Rome faced Nu-Lin. “I believe the pirates have become a social scapegoat. We blame and curse them for all our troubles.”
“The Costeaus are human garbage,” growled Oberholtzer.
Nu-Lin assumed a dispassionate smile. “I would not ut-ter such cur-ses too loud-ly, Sen-a-tor.” She nodded toward a trio of men up on the room’s second tier. “You might of-fend some par-ty guests.”
Rome followed her gaze to the lower balcony. The three men stood apart from other company. Two wore thick gray beards and were garbed entirely in black. The third was a withered figure partially hidden by a long gray cloak. He caught Rome staring and his ancient face broke into a faint smile.
“Costeaus?” Rome asked softly.
Nu-Lin nodded.
“Hell of a place for them to be,” muttered Oberholtzer.
“Who invited them?” asked Rome.
“I would as-sume ou-r host-ess had the hon-or.”
The Senator growled. “Just make sure that Lady Bonneville is reminded to deodorize her penthouse. Some of those pirate smells are so strong that it takes days to remove the stink.”
Nu-Lin smiled. “For-tun-ate-ly, these three have been de-o-dor-ized. And they are not or-di-nar-y pi-rates. They are lead-ers, from the clan of Al-ex-an-der. The old one is known as the li-on.”
The Lion of Alexander? Rome had heard the name before. He had always visualized a more imposing figure.
Oberholtzer waved his empty glass around the room. “Where did Artwhiler get to? If he knew pirates were here, he’d probably throw them out the door himself.”
Bishop Vokir drew his eyes away from the Costeaus, faced Rome. “Did you know that the Church of the Trust maintains missions in Sirak-Brath? Thousands of souls come to these places, seeking the salvation of the roots. Smugglers, silkies, addicts to heroin and scud, workers from the outlawed hi-tech labs, even civilians from E-Tech—they all come to be saved.” He paused for effect. “I can count on my two hands the number of pirates who have entered our missions within the past five years.”
“What would you expect from a batch of crazed killers?” mumbled Oberholtzer.
“I would ex-pect dis-sa-tis-fac-tion, a wil-ling-ness to change. At least a-mong a fa-ir num-ber of Cos-teaus.”
“We are not the only church in the Colonies,” the bishop pointed out. “Yet many theologians from other denominations share our frustrations with the pirates.”
Senator Oberholtzer laughed harshly. “What good is complete religious freedom when you’re dealing with scum?” He threw a glance to the balcony. The Costeaus had either not heard him or were ignoring his singularly loud voice.
Rome decided to let the argument drop. As far as he was concerned, the Costeaus were to be admired for resisting the temptations of the Church of the Trust. Vokir’s religion merely offered another form of escape from the realities of life; more socially acceptable than smuggling or drug addiction, but just as ritualized and habit-forming. Neither alternative offered real change—confrontation with the inner self and the opportunity to conceptualize buried feelings.
It would be political folly to openly contradict the most powerful religious leader in the Colonies. Yet Rome could not resist a slight barb.
He smiled. “It’s good that your church is helping to remove these poor souls from the streets of Sirak-Brath. I should hope that these individuals profit from their rebirths.” He stressed the word “profit.”
The bishop smiled gravely. Senator Oberholtzer waved his arm frantically at a waiter halfway across the room.
Nu-Lin covered her mouth and coughed. Rome was not certain, but it seemed as if the councilor was trying to refrain from laughing.
That was probably very stupid, thought Rome. I should not risk antagonizing this man. Bishop Vokir had many allies.
The bishop stared at the E-Tech director. Codrus is right. Franco is dangerous. The bishop hoped it would not be necessary to have Reemul kill the councilor.
In today’s political climate, with the increasing attacks against E-Tech, the untimely death of Rome Franco could easily lead to his martyrdom. Initially, such an event would serve the Ash Ock plan—Intercolonial society would be outraged and more than sympathetic to the E-Tech cause. But Codrus was aware that martyrs often generated unpredictable long-term side effects. The Ash Ock dared not take such a risk, except in desperation.
