Liege-Killer

by Christopher Hinz

  Costeaus.

  One had shoulder-length brown hair and piercing green eyes. Paula would have found him handsome had he not had a large scarlet penis tattooed on the left side of his face.

  His black-skinned companion wore wide suspenders that looked like they were made from raw meat. The black pirate ambled to the counter and glared at Moat.

  “Either use that thruster or bring your hands out where I can see ’em.”

  Moat regarded the pirate gravely. For an instant, Paula thought the trader was going to yank out his thruster and start shooting. Instead, Moat smiled and placed his hands on top of the counter.

  “What can I help you with?”

  The pirate with the penis tattoo answered. “Nothing.” He turned to Paula. “You’re Bob Max’s neighbor?”

  Paula nodded dumbly. “How did you ... know that?” She was so stunned that she could think of nothing else to say.

  “Word has it that you know most of the traders along this row. We got lucky.”

  She found her voice again. “What do you want?”

  The black pirate approached Jerem. “You with your mom Saturday night—when Bob Max got vacuumed?”

  Jerem nodded meekly.

  “Let him alone!” Paula snapped. “I asked you what you want.”

  “It’s a clan affair,” said the pirate with the tattoo. “You’re to come with us.”

  “She’s not going anywhere,” Moat warned. His hands were still on the counter but his fat body had tensed.

  “Not your affair,” said the black man. He laid a huge hand across Jerem’s shoulder.

  Paula grabbed the pirate’s wrist and yanked it away from her son. Moat’s right hand shot under the counter. He pulled out his thruster and leveled it at the black pirate.

  Neither of the Costeaus appeared upset by Moat’s action. The one with the tattoo smiled at the trader. The scarlet penis seemed to worm its way across his cheek.

  “Recognize our smell?” he asked softly.

  Moat’s eyes narrowed. “Educate me.”

  The tattooed pirate addressed Jerem. “Know anything about clans, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We each got our own smell, boy. Some people are smart enough to know the difference between odors. Other people are dumb. They can’t tell the difference between shit and mashed turkey. Smart heads, but dumb noses. People like that had better stay out of the jungle, ’cause they’re liable to get their smart heads bitten off by a lion.”

  “A lion?” Moat asked quietly. The gun wavered in his hand. “You’re from the Alexanders?”

  Penis tattoo nodded.

  “Shit,” Moat grumbled. He gave Paula a helpless shrug and then laid his thruster on the counter. “I’m sorry, Paula. You and the splinter had better go with ’em.” There was fear in his eyes.

  “We’re not going anywhere!” Paula raged. “Jerem, I want you to—”

  The black man grabbed Jerem by the shoulder and slapped his hand against the boy’s arm. Paula caught the flash of a small needle in the pirate’s open palm. She grabbed for the arm, missed.

  The pirate with the penis tattoo was suddenly behind her—the odor of dead fish intense, almost overpowering. The pirate’s hot breath blew against the side of her face. She started to scream. A clammy palm covered her mouth. A needle pricked the skin below her right elbow.

  Paula tried to kick him, but he wrapped his leg around her ankles, pinned her against him. She stood helplessly, her mind awash in a mélange of feelings: fear for Jerem as he fell to unconsciousness in the black pirate’s arms, anger at Moat for allowing this to happen, surprise at the utter boldness of these Costeaus. And then the drugged needle took effect and she felt herself drifting away.

  O}o{O

  —from The Rigors, by Meridian

  I once gave my advanced class of humans a lesson in the complex process that the pre-Apocalyptics had dubbed sapient supersedure.

  On the day of the lesson, only one of my tways entered the classroom and took its place at the double podium. The twenty-eight humans, seated in a semicircle before me and obviously wondering where my other tway was, whispered in hushed tones. I eased their curiosity and explained jokingly that my better half had taken ill with a minor physical affliction and needed a day of bed rest. The humans laughed. With their fears mitigated, I launched into the scheduled lesson—a discourse on the proper methods for humans to set and initiate goals within a Paratwa-dominated society.

