what?”
“Tangled it all up so it became meaningless,” she said sourly. “It’s the search for indispensability—and ninety percent of them are busy playing job politics most of the time, anyway. When I was younger—” She stopped, with a brief glare at the nearest guard. “We have two guests here tonight, but if I wanted to kill one of them during his visit, I could do so easily, in spite of all this tomfoolery.”
And that remark, although directed at Cedric, had been most certainly intended for the guards. Even her own reds scowled.
“How?” asked the one she had looked at, a bull-necked gold.
The director smiled frostily. “Watch closely and maybe I’ll show you.”
That ended the conversation.
22
Cainsville, April 11
“RIGHT! NO! STOP! I think…Yes, right!”
Alya’s head was splitting, ready to fall apart. She seemed to have been wheeling and spinning around Cainsville for hours. Time had lost all meaning. Corridors and echoing tunnels and open plazas had come and gone by the thousand, and she had not the faintest clue where she was. She had no idea how much remained of the hour Baker had promised her. Any minute now he might call her in, and she was certain that he could override her commands to the golfie. Urgency ate at her like acid. She teetered on the brink of panic.
Finding Cedric was turning out to be impossible. She was running two satori at the same time—that was the problem. She had never heard of that happening to anyone in her family before, not even in any of the strange old tales.
Tiber’s was the stronger, by far. Time and time again she arrived at de Soto Dome, where the window was waiting for her. The surprised guards had moved to challenge her the first time, but she had merely referred them to Baker Abel. They had checked in, then shrugged and let her go. By her fifth or sixth visit they were openly laughing at her.
Eventually she had learned to stop at every branching, every choice, and ask System which way led to de Soto. Then she tried to compensate for that in her hunches. but sometimes the right path—if there was a right path—had to be in that direction.
There might not even be a second satori. She might be fooling herself. She might have gone crazy, like all those terrified schizophrenic ancestors.
Then the golfie emerged from a narrow passage into a much larger one. Cold and metallic and sinister in the dim night lighting, it stretched off endlessly in both directions. It had rails on the floor, which she had not seen before.
“Does either of these lead to de Soto Dome?”
“Negative.”
She cringed, puzzling. Left? Or right?
She was going mad.
She did not know.
“Left,” she whispered. System ignored that tone. “Left!”
The golfie swung left and hummed along the big tunnel. The walls and floor were bare metal, rushing past. Lights streamed toward her and vanished behind. Her shadow leaped and leaped, hiding from the lights.
Then the little cart slowed and came to a stop before a large, implacable, circular steel door. Corridor and rails ended also.
“What’s this? I mean, What’s inside this door?”
“Bering Dome,” the golfie said.
“Am I allowed inside?”
“Affirmative.”
There was no decon, so Bering was not one of the transmensor domes. She sat and stared at the forbidding door for a minute or two, wrestling with indecision and self-doubt and that over-powering hunch that she must hurry back to de Soto and the safety of Tiber.
There was no comset on the wall. The round door was not of standard type and did not quite reach the floor—there would be a sill several centimeters high. “What is this door used for?”
“Data confidential.”
But she had no choice, except to retrace her path. She dismounted and felt her knees shake with fatigue.
“Open the door!” she told the golfie, and walked forward as the great circle swung inward. She stepped over the lip, noting how very thick the wall was. She strode a few paces down a sloping floor before she realized that despite the lack of decon facilities, the place looked very much like a transmensor dome. Perhaps it was an old one, now used for something else? The inside was even dimmer than the corridor, with lights twinkling near the center, filled with a quiet murmur, as of many people. She caught a curious odor of—of curry?
The door thumped closed behind her, and she wheeled around in alarm. Damn! Now she’d done it! There was no comset on the inside, either, and she had no wrist mike.
She began to separate out the threads of noise: muttering voices and babies crying. Her eyes were adjusting, too, seeing a huddled little settlement down where the floor was flat. The central object plate was blank, but the railing around it seemed to be hung with laundry. Ramshackle fences of canvas zigzagged around, providing some minimum privacy. She could hear a guitar strumming, and a distant group seemed to be chanting prayers. The baby noises were the worst, though—crying babies could drive anyone mad. Kiosks on the far side were obviously portable toilets.
Sadly, Alya started down the long slope. She had stumbled on the secret refugee entrance to Cainsville, and here were Baker’s two thousand. Bering Dome was a refugee camp. And when she gave him the go-ahead, all Baker would have to do was to close the window in de Soto Dome and open the same string here. She had failed! This was another door to Tiber, and the Tiber satori had won out over whatever she had felt for Cedric—which might have been all self-delusion, she supposed.
The scents and sounds were becoming clearer—and more familiar. Hubbard had played fair so far, for she could hear distinctive Banzaraki voices, her own people. That explained so much activity in the middle of the night—they were in the wrong time zone. Any minute now she would be recognized, and quite likely Jathro was somewhere in the mob, demagoguing, building loyalties.
The clamor of babies was as nerve-scratching as a nettle rash. And older children—from the noise, there were an awful lot of children. And the guitar…someone singing.