The bishop excused himself from the group. “I must get some fresh air.” He made his way toward the outer terrace.
It is not fresh air that I seek. He mounted a short flight of stairs and stepped out onto the balcony that surrounded Lady Bonneville’s penthouse.
Tonight, no clouds disturbed the Irryan atmosphere. The colony’s other two livable sectors blazed with light. Skyscrapers hung like jeweled stalactites, thrusting their crowns toward center-sky. The alternating sectors of blackness served to accent the distant tapestry of streets and buildings. Few stars were visible through the mirrored glass. Distant suns were no match for megawatts of proximate light.
The bishop sidestepped the flowered terraces and made his way to the edge of the balcony. A few other partygoers stood there enjoying the view. The bishop chose a deserted section of railing and leaned over to gaze at the street, fourteen stories below.
It is difficult, he mused. Separation tends to repress the yearning. And then, suddenly, social realities require our presence in the same room at the same time.
The bishop sighed. Physical distance, by itself, bore little consequence for the tways of an Ash Ock. But standing in the same crowded room, being able to observe the same hundreds of people from two different perspectives presented a formidable challenge. The desire to link becomes great. Our thoughts drift together.
He stared at the passage of cars in the street far below. We yearn for unity to such a degree that even the mirror is not necessary for interlacing. Our awarenesses touch without the complex symmetry of reflected eyesight.
Fortunately, scenic separation helped reduce the immediate yearning. The bishop would observe the street for a time and allow his councilor-tway to continue with the vagaries of social intercourse. They simply could not risk linking.
Not here, not amid this crowd. There are too many dangers.
The chances of Codrus being detected were astronomical. Their monarch certainly would have no real trouble simultaneously communicating through his tways. And yet, there was always that remote possibility of mishap. An unexpected agony, perhaps; a steaming beaker of soup spilled on the flesh of one tway, causing an involuntary cry of pain from the other. The bishop shook his head. Nothing short of the long-term goals of the Ash Ock were at stake.
Weeks ago, before Reemul’s reign of terror had begun, they might have dared the flow into unity and the arising of Codrus. But Reemul’s vicious attacks had put a scare into society. Throughout these past days, the bishop had observed the suspicious looks afforded strangers. Most citizens would never admit it, but their faces betrayed them. People felt helpless before the onslaughts of the Paratwa and they reacted by attempting to make themselves more aware of potential danger. Even Irrya’s wealthy upper crust, many of which were gathered here tonight, was not immune. They possessed greater skill in cloaking their apprehensions, but the fear was present nonetheless.
That fear meant that Codrus’s chain of events was proceeding as planned. Reemul was performing well. Only a few more orchestrated kills vaguely directed at E-Tech would need to occur, and then society would be ready for the final outrage.
Codrus had spent a good deal of time considering the problem of putting Reemul back into stasis and had decided to inform the Jeek of his fate at the same time he told him about the last killing spree. Reemul’s anger would be tempered by the knowledge that his final outrage would be one of his greatest challenges. Codrus also planned to schedule the final attack to coincide with one of Reemul’s flexing periods. Afterward, with the Jeek freshly satiated, Reemul would be relatively easy to manipulate back into a stasis capsule.<
br />
At least that was Codrus’s plan. With Reemul, there was always that element of unpredictability.
And Reemul was not the only potential problem. Again, the bishop wondered whether it was coincidence that three leaders from the clan of Alexander—the clan that Bob Max had used to carry out Reemul’s awakening—were here at the party.
Coincidence. It has to be. Still, it would be wise to learn precisely why the Costeaus were present.
The bishop pulled back from the railing. Risk is a fact of nature. To Codrus, the rewards of success would be extraordinary: the second coming—the ultimate domination of the Ash Ock Paratwa over human affairs.
The bishop smiled. His own goals were more modest.
I will be free to exist as a whole.
