“Make no mistake, Codrus. Continue with your charade, and I will end it. I will squeeze this wand and send the bishop to hell.”
Codrus perceived the cold sincerity behind the words, knew that this man—this tway—would indeed destroy him. Neither logic nor lies nor the other councilors would stop Gillian. Either Codrus admitted that Nu-Lin was a tway or else a detailed autopsy would later expose the truth.
I am finished. Acknowledgement led to a decision. My life is over. But I can still serve our cause. Two days from now, Reemul will enter the Irryan Senate chambers and destroy representatives from every colony.
Even with the Colonies now aware of the Ash Ock and the Second Coming, the net effect of a Senate massacre could still serve to dampen technological growth.
And I must learn everything I can about this Gillian. The bishop, before he is forced to surrender, must pass the information on to Reemul. This time the Jeek must not fail. He must kill this soldier-hunter.
Codrus directed his words at Gillian. “You be-trayed your o-wn kind. No-w you are nei-ther hu-man nor Par-a-twa.”
Rome let out a sigh. And you, Nu-Lin, friend for countless years—you have betrayed something beyond both human and Paratwa loyalties. You have betrayed the future.
Lady Bonneville and Artwhiler shook their heads, stunned. Drake’s mouth fell open. His voice emerged in a whisper.
“Nu-Lin, this cannot be true.”
Codrus smiled. “Do not be too a-larmed, Coun-cil-lors. The Par-a-twa do not de-si-re a fu-ture marred by war and vi-o-lence. We will rule some-day. That is in-ev-i-ta-ble. But hu-mans will sha-re o-ur world. We do not seek your de-struc-tion.”
Nick smiled grimly. “We’ll share, all right—like cattle used to share a farmer’s fields, until it was time for them to be trucked to the slaughterhouse. Thanks, but no thanks, Codrus. You’re the product of human madness. You’re a human mistake, nothing more, nothing less.”
Gillian stared into Codrus’s cold blue eyes and saw himself—his future—what he had been programmed to become. He perceived what the soul of an Ash Ock encompassed. Nick is right. We were created out of human madness.
He continued staring, feeling himself being drawn into those tiny pools of blue, sucked across some infinite border into another reality. Just before he broke eye contact, at the instant he yanked his gaze away from her, the councilor’s face melted into a shimmering golden cloud, alive with order, with possibility. And suddenly Gillian understood. He perceived the deeper meaning of the golden flashes. He knew where he had to go and what he had to do.
Smiling coldly, he withdrew the Cohe from her neck. “We’re waiting, Codrus. How many years till they return?”
Codrus knew there was no sense in lying. E-Tech could not be prevented from studying the transmission chamber beneath the Shan Plateau, calculating just how far away the returning starships were.
“O-ur ves-sels are fif-ty-six ye-ars from the Co-lo-nies.” He allowed Nu-Lin one last charming smile. “Give or take a few months, of course.”
Fifty-six years, thought Rome. In fifty-six years, the Colonies must be ready.
Gillian said: “Codrus, I am of your breed. I am the tway of Empedocles.”
Knowing it was true, Codrus laughed. The sound emerged from Nu-Lin’s wafer speakers as harsh crackling.
So, the final irony of my failure, the final piece of the puzzle. He understood how E-Tech and the pirates were able to enter the transmission chamber beneath the Shan Plateau. A renegade tway of the Royal Caste! It was now more vital than ever that Reemul destroy this Gillian.
He knows us. He knows our ways. Fifty-six years from now, he could prove to be a terrible foe for Sappho and Theophrastus.
For an instant, Codrus considered trying to snatch the Cohe from Gillian’s hand, kill the traitor himself. Even as the idea took shape, he perceived it as folly.
Gillian—Empedocles—had been trained by Meridian himself. He had twice escaped from Reemul’s grasp. I would never make it. He would slay me. The bishop would plunge into madness.
The thought of death did not particularly disturb Codrus. But the idea of only one tway perishing generated a vague sense of fear. I may have to face that nether-death. I may have to face being torn in half.
Gillian pulled away from Nu-Lin and sat down in the adjacent chair. He kept the Cohe clutched in his fist.