She knew that voice! With a cry of joy, Alya began to run, seeking that guitar.
She raced along pathways lined on both sides with bedrolls, sleeping people, people sitting cross-legged, people talking, people weeping, people looking up in astonishment, people calling out. She zigged and zagged, ever drawing closer. She ran around the central object plate with its fence of drying diapers. She could smell babies now! She began to notice paler faces. Not all Banzarakis, then.
And there he was!
He was standing with his back to her, but his height was unmistakable. Strumming inexpertly on a guitar, he was singing to a semicircle of seated children.
“Cedric!” She rushed up and grabbed him. She hauled him around, ending the song in a discordant jangle as she threw her arms around his skinny neck and kissed him. The children yelled delight.
Appalled, she backed off and stared.
It was Cedric! And Cedric’s blush. But not quite tall enough? His hair was too long. His nose was uninjured. He was maybe a couple of years younger, and he was aghast at this aggressive female who had just kissed him.
Her satori had not found Cedric after all. It had found a Cedric clone.
&nb
sp; 23
Cainsville, April 11
CEDRIC WAS SHOUTED awake before he was even aware that he had started to nod. The ache in his neck said he had slept a long time. He lurched up, woolly-headed, and lumbered after his grandmother as she headed for the door. Shivering mightily, he stumbled down the steps behind her and stalked at her side across the great bare floor of the hangar. The guards stayed by the plane.
The two men had returned, presumably explored and inspected inside and out just as thoroughly as Cedric and Gran had been. They were advancing toward four chairs that stood in the center of the dome, but they, too, had left their escorts behind, so the meeting would be watched by the three private armies from a respectful distance; it would not be overheard unless there were trick mikes aimed at it. Then Cedric remembered Dr. Fish—of course there would be trick mikes, and probably the visitors’ aircraft had some, also. The low-rank muscle round the edges would not hear, though.
“Grundy Julian Wagner, of BEST,” his grandmother remarked as they walked. “And Cheung Olsen Paraschuk, speaker of the Chamber.”
“Okay. And I say nothing.”
“That’s right. Your name may not even be Cedric.”
Then they had reached the chairs. The men were already seated. The only greetings were nods of recognition.
Cedric sat with Gran on his left and he recognized Cheung on his right: heavy, sleek black hair, eyes so padded they were hardly visible. His face had been carved from brown butter, and he might be any age from thirty to seventy. Cedric felt none of the thrill he had known four days earlier, when he had first met the Secretary General. Either he was growing blasé about celebrities, or he just was not properly awake yet.
“I understood that the fourth person was to be Hastings Willoughby?” Cheung’s voice was extremely low and measured, as profound as an underground river.
“This is my grandson, Hubbard Morris.”
“And I understood your grandson’s name was Cedric.” Grundy, opposite Cedric, sounded high-pitched and unpleasantly nasal. He was hunched and leathery, his hair thin and colorless, and even his hands seemed curiously elongated. He was not tall—not by Cedric’s standards—but he seemed spare and fleshless. He smiled ironically, revealing long yellow teeth.
“That was another grandson,” Agnes said evenly. “He was lost yesterday on the world we call Nile.”
“Identical twins?” Grundy chuckled, showing his teeth again.
“At least. Spontaneous cleavage of the ovum is not uncommon during defrosting. He—they—were a posthumous gestation.”
Cedric was cold. He resisted a desire to shiver, wishing he had a coat. He could only admire his grandmother’s brazen false-hoods—he could hardly disapprove of them on moral grounds when she so obviously did not expect to deceive anyone. He wished she had chosen a better name for him than Morris.
“How many grandsons do you have, Director?” Cheung asked, in his black, oily voice.
“I have not counted them recently.”
“Ah. And of course the birth certificates are on file.”
“Of course.” She was certainly lying, Cedric thought, but the papers could soon be forged if she ever wanted them.
“And the nose?” Grundy inquired. “Cedric had one just like that. Must we presume that, in a moment of trivial sibling dissension, they reacted with the identical reflexes of their monozygotic inception and simultaneously punched each other on the snoot?”
Neither Cheung nor Gran paid any attention, and for a moment there was thoughtful silence. Of course Grundy and Cheung must know that Cedric was Hastings’s clone. He had been brought along as a threat, perhaps, or as a confusion, to throw them off balance. They would be wondering how he had escaped the Nile tragedy and how many more clones might there be. He himself had never considered that there might be more of him around somewhere, but of course there could be. That thought made him feel even more insecure and worthless than before; he shivered.
“You will speak for Hastings, then, Director?” Grundy inquired.
“I think I do have some influence with him.” She seemed quite impervious to the cold, or the godless hour of night, or the threat of hundreds of armed men and women waiting menacingly on the distant sidelines. She was as calm as if she were back in her office with its big pentagonal table and expensive holo walls.
“Then we can dispose of this lean young man?” That was Cheung’s deep organ tone. He might be a very fine bass singer.
Agnes glanced up at Cedric thoughtfully. “No, he may yet be useful. Do you recognize this man, Ce—Morris?”