* * *
Rome located Nick within a circle of Irryan affluence, which included Artwhiler and Lady Bonneville. The midget wore a three-piece suit of blue-and-gold seersucker, shiny white boots, and a floppy low-brimmed hat imprinted with the double-helix pattern of DNA. He would have looked out of place anywhere.
“And so,” Nick concluded, “the salesman says to the farmer: ‘But I swear, I didn’t know she was your daughter. I thought I was milking a cow!’”
The group erupted. Artwhiler threw his head back and laughed so hard that his chest heaved. The councilor’s medals looked ready to burst from the tight jacket of his black-and-gold uniform.
Lady Bonneville spotted Rome. Chuckling, she gripped his arm and pulled him into the group.
“Uncle Rome!” declared Nick. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Rome looked down at the happy face. He hoped his own smile did not appear too grim. “Sounds like I just missed another of your entertaining little tales.”
Artwhiler’s companion, an attractive redhead garbed in a silver lamé jumpsuit, asked sweetly: “Is Councilor Franco really your uncle, Mr. Nicholas?”
“No, my dear. It’s just that Rome’s son Antony and I have been good friends for so long that I feel compelled to call him Uncle.” Nick grinned like a scuddie.
The redhead frowned, then turned and whispered something in Artwhiler’s ear. The Guardian commander shook his head sternly.
“Well, I’m going to ask him anyway,” proclaimed the redhead. “Mr. Nicholas,” she began, “I hope you don’t take offense, but I just have to know. Is your small size congenital or is it related to hormonal deficiency?”
Lady Bonneville coughed. Several of the others turned away.
Nick rubbed his hands together and laughed. “That’s a very good question. The truth is, my condition stems from neither of those possibilities.”
“Neither?” The redhead looked troubled. “I thought it had to be one or the other.”
“No, my dear. A third cause of smallness exists.” Nick lowered his gaze and shook his head sadly. “It’s very hard for me to admit, but the truth must sometimes be expressed for the good of the soul.” He hesitated. “You see, I’ve been shrinking.”
Artwhiler threw back his head and roared with laughter. Most of the others grinned and chuckled.
The redhead looked unsure of herself. “You’re joking, right?”
Nick took the redhead’s wrist and gently kissed her palm. “My dear, your perceptions are exceptional.”
The redhead looked pleased. Rome wondered where Artwhiler had found her.
An ICN banker, with his arm thrown across the shoulders of his petite boyfriend, turned to Nick.
“Sir, is this your first visit to Irrya?”
“Yes, it is. Why, a month ago I would never have dreamed such a place existed.”
The redhead nodded vigorously. “My first time was a shock, too.”
Nick smiled.
The banker continued. “Your impressions of Irrya have been positive then, yes?”
“For the most part.”
“And you must have some thoughts on these terrible Paratwa problems we’ve been having?”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “I do, indeed. I find it very strange to see that my hobby has now become major news.”
“Hobby?” asked the redhead.
“Yes, for many years I’ve been sort of an amateur expert on Paratwa history. Those creatures have always fascinated me.”
Artwhiler’s face darkened. Lady Bonneville afforded Rome a faint smile.
Why is Nick doing this? Rome wondered.
The redhead looked angry. “That awful creature should be caught and put in prison for a long time!”
“Easier said than done,” said the banker. He grinned fiercely at Artwhiler.
The Guardian commander stared straight ahead. “We’ll get him.”
The banker’s petite boyfriend let out an exaggerated sigh. “I certainly hope so! Why, people are becoming afraid to leave their homes at night. No one knows where this mad creature will strike next.”
Rome scanned the group. Attention had crystallized since the Paratwa was mentioned.
The redhead nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” She threw her arm around Artwhiler. “Why, without Arty, I would have been scared just to come to this party.”
Lady Bonneville soothed. “Now, now, my dear. I assure you we’re perfectly safe here tonight. I’ve taken extra precautions with security.”
“Regular security measures,” intoned the banker, “do not seem to daunt this creature.”
Artwhiler locked his jaw in anger.
Nu-Lin joined the growing circle. Senator Oberholtzer, carrying a beaker of gin, squeezed in beside her.