  I discussed the essence of Paratwa rule and highlighted the advantages of a totally structured society—no wars, no poverty, no sharp peaks and valleys, nothing to stand in the way of satisfying, contented lives for both Paratwa and humans. The class easily followed the logic of my argument; these were, after all, some of the brightest humans we had. Generations of breeding and training within a controlled environment had eliminated rebellious attitudes. In fact, most of these particular humans were so intensely loyal to us that they would have reported any signs of perfidy among their classmates.

  That was how we learned that one of the twenty-eight had indeed been engaging in anti-Paratwa activities.

  I continued my lecture, gradually shifting emphasis to some of the shortcuts that the pre-Apocalyptics, including the Paratwa, had used to attain goals.

  “Sapient supersedure,” I said with a smile, “was one of the fastest and most famous methods for social advancement. Before the Apocalypse, sapient supersedure almost achieved the mark of a religion. The process engendered achievement in all walks of life but it was particularly successful on the high corporate levels, where interpersonal relationships remained more data-oriented than feeling-based.”

  One of the students, a young male, raised his hand. “Sir, I’ve read Merkhoffer’s standard history on the subject. But frankly, I’m still at a loss to understand how these incredible substitutions went undetected.”

  Excellent, I thought. I turned to the young man.

  “Sapient supersedure—the process of killing an individual and assuming his identity—is far easier than one might expect.

  “There are three phases necessary for the fulfillment of a supersedure. First—the substitute must have access to the victim’s biocharts and history files. Within the framework of an information-conscious age, like the mid- to late-twenty-first century, worldwide computer networks made the acquisition of such data relatively simple. With a bit of perseverance, one could easily learn all about an intended victim.

  “Second—the substitute had to arrange for his own alteration. Ideally, both the victim and his substitute should be physically similar, but other than a vast difference in height, there was little that mid-twenty-first-century surgical techniques could not accomplish. Even if victim and substitute were of different sexes, it was possible to identically match them.” I paused. “Of course, that required a bit of determination.”

  Several students chuckled.

  “Along with surgical alteration, the victim also had to arrange for the camouflaging of his own vital signs, most particularly his brainwave and biorhythmic patterns. Again, by the mid-twenty-first century, there was an entire science dedicated to the generation of false physical indexes.

  “The final phase necessary for a successful supersedure was the most difficult. The substitute, who now looked like—and was capable of perfectly imitating—his victim, had to kill the prototype. The murder had to be done in such a way that no evidence of the victim would remain. An intense fire, incinerating flesh and melting bones and teeth, was the preferred method.”

  I smiled and provided an example, “One day, a man leaves home and heads for his corporate headquarters. On the way, he is ambushed and assassinated and his body hidden for later disposal. The substitute arrives at corporate headquarters, greets everyone perfunctorily as he does every day, and assumes his new social responsibilities.

  “Naturally, the substitute would have already been involved with the corporation on a lower level and if he had done his homework, he woul
d be familiar with what was required of him in his new position. The home and social life provided greater challenges, which is why most substitutes chose childless, unmarried victims.”

  I shrugged at the young man who had asked the question. “Unless you committed some gross error during the three preparatory phases—unless your information about the victim was wrong, or your surgical alteration was done sloppily, or you messed up the murder and disposal of your victim—chances were that you would not be caught. And even if people grew suspicious of you, the fact that a substitution had occurred was almost impossible to prove.

  “If you look and act like a person, you are that person. Sapient supersedure works because most people want to believe that simple adage.”

  I faced a man seated in the front row.

  “Korasan, stand up, please.”

  The man stood.

  “Class, if I were to tell you that this man Korasan was actually my other tway and that the real Korasan is awaiting trial for engaging in anti-Paratwa activities, would you believe me?”

