It couldn’t be Nu-Lin.
She looked at him oddly for a moment. Then her features relaxed into a delicate smile. “Art-whil-er will not be a prob-lem. We have the votes to de-feat him.”
Good. She misunderstands.
Drake returned and took his seat at the table. “Skewered lobster and rice, bathed in pineapple juice and flavored with misk.”
“It so-unds de-lec-ta-ble. I must al-low you the choice of lunch more of-ten, al-tho-ugh I hope the in-take of misk re-qui-res no re-li-gi-ous cer-e-mon-y.”
Drake rumbled, “We won’t tell Bishop Vokir of our sacrilege.”
They laughed together. Rome felt a chill sweep up his spine. With effort, he contained the shudder.
I must control myself. No matter how difficult, I must act unsuspecting. If one of them is indeed an Ash Ock tway, it must not be alarmed.
Their laughter faded. Drake turned to Rome.
“I found your little friend intriguing, certainly a welcome addition to the Lady’s party. Nicholas is possessed of a rich humor.”
“He knows how to tell a joke.” Why does Drake talk about Nick? The councilor seldom initiated trivial discussions.
“I hope he’s enjoying his stay in Irrya.”
“Yes, he seems to be.” I must be careful not to place exaggerated value on innocent remarks. I’ll drive myself crazy, seeking out hidden meanings in all manner of conversation.
Drake adjusted the snake supporting his armrest terminal and began typing. His face blanked, as if turned off by a switch; the smile cauterized to an effigy in black stone.
His history is more complex than Nu-Lin’s. There would have been even greater opportunity for a successful substitution. Drake, like Nu-Lin, was unmarried and had no living relatives.
Elliot Drake had been born in Irrya. He had begun his financial ascent as a private banking officer, a position that eventually led to an ICN appointment as an Accounts representative. But at that juncture, he had not risen any further within the organization; instead, he had, perhaps deliberately, begun moving laterally through the ICN’s complex framework, achieving initial success as a loan analyst. Later, he became an Intercolonial Projects troubleshooter, traveling to over a hundred and thirty colonies within a three-year period. His phenomenal performance at that job launched him directly to the ICN directors’ board. In another four years he became their chairman.
The question remains—are Drake’s talents those of a human being or of a Paratwa?
Artwhiler sailed into the chamber. His black-and-gold uniform, as neatly creased as ever, counterbalanced a face riddled with turmoil. A pace behind the Guardian Commander came a young chef-servant, carrying two covered bowls. Artwhiler took his seat as the boy carefully placed the bowls in front of Drake and Nu-Lin. Exiting quickly, the servant almost bumped into Lady Bonneville.
Today, the Lady wore a simple white dress. Her hair had not changed since Friday evening. The bluish-gray bun still rested on her head like an inverted nest.
She beamed. “Dear me! I thought I was early!” She sat down beside Artwhiler.
Delicately, Drake uncovered his bowl and forked a tiny slab of lobster. He held the steaming portion under his nose for an inordinate moment. His huge mouth gaped, closed on the meat. He swallowed.
“Meeting is called to order.”
Everyone waited. Drake forked another portion, repeating the ritual. Smiling coldly, he laid down the utensil.
“First item of business, the Paratwa problem.” He turned to Artwhiler. “Have the Guardians made any progress?”
Artwhiler stood up and brushed a speck of lint from the front of his uniform. “We have many promising leads...”
“Of course, but have you made any real progress in finding a way to stop this monster?”
“My Guardians are working long hours,” Artwhiler snapped. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
“We have conceived a plan for which I need this Council’s approval. When the beast strikes again, we intend to declare a total state of martial law. We would completely seal the affected colony, stop all shuttle traffic, isolate the enemy. Then we would send several Guardian divisions into the quarantined cylinder—they would root out and destroy the Paratwa.”
Nu-Lin glared at him. “That is ab-surd. What if the co-lo-ny were large, Irr-ya, for in-stance? The-re are fif-teen to twen-ty mil-lion peo-ple he-re.”