“A Paratwa is a nasty problem,” said Nick. “Back in the twenty-first century, these creatures were almost impossible to kill.”
“Oh, no!” said the redhead. “They shouldn’t kill it. Capital punishment is against the law.”
“I suspect that the creature will have to be killed during its capture,” Nick explained.
Rome wished that he could get Nick away from the party.
The banker spoke. “I’ve been wondering. What would happen to this creature if the authorities...” he glanced smugly at Artwhiler, “ ... managed to kill only one of the tways? What would happen to the other one?”
“It would go mad,” said Nick. “It would go on a destructive rampage that would end in its death.”
“Like being torn in half,” mused the banker’s boyfriend.
“Something like that. The interlace would dissolve and the surviving tway would be unable to function in a rational manner. Kill one tway and you kill the Paratwa.”
The banker smiled and turned to Artwhiler. “Do you hear that, Councilor? It was not even necessary for the Guardians to stop the whole Paratwa. Just send your people after one of the tways.”
The Guardian commander reddened. “This creature is a coward. It knows that it must attack and run or be destroyed.”
Nick fingered the brim of his hat. “Have you learned what breed it is yet, Councilor?”
Artwhiler planted his hands on his hips and spoke loudly. “Breed? A meaningless term. My Guardians are trained to remove criminals from society. They do not concern themselves with the criminal’s lineage.”
“Well,” said Nick, “I’ve read that when dealing with Paratwa, breed can be of extreme importance.”
“It’s a Terminus assassin,” said the redhead proudly. “That’s what all the freelancers are saying.”
“Freelancers know only what they’re told,” said Artwhiler with disdain. “Tell them a lie, and they’ll report a lie.”
A lobbyist from the Profarmers Union frowned. “Does that mean, Councilor Artwhiler, that you don’t believe this creature is from the breed of Terminus?”
Rome watched Nick. The small face scanned the crowd, searching, probing.
Artwhiler sighed in exasperation. “I’ve already stated, breed is a meaningless dictum. A criminal is a criminal. This particular lawbreaker is more vicious than usual, but its actions stem from the same sociopathic mind-set that afflicts other criminal elements throughout the Colonies.�
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With effort, Rome kept silent.
Nick shook his head. “A Paratwa is not a member of the species Homo sapiens. Our own rules do not apply.”
“Nonsense!” barked Artwhiler.
The party had grown unnaturally quiet. A sea of faces was now paying close attention to the exchange. Necks craned as guests tried to gain a view of Councilor Artwhiler’s antagonist.
“The Paratwa,” said Artwhiler, “were a creation of humanity. Therefore, they are part of our species. Only their perversity and lust for blood are alien to us.”
“They do not lust for blood,” Nick countered. “They seek power, control over their environment—the same things we humans desire. But they are Paratwa and they’ve been bred and trained to seek these things at the expense of human beings.”
“Sociopaths,” Artwhiler growled. “And this particular one will shortly be removed from society.”
“The Guardians have a new scheme?” asked the banker.
Artwhiler glared at the man. “We are working on a means to stop this creature. I am not at liberty to discuss procedures.”
“I’ve heard it said,” began the Union lobbyist, “that this Paratwa could consist of a male and a female.”
Rome saw the thinly disguised excitement in the lobbyist’s eyes, observed that the look was repeated across the sea of faces.
This creature breeds fascination. Unseen terror drives us to understand the nature of our fears. And there was something else there—an almost primal sexual appetite. Rome could not hide a deep frown.
We are fitting the mold. We are becoming more and more like the pre-Apocalyptics.
Nick gazed at the lobbyist. “Assassins usually were male-male and less often, female-female. But there did exist Paratwa where the tways were of mixed sexes.”
“How strange,” said the redhead. “I wonder if they ever made love to each other?”
Nick smiled. “Incest between tways was known to occur, but the more common arrangement was for the Paratwa to acquire a pair of sexual partners. Some Paratwa preferred to share one partner.”
“A ménage à trois,” mused the banker’s boyfriend.
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