“Codrus, I give you a choice. Your death—at least the death of Nu-Lin—here, now, in this chamber. Or the immediate surrender of Bishop Vokir to E-Tech authorities.” He glanced at Rome and the other councilors. “There is no capital punishment within the Colonies. I suspect that if the bishop surrenders, you would probably be put into stasis—indefinitely.”
Gillian smiled. “Still, Codrus, you would be alive. Who knows, perhaps fifty-six years from now, when your people return, freedom could be won. You might be thawed. The future, after all, remains somewhat unpredictable.”
“And what is the price for spar-ing my life?”
“Reemul.”
Codrus laughed. “E-ven if I de-sir-ed, I could not give you the Jeek. He re-mains rath-er in-de-pen-dent.” Codrus relaxed his body, preparing for the worst. “I’m a-fraid you will have to kill me.”
Gillian raised the wand. Rome drew a deep breath, saw Nick and the other Councilors hunch forward, eyes glued to the tiny needle that projected from Gillian’s fist. The chamber became a rigid tableau, poised to be shattered.
Gillian broke the tension. He lowered the wand and turned to Nick. “I can’t do it. I can’t kill, not like this, in cold blood. The Colonies have changed me. Paula has changed me.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, Nick. I can’t do it.”
Frowning, the midget turned away.
Rome kept his confusion to himself. Paula? It sounded like Gillian was admitting that he had fallen in love with Paula Marth. But how could that have happened? According to Nick, Gillian had only met her once—and then only briefly.
Gillian turned back to Nu-Lin. “You’re lucky I’m no longer of the Royal Caste, Codrus. You’re lucky that I have discovered human feeling.” And he thought, What lies I tell! I have discovered feelings, yes. But they are neither human nor Paratwa, they are some unique mélange.
I have truly lived in both worlds.
“Codrus, I will not—cannot—slay you. But I could arrange for you to be turned over to the Alexanders.” He glanced around the table. “I do not think your fellow councilors would object.”
Angry scowls twisted the faces of Drake and Lady Bonneville. Artwhiler, who looked barely able to contain himself, slowly rubbed his fists together.
Rome went along with Gillian’s ploy. “Codrus, this Council would not interfere were you to be turned over to the pirates.”
Gillian nodded. “One hour, Codrus. If you haven’t surrendered the bishop within that time, we’ll allow the Lion of Alexander to deal with you.”
A bitter smile twisted Nu-Lin’s lips. “And Reem-ul?”
Gillian shrugged. “He won’t surrender, of course. But you could trick him.”
Codrus thought, Yes, I could trick Reemul. But I won’t. “What is it that you wish me to do?”
“Before the bishop surrenders to us, he is to contact Reemul. He is to order the Jeek to perform one more kill. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps, here in Irrya. We’ll work out the final details shortly.”
Drake rose, leaned his bulk against the table. He addressed Gillian. “There will be a trap? You will be waiting for this assassin?”
“Yes.”
Smiling coldly, Artwhiler turned to Rome. “My Guardians will naturally offer every assistance. We will help you set this trap.”
Rome glanced at Nick. The midget wore a deep scowl.
Something’s wrong, Rome thought. Gillian is lying.
Codrus allowed resignation to play across Nu-Lin’s face. Yes, there will be a trap. But it is Reemul who will set it.
Gillian’s attention wandered from the table. He stared at a painting on the far wall, a viv
id cornfield, streaked with gold. This time, Jeek, I will face you for my own reasons.
O}o{O
In the Church sanctuary three miles from Irrya’s north pole, Bishop Vokir finished packing a small suitcase. Even as he closed the lid, tripping the locks, he recognized the inherent inanity of his actions.
I have no need for personal items. E-Tech will remove them from me the instant I surrender.
Still, it kept a part of his mind occupied. He needed a touch of fantasy right now.
The door to his small bedroom sprang open. Reemul’s tways slithered in.
“My,” said the shorter one. “This really isn’t necessary, Bishop.”
The bishop sighed. “Please don’t argue. We both know there is no choice.”
“A rescue attempt could succeed.”