Lady Bonneville nodded in agreement. “Arty, you would probably just force this Paratwa underground. It would hide out until the quarantine was lifted. After all, the Sirak-Brath isolation was something less than successful. And to stop all shuttle traffic for a long period ... goodness! You know the Colonies are highly interdependent. If trade were halted for any length of time, you could destroy a colony’s economic base.”
“The Com-merce League would nev-er stand for it.”
“It’s not feasible,” agreed Drake.
Artwhiler barely contained his fury. “Raw force is the only way to stop this killer!”
Drake shook his head. “Four days ago, this creature walked into your Guardian station on Kiev Alpha and slaughtered dozens of your people. I don’t believe that ‘raw force,’ as you put it, is a solution.”
“You have a better plan?”
“I believe E-Tech has been on the right track. We should seek historically proven methods for fighting this Paratwa.”
Artwhiler boiled. “The Colonies are not the same as Earth!”
Drake ignored him and turned to Rome. “I would like to see a joint investigation. E-Tech Security should be...”
“E-Tech Security has already been operating a secret investigation!” Artwhiler stormed.
It’s coming, Rome thought. The first part of Nick’s plan was unfolding.
Artwhiler spoke with disdain. “E-Tech has gone against the will of this Council from the start. Rome and Pasha Haddad have awakened a man from stasis—a man from the pre-Apocalypse, a killer who earned his living by slaying Paratwa!”
“An ex-cep-tion-al in-di-vid-u-al,” Nu-Lin murmured.
Rome carefully observed the councilors’ reactions. He learned nothing. Nu-Lin, Drake, and Lady Bonneville all seemed surprised.
“Is this true?” asked Drake.
Rome hesitated. I must appear unwilling to share this information.
“Well?” demanded Artwhiler.
Rome nodded slowly. “We did awaken a man ... an adviser.” He expanded on the lie. “This man was brought from stasis before the Council removed E-Tech from the Paratwa investigation. It seemed best to take advantage of his knowledge.”
“Knowledge? Hah! E-Tech immediately released this killer into the Colonies. My Guardians discovered this man, this Gillian, on a pirate shuttle in Sirak-Brath, just after the Zell Strip murders. Also on that shuttle were the two witnesses to the Bob Max killing. I might add that those witnesses had been originally detained by E-Tech Security, from which they conveniently escaped!”
Rome shrugged. “You probably won’t believe this, but Gillian also outwitted our surveillance. He’s been acting mainly on his own.”
Artwhiler laughed harshly. “One of the witnesses informed us that Gillian entered the Zell Strip tavern immediately following the murders. Later, aboard the pirate shuttle, this hired killer gave my officers the private number to your office, Franco. Your office!”
Rome let out an audible sigh. “Gillian had my number, yes. But he was out of contact with E-Tech for a long period.”
“Lies!”
Drake frowned. “You disobeyed the decision of this Council?”
“If you wish to split hairs, yes. But E-Tech initiated no formal investigation into the Paratwa problem. We merely studied options. Gillian has acted almost entirely of his own volition. Pasha Haddad and I will swear to that.”
Artwhiler sneered. “Naturally!”
Hesitation entered Nu-Lin’s speech. “You say that this Gil-li-an hunt-ed and killed Par-a-twa? I nev-er heard of such a thing.”
> Rome came alert. She probes for more information! Could she be the one? His heart pounded. I must stay calm. She asks a general question that demands a general response.
“E-Tech located Gillian through our archives. We were researching Paratwa history. There had been rumors from centuries ago about a special team, trained to kill. Gillian says he was their leader ... and the only survivor.”
“In-ter-est-ing.”
“Nonsense!” barked Artwhiler. “It would take scores of men to kill one of these beasts!”
“Gillian says he can do it. And I’ve seen his abilities demonstrated with weapons. He possesses great skill.”
There—I’ve revealed what needed to be revealed. If Nick is right, and an Ash Ock indeed sits at this table, then I’ve just given it cause for alarm.
The Ash Ock will remember Gillian’s secret team, Nick had said. They will remember that little band of humans who, against all odds, hunted down and destroyed assassins from the deadliest breeds. A member of the Royal Caste will not permit Gillian to survive. One more victim will be added to Reemul’s list. But this time, the team will be ready. Gillian will be ready.
