Gorgon Child

by Steven Barnes

  deathspawn

  Aubry hit the hall door, bursting out into the hall, firing wildly. His shoulder and the door hit two people on the other side. One went down instantly. The other was smaller. Much smaller. The tiny figure had rebounded like a rubber ball, snapping back to guard and attack faster than anything human could possibly move.

  In the instant it took him to adjust to the shock, a foot arced and hit his gun hand with a move that was timed to perfection. His arm went dead.

  Aubry was ready for the second kick. But the follow-up never came. His opponent folded into a smaller target, jacknifed. The kick spread out directly, striking Aubry in the ribs.

  Aubry rolled, mind numbed with shock. What in the hell was he fighting? All he had felt was bone and movement. It was the most perfectly executed technique he had ever experienced.

  As fast as the kick had been launched, it was retracted twice as swiftly. Aubry's flashing hands found nothing to grasp. He bounded off the wall, managed to get his chin down before a kick intended for his throat smashed into his jaw. Lights exploded behind his eyes.

  But this time he caught the leg as it slithered away. He was shocked at its lightness. Was he fighting a woman?

  A child?

  Tor books by Steven Barnes

  The Descent of Anansi (with Larry Niven)

  Gorgon Child

  The Kundalini Equation

  TOR

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in it are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  GORGON CHILD

  Copyright © 1989 by Steven Barnes

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  The song "Susan A." by Leslie Fish, which appears in Chapter 10, is used by arrangement with the composer. Copyright © 1980 by Leslie Fish.

  A TOR Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24th Street New York, N.Y. 10010

  Cover art by Royo

  ISBN: 0-812-53152-3 CAN. ED.: 0-812-53153-1

  First edition: December 1989

  Printed in the United States of America

  0987654321

  All children are by nature children of wrath, and are in danger of eternal damnation in hell.

  —Jonathan Edwards, Sermon to Children

  Every child enters the world carrying the message that God is not yet discouraged of Man.

  —Rabindranath Tagore

  Once upon a time . . .

  In a place called Los Angeles, in the year 2022, a professional Nullboxer named Aubry Knight was framed for murder. He was sent to Death Valley Maximum Security Penitentiary, where delicate modifications were made in his personality. There they twisted his mind, sealing away the anger which had always been his most powerful ally.

  Finally he escaped. Returning to Los Angeles, Aubry sought vengeance against the man who framed him—Luis Ortega, head of the largest crime syndicate on the West Coast, and Maxine Black, the bait used to trap him.

  But while Aubry was imprisoned, Maxine had created a hell of her own, becoming an addict. Desperate, Maxine met an exotic dancer named Promise who took her to a drug rehabilitation clinic. In the clinic, Maxine accidentally discovered that a drug called Cyloxibin could function as the world's first true aphrodisiac, a substance worth billions of dollars. Before she could profit by this knowledge, she was killed by the Ortegas.

  Aubry's Nullboxing skills saved Promise from a pair of Ortega killers. Forming an uneasy alliance, they assassinated Luis, and fled to the earthquake-ravaged center of Los Angeles, a terrible slum called The Maze. Here, they met Kevin Warrick and his crew of Scavengers, who were literally strip-mining the shattered buildings.

  Their stay with the Scavengers was intense. Both became addicted to Cyloxibin, and fell madly in love. The drug nearly destroyed them, but ultimately saved each from a lonely, meaningless life.

  Life might have been good, but the Ortegas came after them, and a pitched battle was fought beneath the streets of L.A., with the secret of the world's most addictive substance as the prize. Many Scavengers died, and Warrick ultimately sacrificed his own life to defeat the Ortegas.

  Promise, pregnant with Aubry's child, was kidnapped. To rescue her, Aubry gave the Ortegas a mushroom spore print necessary to produce Cyloxibin, and delivered himself for their vengeance.

  They were taken to the island of Terra Buena, for the entire Ortega family to judge them. At the trial, it was revealed that Tomaso Ortega, brother of Luis, actually engineered his brother's assassination, using Aubry as a guided missile. Civil war broke out among the Ortegas.

