Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  The door slid open. The midget came in first, squinting. The Lion resisted touching the keypad again.

  The midget beamed. “Howdy, Lion! I’m Nick.”

  He had slick blond hair, a generously wide mouth, and alert blue eyes. He looked to be in his late forties.

  The Lion could not keep his eyes off the second man. He heard himself whisper, “Hello, Gillian.”

  Gillian stared at the white-haired old man, wondering at the tone of familiarity in his voice. Do I know you?

  The Lion stood up. He kept his hands pinned to his sides to stop them from shaking.

  He felt like a child again. All the emotions came back, pure and unsullied by the passage of more than half a century. He was Jerem Marth, twelve years old, in the colony of Sirak-Brath, where they had first met.

  Exactly as I remember you. Not surprising, of course; Gillian had been in stasis; he had not changed in fifty-six years.

  The same crinkled leather jacket, the dark brown hair cropped short on the sides and long in the back, the calm gray eyes. But he looked much shorter. It took the Lion a moment to realize the nature of that discrepancy: Gillian’s build had not changed. He was still six feet tall and a touch on the slender side.

  But Jerem Marth had grown up.

  The Lion found his voice. “Do you know . . . where you are?”

  “Irrya,” said the midget. “Your wake-up technicians filled us in on geography. We’re about a mile from the north polar plate. A private park, owned by the clan of the Alexanders.” Nick grinned. “And you’re the head honcho.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind.”

  Gillian took a step closer to the old man and frowned. There was something in the features, in the shape of the mouth, the cut of the eyebrows. The wake-up team had told them how long they had been in stasis. This old man could have been a teenager when Gillian was last awake...

  He knew. “You’re Jerem Marth.”

  The Lion felt tears welling in his eyes. “It’s been a long time.” The words sounded stupid, inconsequential. Nothing he could say would make the moment more real than it already was.

  He stepped forward, unable to stop himself, knowing that the emotion had to be fulfilled. He threw his arms around Gillian, hugged him tightly.

  For an instant, there was no response, no acknowledgment of the Lion’s feeling. Then, awkwardly, Gillian returned the hug, and patted Jerem on the back.

  The Lion pulled away. “I know my actions must seem strange to you.” He forced a smile. “I thank you for indulging an old man.”

  Gillian thought of Catharine, his long-lost tway. “No. Not strange at all.”

  The Lion felt a warmth spreading through his chest, as if he had just consumed a carafe of hot liquors. The warmth spread, reddening his face. I’m embarrassed.

  Jerem Marth, the twelve-year-old boy, felt no shame. But Costeaus rarely flaunted emotions with other men; the Lion of Alexander felt encumbered by the display.

  It’s strange how we live with such dichotomies. It’s almost as if we carry multiple consciousnesses inside us. I am the Lion of Alexander, yet a part of me remains a young boy, frozen in time.

  And he thought about how truly strange it must be for Gillian.

  This man carries within him the singular consciousness that is Gillian. Yet imprinted within the very cells of his being is the consciousness of the Ash Ock warrior, Empedocles. Gillian could be either singular or plural. Within one physical body, he could be either a discrete human or a mind-linked Paratwa.

  In comparison, the Lion’s own inner dichotomy seemed insignificant

  “Please,” the Lion gestured, recovering his composure, “sit down. Help yourselves to refreshments.”

  Grinning like a puppy, Nick poured himself a glass of orange juice and plopped down on the sofa. Gillian remained standing.

  The Lion remained standing, too.

  The midget grimaced. “Guys, I’m going to get a sore neck staring up at you.”

  The Lion smiled and sat down. Gillian seated himself on the edge of the sofa. Calm gray eyes panned the room.

  Alert, thought the Lion. Always alert. That’s how I remember him.

  Gillian felt . . . odd. It was hard to imagine that the boy he had once helped was now this old man. Gillian had been asleep for fifty-six years; before that, he had been in stasis for over two centuries. Each time, a new world—full of strangers. He thought of the people he had met more than half a century ago . . . Jerem Marth—this boy who was now a man; Jerem’s mother Paula and the pirate Aaron; Rome Franco, head of E-Tech; Begelman the computer hawk, Pasha Haddad . . .

  All dead, probably. But he had to know for certain. “Jerem . . . your family?”

  “A wife, two sons, and a daughter. Several grandchildren.” The Lion smiled, abruptly comprehending Gillian’s real question. “My mother and Aaron married shortly after you went into stasis. They moved to a Costeau colony, where I was raised. Both of them died about four years ago, within a few months of each other.”

  Gillian nodded.

  The Lion shrugged. “They had a good life together. No regrets. And as Aaron’s son, I grew up as a Costeau.” He chuckled. “I experienced some rough teenage years; for someone who had been raised in a cylinder as peaceful as Lamalan, a pirate colony was quite a change. At that time, most Costeaus led more . . . rigorous lifestyles.”

  “But times changed,” said Nick, finishing his orange juice and starting in on a frozen biscuit.

  “Times changed,” agreed the Lion. “As for the other people you knew fifty-six years ago . . . I’m afraid they’re all long gone.”

  Gillian’s right hand began to itch. He stared down at the bandaged palm, remembering Reemul’s firedart, the burned flesh.