In theory, the idea of using Gillian and the pirates as bait to draw Reemul out into the open seemed sound. But Rome found himself sharing some of Artwhiler’s doubts.
Gillian and three pirates—could they really kill this assassin? Despite Nick’s assurances, it did not seem possible. Reemul had butchered forty-four armed men and women on Kiev Alpha. And the Jeek’s history abounded with even more terrifying examples of mass slaughter.
“Where is this Gillian right now?”
Lady Bonneville’s words yanked Rome from his reverie. She wore an innocent expression but her question bristled.
I must answer, though I must again appear reluctant. And then he thought: Lady Bonneville? Could she be the tway?
He stared at his blank monitor screen. “Gillian is presently ... within Irrya.”
Nick had said: It’s only necessary to tell them what colony he is in. That will be enough of a clue. Reemul will do the rest.
Drake appeared to have lost his appetite. He shoved the unfinished bowl off to the side.
Lady Bonneville glanced at Artwhiler, who was still fuming. Then she turned back to Rome.
“Goodness! I sometimes wonder if we’re not our own worst enemies here in this chamber. I believe the ancient term for such behavior was ‘cloak and dagger.’”
Rome sank back into his chair. He folded his hands, pretended to be lost in thought. Finally he spoke.
“It’s true that Gillian has been helping us, although, as I’ve said, he’s acted mostly on his own. Nevertheless, technically, E-Tech has violated the Council’s directive not to involve itself in the Paratwa investigation.
“However, I must point out that E-Tech recognized from the beginning that a Paratwa assassin was a far graver threat than this Council was willing to acknowledge. Thus, we acted accordingly.”
He switched on his monitor, read the prepared statement.
“At this time, I formally request that any E-Tech violation, past or present, in the matter of the Paratwa investigation, be relegated to chambers and that all such violations be summarily dismissed. I further request that E-Tech be immediately placed in full and complete authority for all present and future investigations into Paratwa-related matters.”
Artwhiler turned scarlet. He looked ready to explode.
Lady Bonneville frowned. “Your requests are a bit extreme.”
“Agreed,” said Drake. “You cannot seriously expect this Council to grant carte blanche to E-Tech.”
“I can and do expect it.”
“I be-lieve we are be-ing threat-ened.”
Drake hesitated. “You would defy this Council?”
Rome spoke calmly. “I would go before the freelancers and announce that this Council has hindered the natural course of the Paratwa investigation from the beginning. I would point out the historical rationale for E-Tech to be in charge of such matters. We would, with popular support, launch our own investigation, fully independent of this Council.”
Rome met Drake’s cold stare. “E-Tech would also call for an immediate Senate inquiry to look into the actions of this Council regarding the matter of the Paratwa’s awakening. We would point out certain curious connections between ICN loans, the West Yemen Corporation, and Bob Max. La Gloria de la Ciencia’s role in this affair would also be closely examined.”
Drake reached across the table and retrieved his bowl. He dug in, wolfing down a huge glob of rice.
Rome smiled. He found himself deriving pleasure in seeing Drake so upset. The ICN is not accustomed to being thwarted. Drake has gotten his way for too long.
Abruptly, the huge Councilor laid down his fork. Cold eyes panned the table, halted on Artwhiler.
“The Guardians must acknowledge this request.”
“Request?” Artwhiler spluttered. “This is absurd! We are not going to end our investigation because E-Tech demands it!”
“But your in-ves-ti-ga-tion has been a com-plete and ut-ter fai-lure.”
Artwhiler stood up. His hands shook. “This ... Council ... has ... no ... right...”
“We have every right,” said Drake. “I call for an immediate vote to honor E-Tech’s formal request. Lady Bonneville?”
The Lady stared at Rome, nodded her head.
“Nu-Lin?”
“I vote yes.”
Artwhiler stormed from the chamber.
Rome thought, Drake understands political necessity. He sees the choices and he makes the decisions.
“I hope Arty doesn’t do anything rash,” offered Lady Bonneville.