  Aubry and Promise made their escape. Bound, Aubry was forced to fight the enormous, invulnerable Diego Mirabal, a member of the ultramale separatists called NewMen.

  Aubry was victorious, but in the battle Promise was wounded, and eventually miscarried. The two of them returned to Los Angeles, savagely ill-used in many ways, but with each other.

  And love is love, whether a whim of the heart, or a product of artificially altered brain chemistry . . .

  Isn't it?

  Prologue

  Naked, suspended in clear nutrient solution, Medusa-16 regained consciousness. It was not supposed to happen, but sometimes did. If he kept mind and body quiet, those outside would not know he was awake, would not send darkness to cloud his senses. He, and the other Medusas, were supposed to be healing, and growing. Pads covered his eyes and nose and mouth. Tubes carrying nourishment and oxygen pierced his thin arms and legs, crowded his throat. The steady, low thrum of the maintenance machinery pulsed against his skin.

  He could not see, or feel: the fluid which buoyed him was almost precisely skin temperature. But he could taste the salt, and if he concentrated, could hear sounds from the room outside.

  "—hundreds. Cyloxibin saw to that. But how many with whole minds? Trainable nervous systems? We're lucky to have eighteen."

  The voice was thin, loud. The lab tech—only a human, not even a NewMan. Then a second voice:

  "You say number 16 is functional? Even considering male genotype?" The second voice was deeper, a rumble that Medusa-16 recognized instantly. Quint. Warmth flooded 16's body. He fought for control, but the reaction was too strong.

  "Yes, sir. Quad-gonadal. Two ovaries, two testes. Minimal surgical reconstruction. The perineum was large enough to accommodate a vagina."

  "Both ovaries and testes functioning?"

  "Fully."

  "It is a miracle. Our miracle. Our time is coming."

  There was a jarring beat, as if someone had tapped a finger against the plastic wall of the tank. "Mother's endocrine system was fouled up before the drug ever hit her. Father is a physical freak."

  Quint's voice was ruminative. "A 'freak' I'd like to meet."

  Medusa-16 burned. Father! How could Quint even mention that word. Mother! Naked loathing flooded him. Abandoned! Betrayed! Cast aside like garbage. Like the hideous thing he was. That all the outer world considered him to be.

  Only Quint understood and loved him. Only Quint had saved him, trained him. Prepared him.

  The world hated the Medusas? Very well.

  Then it would find out what hate truly was.

  Mother. Father.

  A nervous edge had crept into the human's voice. "We're getting a rise in blood pressure on 16, sir—"

  Panicked, knowing what would come next, 16 began to thrash, twisted against the tubing.

  "Pulse up and . . . checking EEG he's all the way up in Alpha."

  No! No—

  16 felt the narcotic tingle, fought to resist it, failed as blackness rose up like a shroud.

  Mothe
r. Father.

  You hated me. Abandoned me. Tried to destroy me.

  I'll find you one day. And then—

  Chapter One

  The NewMen

  Monday, May 15, 2028

  The room's boarded windows shuddered as a barbed tear gas rocket smashed against them. The wood began to burn: gas and smoke curled between the slats and pooled darkly against the ceiling. The room's peeling wallpaper slowly turned a deep, poisonous yellow.

  Five men squatted on the floor. They wore ancient, obsolete, gauzy gas masks. The stench of unwashed bodies and unprocessed human waste was gut-wrenchingly strong. There had been no tap water for six days.

  One of the men rose. He banged a gloved fist at the smoking window, and cursed impotently. He leaned against the wall, felt the street noise vibrate in his head: strident voices, klaxons, the rumble of machinery, the rush of feet, the whipping hiss of aircars as they hovered overhead like vultures.

  "Not long now." His voice was startlingly deep, a bass rumble in the confined space. He stood almost six and a half feet tall, and weighed two hundred and sixty pounds. His musculature was abnormally thick, denser than that of the average bodybuilding athlete. He moved like a machine, as if his limbs needed oil more than exercise. His face was flat and square, his features leanly Native American. His brown hair was a raggedly cut mop that fell almost to his shoulders.