“They would kill Nu-Lin,” he said firmly. “They might even kill you. E-Tech will be ready. A rescue would be doomed to failure.”
The taller tway sat down on the edge of the bed. He smiled. “So you will go willingly into their clutches.”
“Not willingly, Reemul. But I will go.” The bishop stared at the taller tway.
“No heroics, Reemul. Surrendering to them is my only chance for survival. You must carry out my wishes. You must destroy Gillian. I told you how to locate him. I told you about the feelings he expressed for the woman, Paula Marth. You must find her. Threaten her life and you will force him to come to you—on your terms.”
“She is not at her home on Lamalan.”
The bishop hesitated. “How do you know that?”
“I had one of your Church servants check her house.”
He nodded. “Be wary of using the Church network after I’m gone, Reemul. E-Tech will waste no time infiltrating our temples. Now that they know of the Church’s role, you will no longer find safety within the Trust.”
The tways laughed. “My. I won’t be safe. Goodness!”
The bishop turned away. Certainly, I do not look forward to captivity. But there are compensations. Once and for all, I will be removed from this mad Jeek.
“Go to Lamalan,” the bishop said. “Plant new bugs in Paula Marth’s home. Use long-range transmitters and a phone patch. Monitor from a distance, from another colony. She must return home eventually. When she does, take her. Gillian will come to you.”
Both faces smiled. The shorter one said, “But why wait, dear Bishop? Tomorrow they set a trap for me. I should not disappoint them. Besides, they may be very upset with Codrus when I do not show up.”
The bishop had given that problem much thought. Yes, I promised the Council that I would bring you into their trap. They will be angry. They may indeed turn me over to the Costeaus. Or perhaps Gillian will change his mind and slay me himself.
It was no use worrying.
“Reemul, two days from now the new Senate session begins. I expect most of the senators will be in attendance for the opening ceremonies.” He paused. “It is vital that you perform that kill. After you destroy the Senate, you may do as you wish. But until Monday, take no unnecessary risks. Do not be foolish enough to prance into tomorrow’s trap.”
The bishop picked up his suitcase and walked to the door.
“The arrangements have been made for your return to stasis. Remember, Reemul. The Ash Ock will arrive fifty-six years from now. Carry out your final two assignments—destroy Gillian and the Senate—and then go to sleep.” He smiled from the doorway. “I am sure you will enjoy being awakened by Sappho.”
The bishop turned and marched from the room, his thoughts already shifting to his own coming ordeal.
It may not be so bad. They may simply put me into stasis. That possibility offered a slight requital.
I will be free to exist as a whole.
O}o{O
Paula stepped from the car, paid the driver in cash cards, and watched her son drag the suitcase from the taxi’s rear compartment. Three weeks of being on the run had forced the two of them to acquire a moderate assortment of new clothing. The driver turned his car around and headed back the way he had come, zigzagging and bouncing along the narrow blistered road until his taxi vanished into the surrounding forests. Paula stood silently for a moment beside the small decorative fence.
Her house appeared strange. Nothing had been altered, at least not that she could tell. The flowerbed, the railed porch, the gently slanted roof with its cedar shingles—all appeared as she remembered. But the house seemed different. Perhaps it was today’s weather: bleak sky, a warm gentle breeze whipping thick nickel-colored clouds across Lamalan’s three sunstrips, blocking the other livable sectors, limiting vision.
Or perhaps I realize that this is no longer my home.
She had returned to set things in order and to arrange for the transportation of her gallery to the Alexanders’ colony. Two days at most. Then she and Jerem would shuttle back to Aaron’s cylinder for good. She smiled, thinking of the pirate. Aaron’s injuries would require at least another month’s hospitalization, but Paula would be there at his side, helping him, caring for him.
She already missed him.
Tomorrow she would go to New Armstrong and contact the Lamalan Realty Commission and get permission to put her house on the market. She could handle the actual sale long-distance, through an agent. And tomorrow she would also visit the trader district and drop in on Moat Piloski.