“Dr. Cheung. I’ve seen him on the news often.”
“You haven’t seen his face anywhere else?”
“No, Gran, I—Oh, God!”
“Well?”
“Gavin!” It was not really true that all Chinese faces looked alike. Cedric had just never noticed the resemblance.
“Gavin?” his grandmother echoed.
“Wong Gavin—at Meadowdale! His father’s president of—” Nonsense! Chipper, cheeky little Gavin was another clone. The lump that suddenly filled Cedric’s throat was so real that for a moment he thought he would choke. He forced a deep breath somehow. How old was Gavin—ten, maybe? So another eight years or so would see him fully grown—fewer if there were an emergency need, for a heart, say. “Harvesting” his grandmother had called it.
Cheung had not changed expression at all. “Let us to our business,” he said deeply. “All those gun-toting apes are making me nervous. What are you asking, ma’am?”
“Me?” Hubbard seemed astonished. “I am asking nothing. Your presence here makes you the petitioners. Ask.”
“No, you ask,” Grundy said. “For mercy.”
Again the other two paid him no attention, but Cedric inspected him with growing distaste and a vague feeling that he ought to know him also. He had recognized Gavin’s resemblance to Cheung because Cheung’s face was smoothly round and flat and almost babyish. Grundy’s features were much bonier, and his baldness did not help. His long skull seemed to have grown out through his hair, and his chin was long and pointed. His eyes were baggy, his brow marred by spots.
“China has declared,” Cheung said. “Withdrawn its recognition of the U.N. It will hold elections for Chamber representation.” He moved a hand in a small gesture that seemed to convey many things. He had thick hands with short, powerful fingers, but they were quite hairless. “We heard the news on the way here. Both Japans have followed. Others will do so as the day progresses.”
“My congratulations.” Hubbard Agnes sniffed, as though disapproving of the metallic, oily scent of the hangar. “Why should that concern me?”
Cheung studied her impassively for a moment. His massive stillness conveyed to Cedric a sinister sense of power that was missing from Grundy’s sneering restlessness.
“Today marks the end of the General Assembly,” the deep voice said. “The end of the U.N., and of Hastings.”
“And of you,” Grundy interjected, with a leer at Gran.
She shrugged. “Maybe. You lack the financial resources of the U.N., of course.” She gazed inquiringly at Cheung, and for a moment the two locked eyes. Cedric remembered Jathro explaining how Stellar Power financed the U.N. officially, and Hastings’s graft unofficially.
Grundy made another of his shrewish remarks, but Cedric did not hear it. Grundy had clenched his fists. His hands were all bones, wrapped in mottled parchment, and his wrists were thin and hairy. Somehow those fists had the same tantalizing familiarity as his face. Cedric was working his way through every child in Meadowdale. It had to be Meadowdale—his whole life had been Meadowdale. The half memory was like a maddening, unreachable itch. Who?
Still his grandmother seemed unworried. Her curt, precise tone had not changed. “Of course your joy at the China news can hardly be undiluted, Dr. Cheung.”
“Why do you think so, ma’am?”
“Because the present China delegates are so-called ‘temporaries,’ appointe
d by you. Under your own rules, as I understand them, they are now discredited. Also the Japanese, and all those others you mentioned.”
“They will be replaced by officially elected representatives very shortly.”
“But that will take time, won’t it?” She waited for him to comment, but when he didn’t she said, “And meanwhile the old ones cannot vote. By your own rules, I repeat.”
“What’s she getting at, Ollie?” Grundy barked. His voice grated, rough and uncultured compared to Cheung’s.
For the first time the mask shifted, the butter seeming to shift and become less bland—Cheung was favoring Hubbard Agnes with a small frown. “That is so. It is true, then, that Hastings has actually been encouraging some of the fence-sitters to come down on our side?”
A wisp of satisfaction thinned Gran’s pale lips. “I did suggest that he should recognize the difficulties certain parties were having in remaining loyal.” She considered, then added, “And that he ought not hold them too harshly to a course that may have become untenable for them. The Japans, for example.”
“This is surrender!” Grundy crowed.
“Not quite, I think.” Cheung was still studying Agnes.
“Why? You mean she’s got some trick up her sleeve?” Grundy waved a fist.
That did it—Dwayne! Kroeger Dwayne! He had been about three years older than Cedric. Kroeger Dwayne and McClachlanne Greg had liked to take younger boys behind the barn for puberty experiments. They had tried to do some on Cedric himself once.
He shivered, but whether it was memory or the temperature in the vast hangar, he could not be sure. He had hated and feared Kroeger Dwayne, but the guy had not deserved that…
“Tell us, ma’am,” Cheung said.
“You have lost your majority,” Gran said simply. “By Friday or so, Huu Ngo will be the new speaker of the Chamber.”
Cheung leaned back and gazed up at the high sweep of the dome. “I don’t count it that way.”
“Try again. We have forty-two from Neururb, over eighty from Nauc. What remains of the Mediterranean is solid for us. You must withdraw voting rights from most of India, China, Japan…” The litany droned on. There was no triumph in her voice, only clinical authority and the usual impatience.