  "Miles," one of the others said. He turned. The new speaker was smaller than the others, just an ordinary human. His left arm terminated in a clump of bloodied bandages at the elbow.

  "Richard." Miles Bloodeagle knelt by the boy and took his pulse. Richard's skin was pale, his pulse erratic. He was slipping into shock, and there was no more medicine. There was no more time.

  "Why don't we just give up?" Richard's voice was syrupy. "Maybe they'll just shuttle us back to Arizona."

  Miles shook his great shaggy head slowly. "If that was all, I'd be first into the tube. But this is pure DeLacourte, no matter what label they're hiding behind. He smells blood." The roar from beyond the window was louder now: the Mercs would make their move soon.

  A searchlight's oval slid over the window, and the light filtered through the curling mist in yellow wedges.

  "Come out. This is your final opportunity. This is not a federal operation. Bounties have been registered. You are hereby warned. Come out—''

  No, there was no escape. The Omnivision cameras would record and broadcast their deaths for the entire nation to see. In the end, Miles and the other NewMen wouldn't even be a body count: they'd be a ratings statistic.

  "If they take us, we're headed for the camps, and a little diagnosis and 'treatment.' Surprise, surprise: these faggots are precontagious!" Miles sneered. "They'll make sure of that. Count on it."

  He held Richard tightly. "We can die in the Hoopa Spider camp, or we can die here. There isn't any other choice."

  Miles tousled the boy's fair hair, and left the room.

  The building was one of the few spared by the earthquake of '24. It was old, it was unstable, but it was theirs. Its long yellowed hallways were papered in posters and peeling photos. To his right was a sprawling aerial map of the NewMan Nation in Arizona's Monument Valley. Opposite was a poster of a fully armored and armed Gorgon, stun rifle leveled and ready.

  Gorgon, the elite antiterrorist unit created and implemented by President Harris himself. The ultimate pride of the NewMen. Even now, in their desperate straits (desperate straights? Miles laughed at the unintentional pun. What were DeLacourte and his lackeys more intimidated by: homosexuality or physical superiority?) the tall, proud figure of a Gorgon in night-black battle garb thrilled him. Miles was faster and stronger than ninety-nine percent of the NewMen but he had cracked muscle and sinew qualifying for Gorgon. Detached duty had brought him here, to Los Angeles. And here he might well die.

  A squad of Gorgons would cut through the rabble of Mercs like a bayonet through butter. Of course, that was what DeLacourte was angling for.

  In every room he passed, clusters of NewMen held each other, or their human lovers, waiting for the end. Miles choked back his bitterness. Why couldn't DeLacourte just leave them be? Was any prize, even the presidency, worth so much death?

  Why . . . ?

  The crackle of an Omnivision receiver cut through the low babble. It sounded as if they were pulling in the Merc band, and some perverse instinct drew him inexorably closer.

  ". . . we have them pinned now, and with the help of God we'll rout this filth before midnight..."

  Miles watched from the doorway. Six NewMen and two humans were clustered around an ancient television set. It didn't have holo or enhanced tactile, or even stereo. It was just a cheap flatscreen revamped for sale by the Scavengers. It pulled in only two of eight simultaneously broadcast bands.

  A Latino woman's flushed, excited face appeared on the screen. Behind her stood a great gray rectangle of a wall, dotted with crosshatched windows. Cracks and fissures grooved the external plaster. The paint peeled away like scales from a dried fish. A bright red "condemned" stripe slashed the front door.

  "I'm Marina Batiste, for TriNet. Here, cm die corner of Broadway and Twentieth, in that section of Los Angeles known as The Maze, a grim scenario is being played out." She might have used the same tones to say, And the results of World Steelworker 103 Firerunning championships are—

  And indeed, to her that might have been its only significance. "Here, a splinter group of the homosexual supremist cult known as NewMen has refused to evacuate a three-story warehouse which has been declared unsafe and unsanitary ..."