  The humans murmured among themselves, staring at Korasan with incredulous looks. Most of the students shook their heads.

  I laughed and spoke through Korasan’s mouth. “‘Well, you had better believe it, because it’s true!”

  I moved my Korasan tway up to the podium, and for the benefit of those few students who still looked doubtful, I spoke in stereo through the mouths of both tways.

  “So you see, sapient supersedure is not nearly as difficult as some of you might have believed. I have been substituting for Korasan for the past three days, trying to learn if any other humans were involved with him in his traitorous activities. As a result, several other men from his domicile have been arrested.”

  The class came spontaneously to their feet. I received a standing ovation.

  O}o{O

  Pasha Haddad had suggested that they split the revivees up—more information could be garnered in that way. The Pasha had taken Gillian. Rome had spent his day with the midget in tow. Rome had originally intended talking with Nick for only an hour or so and then turning him over to one of Haddad’s lieutenants. But the afternoon had passed quickly.

  “Runaway technology,” said Rome, “was not the only factor that led to the Apocalypse.”

  Nick shrugged his tiny shoulders. “Of course not. It’s just that runaway technology was the most apparent symptom of the problem.” The midget grinned. “Ask any good doctor about treating symptoms!”

  Rome laughed. Despite his best efforts to remain impartial, he found himself becoming genuinely fond of this strange little man.

  Nick sat cross-legged on Rome’s desk chair, his eyes fastened on the monitor screen. “La Gloria de la Ciencia,” he quoted softly. “So those bastards are still around, huh?”

  “And far more effective than they were in your era.”

  Irrya’s late-afternoon light, beaming through Rome’s office windows, was beginning to change. Timer-controlled prism optics started refracting only certain colors; chemical dusts flowed out of huge center-sky blowers above Irrya’s three cosmishield strips.

  A red sunset had been programmed for tonight—Rome’s favorite. It was one of those peaceful beauties capable of piercing the intellect, touching that part of him where only pure sight and sound held power. He felt desperately in need of such a diversion.

  Nick had been at Rome’s desk monitor for the past three hours, accessing data fed up from the archives. The midget possessed the natural flair of the computer hawk, that ability to trace information through a myriad of paths and eventually arrive at its source.

  Nick cleared the screen, jumped to another display. “I might be wrong, but it sure seems as if E-Tech has been losing support lately.”

  “That’s correct,” said Rome. He did not add that Nick had perceived in one afternoon what many of Rome’s own staff people seemed unable to grasp.

  “La Gloria de la Ciencia ... these wackos appear to be generating a lot of support.”

  “They are. La Gloria de la Ciencia now has an effective voting bloc within the Irryan Senate. Many industrial conglomerates are behind them. At Council, Artwhiler and Lady Bonneville are strong supporters.” He sighed. “In another three years, the Council will come up for reorganization. At that time, there’s a good possibility that La Gloria de la Ciencia will be able to place an actual representative on the Council.”

  “Sounds pretty bad.”

  Rome nodded, tried to explain. “Our society has been changing. People seem to be growing more dissatisfied with the colonial lifestyle. Many are looking for ways to return to the past. Many believe that the old technologies are the answer.

  “The antique market, especially for machines and hi-tech tools, has grown by leaps and bounds over the past thirty years. There’s a tremendous fascination with pre-Apocalyptic history. Religious feeling has also been on the rise. In fact, the most popular religious faction in the Colonies right now is the Church of the Trust. Their broad appeal is partly based on promising eternal salvation to any loyal follower who allows himself to be buried on Earth.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Nick quipped.

  “It is. But people seem to think it’s important and are willing to pay the Church transport and service expenses just so that they can be laid to rest on the planet.”

  Rome shook his head. “This growing dissatisfaction with colonial life—it’s a very complex problem. E-Tech tries to address the social aspects of it. But on an individual level...” He shrugged.

  “What makes a human being happy?” Nick said with a smile. “That’s an age-old question.”