She held no grudge against the smuggler. Moat’s fear of reprisals by the Alexanders had made him act in his own best interests, and she wanted to let him know that everything had turned out for the best. With some amusement, she looked forward to seeing Moat’s reaction when she told him that she was going to marry another pirate—the one who had abducted her, no less.
Jerem said, “They got the window boarded up.”
She followed her son’s gaze, stared past Bob Max’s decrepit yard, saw the rigid plastic panels stretched across what had once been plate glass above the dealer’s front porch. Her thoughts returned to the day of the thunderstorm, when Smiler and Sad-eyes had jumped through that window, changing Paula’s life forever.
For me and my son, and for Aaron, it’s over.
The assassin was still on the loose, but in the wake of the incredible events that had begun last night, she was willing to believe that E-Tech and the Guardians would soon put an end to the creature.
She could not remember the Colonies ever being in such an uproar. New ICN/E-Tech/Guardian announcements seemed to pour from the channels every hour, each one more staggering than the last: Nu-Lin of the Commerce League arrested. Bishop Vokir surrendering—the two of them admitting that they were a Paratwa of the Royal Caste; incredible ICN political manipulations spanning hundreds of years; secret transmission facilities under the Earth’s surface; renegade Paratwa, returning from the stars...
She shook her head. It was almost too much to comprehend. Even the freelancers, accustomed to detailing every sort of outrage, seemed confused by the sheer magnitude of the associated stories. Some freelancers, overwhelmed by the morass of events, were using the occasion to editorialize, lobbying for their most precious dream: the alleviation of E-Tech laws prohibiting the formation of large news networks.
Paula suspected that this time the freelancers just might gain a victory. For better or worse, change was coming to the Colonies. Things would never be the same.
She followed Jerem onto their porch, slid open the screen door, and fumbled in her pocket for the old twistkey. Jerem rubbed his hand across the railing. “I don’t want to live in a pirate colony.”
And things will never be the same between me and my son.
Ignoring his latest complaint, she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. Jerem stepped through into the hallway.
There had been that moment, early yesterday, in Aaron’s hospital room, when her son had appeared ready to release his feelings, to let out all his anger and hurt and whatever other emotions churned inside him. But the moment had passed. He had withdrawn into himself again. Raw wounds
continued to fester, salted by fresh indignities: Paula’s marriage plans, a new life among the Costeaus.
She sighed and stepped into the house, closing the door behind her. Jerem, too, had changed over the past three weeks. He had been thrust into a world of fear, betrayal, and violence, and he had emerged hardened, like tempered steel drawn through a solar furnace. He had entered the world of the adults.
Sulking, her son ambled into the living room. He threw the suitcase on the sofa and plopped down beside it. For a moment, Paula stared at his profile, wishing she could make things better for him and fearing that she never would.
Now he must make his own choices.
She turned away, headed for the stairs. A glance down the hallway brought her to a halt. The huge oak door, leading to the gallery, stood slightly ajar.
She took a deep breath. She was certain she had locked the gallery the night of Max’s killing, before she and Jerem had left for that frustrating interrogation at E-Tech headquarters.
Relax, Paula, she told herself. There was a simple explanation. E-Tech Security people, or the Guardians, had come back to examine the gallery, search for evidence. Probably they had picked the lock; later someone had forgotten to rebolt the door.
The explanation did not prevent goose bumps from breaking out on her arms and legs.
Slowly, quietly, she eased herself down the hallway, toward the door, her eyes glued to the big old brass knob, her body tensed for flight if that knob should turn.
Fifteen feet away. Ten feet. She heard Jerem moving around in the living room.
Five feet. She reached out to touch the knob. Jerem shouted.
“Hey, Mom! There’s a Guardian cruiser out front!”
Quickly, with her eyes still riveted to the knob, she backed down the hallway. Jerem came out of the living room. She grabbed his wrist, turned, and pulled him along with her.
“Mom!”
She ignored him, threw open the front door. The sleek cruiser sat on the edge of the road between her property and Max’s. Two Guardians had gotten out of the car, one leaned against the front fender, his back to Paula. He was looking toward Max’s yard. The other officer stood a few feet in front of the car, watching Paula and Jerem approach. The third Guardian remained behind the wheel.
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