“He won’t,” said Drake.
Artwhiler would be in a rage for weeks, but the Guardian commander would not defy a Council vote. Not when he realized popular support—and Drake—were against him.
“The Paratwa is now E-Tech’s responsibility,” Drake announced. A grim smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “Let us hope you can do a better job than the Guardians.”
We will, Rome thought. E-Tech had a secret helper. Even if Gillian failed, the Ash Ock would arrange for E-Tech to end the threat of Reemul.
The meeting had gone much as Nick anticipated.
The councilors will understand E-Tech’s boldness, Nick had said. They will understand the relationship between the killings and E-Tech’s huge popularity gains. Some of them will be puzzled as to why this crazed assassin has directed its attacks against E-Tech. But they will consider it inevitable that your organization, suppressed for so long, will take advantage of the situation, make strong demands, flex new muscles.
Codrus, too, will understand. He will be pleased that his plan is working and that E-Tech is again becoming a strong force within the Council. Hopefully, Codrus will not suspect that we are aware of his presence.
Rome had doubts about that. But Nick had been right so far.
“Next item of business,” said Drake, turning to Nu-Lin. “A brief update on Commerce League trade sanctions against the pirates.”
Rome thought, Yes, I have doubts. But those doubts pale beside the righteousness of my anger.
He stared coldly at the three remaining councilors. And I swear by E-Tech that if a Paratwa sits within this Council, I will see an end to its manipulations.
O}o{O
Bishop Vokir’s overture for an evening of solitude had been translated by the priests into ecclesiastical demand. Throughout the Church, the offices and meeting halls had been emptied; even the night maintenance techs had been routed from their bedrooms, driven to other accommodations. All doors had been sealed and code-locked.
From the back of the chapel, the bishop drew a deep breath and smoothed his robes. Adopting an expression of grim disapproval, he stalked down the main aisle toward the altar. Distant gray-blue slabs—nightlights mounted from the ceiling—cast a muted glow across the front of the chancel. Reemul waited beneath the steel lectern, silhouetted against
the gently wafting curtain of shiny misk hoses.
Both tways wore braided long-sleeved pullovers: one red, one white with pale stripes. Shuttle pants, hot pink, drooped from their waists like airbags and vanished into heavy mushboots. The shorter tway, in red, leaned against the lectern, playing with a darkened jewel light on one of the feeder tubes. The other tway stood with his head raised, the nipples of a half-dozen misk hoses jammed obscenely into his mouth. He grinned in the semidarkness, looking like some kind of pale white demon hanging from the ceiling.
The bishop halted ten feet away. He tried to imagine the Church hysteria that would result if one of the priests entered the chapel right now. The misk tubes were sacred; they were suckled upon only by worshipers during formal services. Misk was the very lifeblood of the Church of the Trust. Reemul, with the tubes in his mouth, was guilty of one of the worst forms of desecration.
“You’re making this very difficult,” said the bishop. “We could have met in my office.”
The shorter one came forward. “I grow weary of repeated experiences.”
The bishop stared into the sad soft eyes, nodded slowly. “You fear treachery. I could have prepared my office, set traps. That is what you think.”
The eyes pretended to smile. “My. You’re so distrustful. Why would I think that, dear Bishop?”
The bishop hesitated, read the menace in Reemul’s words. I should not have criticized him so harshly for the Sirak-Brath killings. That criticism, combined with Codrus’s demand that he return to stasis, has pushed him to the edge of a critical mode. I must be cautious. He could kill me if I say the wrong thing.
“I’m glad you could come to Irrya so quickly,” the bishop offered.
Baggy red sleeves came together. The tway clapped his hands once in mock delight, then stuck out his tongue and licked at the air. The taller one, mouth crammed with feeder tubes, managed a distorted chuckle.
The bishop continued quickly. “We have much to talk about. New factors have come to light. I may have to ask you to perform an extra kill.”
Red arms flayed. The tway came up on the balls of his feet, pranced forward. “Oh, my! I’m to be allowed an extra kill! I won’t be put back in stasis quite so ... soon. My. Thrills! You are so generous, Bishop.”
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