  “Yes it is. But what I don’t understand is why our society is going in this direction. The average person here in the Colonies leads a more comfortable life than did most of his ancestors.”

  “They want more,” Nick said. “Maybe it’s the natural state of human beings to have no limits. Maybe the race is responding to inbred desires.”

  Rome spoke bitterly. “The last time the race responded to its inbred desires, most of the world was destroyed. There must be self-discipline, and if it can’t be instilled on a personal level, then institutions such as E-Tech must be there to regulate the social consciousness.”

  Nick smiled. “You, Rome Franco, sound a lot like your predecessors. I think that the founders of E-Tech would be pleased.”

  Rome felt touched by the compliment. Outside, Irryan skyscrapers began to alight as the first hint of dusk arrived.

  Nick changed the subject. “Your computer archives—the way you located Gillian and me. Was there a second program?”

  Rome stared out the windows. The Pasha valued secrecy and had wanted to hold back information on the second program, at least until more was learned about Nick and Gillian. But Rome felt that he knew enough about Nick. There was a quality to the man; an inner poise reflected on the small face. Nick could be trusted.

  Pasha Haddad would consider such a leap of faith reckless. But Rome was rarely mistaken with first impressions. It was a skill that had guided him well throughout his career with E-Tech. Angela understood.

  Red clouds colored the air, accenting the nearest skyline.

  “There is a second program,” Rome said quietly. “We haven’t been able to enter it as yet. Our programmer says that it would take six hundred years to run.”

  Nick took a long time to reply. When he did, Rome thought he detected a hint of sadness in his words.

  “Please don’t tell Gillian about the existence of this second program. And please don’t ask me why.”

  Rome turned away from the dusk, caught a flash of pain across Nick’s face.

  The midget spoke slowly, as if the words were coming to him in a dream. “The E-Tech leaders of my era were faced with terrible problems. They knew in their hearts that no matter what they did, the Earth was doomed. The insanity surrounded us. It was a time when truly compassionate humans were forced to make the most cold-blooded decisions. They did what was necessa
ry for the race to survive.

  “The two great hopes were these colonies and the starships. I see by your records that the voyagers of Star-Edge did not survive. That’s very sad. I didn’t know much about the details of Star-Edge—E-Tech was only peripherally involved in the project. But I did know people who had spent their entire adult lives designing and working on the starships. It’s best that they’re not alive today to know that all their efforts ended in failure.

  “As for colonial life ... there were rigid tests given to all those who applied for emigration. E-Tech did its best to make sure that no Paratwa left the planet. There could be no guarantees, of course. Some of the assassins were shrewd—and there were the Ash Ock.

  “They were the most terrible of all. Other Paratwa killed and slaughtered, but under the dominion of the Ash Ock, an apex of destruction was reached. They had a power of intellect that went beyond the pedestrian genius of mere humans. And they had the power to unlink—to function as two separate beings, to disguise themselves as normal humans, as it were. The Ash Ock, alone among the Paratwa, had the ability to live in both worlds.”

  Rome turned back to the window, mind’s eye nailed to images he could not fully understand. The Ash Ock were shadows—words from a computer file.

  Nick went on. “We did not know much about the Ash Ock. The labs that created them were destroyed, the genetic designers all perished. It was rumored that the Royal Caste murdered many of their own creators, but no one was ever able to substantiate such a claim.

  “Eventually, though, two of the Ash Ock were killed. Aristotle died by accident, caught in a South African firestorm while trying to bribe that nation’s president. Empedocles, youngest of the five, was still undergoing training in an Ash Ock facility deep in the Brazilian rain forests. E-Tech raided that base and he, too, was destroyed.

  “The other three—Sappho, Theophrastus, and Codrus—were believed to have perished during the biological plague of 2097. E-Tech was never certain of that, however. So rather than burden the future with such a frightening heritage, the organization chose to announce that the Royal Caste had been destroyed.”