  "Damn dem," Minotaur grumbled. The mammoth Exotic sat hunched against the wall. No one remembered Minotaur's real name anymore. Grafted horns and cosmetic surgery made his already taurine appearance more pronounced. Minotaur bared his teeth. His jaw was smashed on the right side, skin torn where his own teeth punched through. Another memento from the last attack. A trickle of blood ran from his left ear. His eyes were narrowed, and he trembled.

  "Dey know dey could condemn any building in Maze. Dey just hate us."

  No one needed to answer him. Minotaur dropped his chin and slipped back into his private fantasy world. Miles brought his attention back to the set as the image changed.

  His throat tightened. This was no real-time broadcast. This was a stock clip from one of Sterling DeLacourte's programs. The Prophet was in full swing, in the middle of one of the evangelical tirades that had brought him staggering wealth, and created an army of followers that awaited his pronouncements like dogs groveling for table scraps.

  DeLacourte was a whipcord of a man, as slender as a live wire wiggling across a wet street. His hair was iron gray, the shade that suggests virility more than infirmity. His age lurked somewhere in that chasm between forty-five and seventy, the years when exercise, nutrition, and plastic surgery can create the illusion of agelessness.

  Even buffered by his hatred, Miles felt the dizzying pull of DeLacourte's charisma. The man was almost preternaturally beautiful, as hypnotic as a deathcap mushroom.

  "—if our nation is to regain its greatness, we must rise up and cast out the filth in our midst. Why does disease run rampant in our country? Why has the dollar fallen to its lowest value in a century? Why has Satan sent his most terrible temptation, this last drug which has wrenched so many souls from the righteous path, and twisted so many innocent children in the womb? Why? Because we have turned away from God, and at last He has tired of our lies and faithlessness—"

  DeLacourte's image froze, paling, and faded into the background. Killinger, the shock-armored Merc police leader, appeared.

  It was all very subtle, very well done. Behind the Merc the frozen figure of DeLacourte, and behind him, doubtless, God Almighty.

  "We're not looking for glory," Killinger said. "We're just concerned about their health. It's not safe in there. These perverts just won't listen to reason." He paused, and the hint of a smile was visible behind the Plexiglas faceplate. "We're going to hav
e to call in the crabs."

  "Isn't that severe?" the reporter asked. Her pink tongue flickered at her hps, moistening them. "Many injuries and deaths—"

  "We did our best. I wash my hands of the whole thing. If they want a fight, they've got it."

  There it was, a death sentence pronounced on international Omnivision. The setup had been so damned neat. There was no escape, there would be no surrender. So be it.

  The NewMan leader went to Minotaur, and cradled his bead. Very soon now. Miles heard the growl of battering rams outside the window. Minotaur tensed, hungry to hurl himself once more into the battle.

  The armored vehicles were being pulled into position. The Los Angeles mini-commune was only a test. If it worked here, it would work on NewMen groups across the country. And eventually someone would find a way through the federal treaties protecting the Arizona encampment. Under the guise of confining the dread contagion of Thai-VI, a few thousand "disease-riddled perverts" would die. Then DeLacourte's juggernaut would roll on, rooting out new meat.

  No tragedy, that. No tears would be shed for them. No one would mourn.

  Except perhaps . . .

  Possibly Warrick, the mysterious black man, and his crew of Scavengers. The Scavengers mined and rebuilt damaged high-rises in central Los Angeles. Warrick controlled a network of sales, construction, demolition, and salvage outlets from San Diego to Portland, and as far east as Chicago. Warrick had dealt with the NewMen honestly. A man of courage and dignity, Warrick might mourn them.

  Miles held Minotaur down, and the enormous Exotic NewMan made a low mewling sound. "Don't mind dying. Just don't want die here. Can feel dem. Why dey hate us so much?"

  The wounded Minotaur gradually relaxed. As he did, Miles flared with hatred for the men and women outside. The ones who watched and waited for the end.

  Why shouldn't Minotaur want to kill? He had given everything. Had played the straight game, bowed and scraped and mutilated and humiliated himself in a vain attempt to win their approval. And in the end, he would die because he was different. Because he didn't look the way they looked, or love the way they loved.