  The Lion followed his gaze. “Our medical people must have a look at that. We’ve made some advancements since you were put to sleep. New techniques, salves and painkillers . . .”

  “No painkillers,” said Gillian quietly, staring straight ahead, past the Lion.

  There was an awkward moment of silence. The Lion shrugged. “As you like. However, I must insist that you submit to some minor facial refabrication. I don’t know that anyone today would recognize you and as far as we know, no pictures of you exist. But we must err on the side of caution. The refabrication techniques are very rapid—a few hours at the most. A recovery period is unnecessary.”

  Gillian nodded.

  “If you desire,” added the Lion, “the refabrication can be reversed at a later date. You can have your original face restored.”

  My original face, Gillian thought. He could barely remember what that had been. His current face was a twenty-first century rebuild, courtesy of E-Tech. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

  Nick gazed sharply at Gillian. Then the midget shrugged and turned to the Lion. “I assume that only Gillian gets a facial. Does that mean that you expect me to stay close to home?”

  “I’m afraid so. Fifty-six years ago, someone managed to take your photo—at a private party for Irrya’s elite, I believe. Since then, your likeness has been reproduced in numerous history texts.” The Lion smiled. “Over the decades, you have achieved a certain notoriety. And even with refabrication, your stature would make disguising you a difficult proposition.”

  “The price of fame,” sighed the midget.

  “I’m sorry. But you’ll have to remain here in our retreat.”

  Nick shrugged. “So be it. At any rate, I assume we weren’t awakened just because you’re short a pair of bridge partners.”

  The Lion settled back in his chair and began. He told them about the Grand Infusion—the mainstreaming of the many Costeau clans into colonial society. He explained how the social fabric of the Colonies had been altered by the events of fifty-six years ago and how the makeup of the Council of Irrya had changed over the years. He outlined the responsibilities and perspectives of each councilor, especially Doyle Blumhaven, who had refused to permit E-Tech to awak
en them.

  Minutes dissolved into hours. The Lion spoke of the Colonies’ massive detection/defense grid out beyond the orbit of Jupiter, and of the growing tensions throughout the past year as the cylinders anticipated the return of the Paratwa. He told them of the Order of the Birch, who wanted war declared on the assassins as soon as their ships were detected, and of the senseless massacres being done in the name of that political organization. He told them about his own suspicions regarding the killers; his fear that they could indeed be a Paratwa assassin. And he told the tale of Inez Hernandez’s grandniece, Susan: her witnessing of the Yamaguchi massacre and her subsequent near-fatal encounter with the two murdered E-Tech officers.

  “Have you located this Susan Quint yet?” interrupted Nick.

  “No. But I have the Alexanders, as well as some of our supporting clans, out searching for her.”

  “This Yamaguchi massacre,” questioned Gillian. “It happened three days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to go to Honshu . . . see the place where the actual killings occurred.”

  “And,” added Nick, “we’ll need all the data can you dredge up regarding these massacres.”

  The Lion nodded. And finally, he told them about his recent visit from Inez Hernandez and the E-Tech programmer, Adam Lu Sang, and of the young man’s suspicions that someone had put a sunsetter into the data archives. When he finished the story, Nick’s cheery face had collapsed into a deep frown.

  “If there’s a genuine sunsetter in the E-Tech computer system, and if it’s been digging in for more than twenty years . . .” The midget trailed off. “That’s bad news. I mean, sunsetters eat data the way kids eat Cheerios.”

  The Lion was not familiar with the analogy.

  “I’m honored that this Adam Lu Sang has such faith in my abilities,” continued Nick. “But a sunsetter . . . gee, I don’t know.”

  “You’ll give it a try?” prodded the Lion.

  “Naturally. I haven’t had a good challenge in fifty-six years.”

  “No one must know you’ve been awakened,” reiterated the Lion.

  “That’s fine,” said Nick. “But are you sure our presence is going to remain a secret? I assume you’re familiar with what happened fifty-six years ago.”

  “I am. All I can say is that I have no reason to doubt Adam Lu Sang’s sincerity. And I would trust Inez Hernandez with my life.”

  “Good. Gillian, what do you think?”

  Gillian turned to the Lion. “My Cohe wand—I took it into stasis with me, but it wasn’t there when I awakened.”

  “My technical people have it,” said the Lion. He hesitated. “It’s yours when you want it, of course, but bear in mind that the penalties for the possession of such a weapon are just as harsh as they were fifty-plus years ago.”

  Nick finished his cinnamon biscuit and leaned forward. “Any other Cohe wands turn up since we were put to sleep?”

  “No . . . there’s only yours and the pair that Reemul had. Supposedly, E-Tech has those locked away in the vaults.”

  Reemul—the liege-killer. At hearing the name spoken aloud, Gillian was touched by a strange emotion. A memory: the pleasure of the hunt.

  We have tracked down many Paratwa assassins, Nick and I. Two and a half centuries ago, in those insane days preceding the Apocalypse, we were responsible for killing more than a score of them. And fifty-six years ago . . . Reemul.

  As if it had happened yesterday.

  Yet there was a difference.

  Today I have the power to be whole. He could feel it deep inside: echoes of thought, the pattern of another consciousness poised just beneath awareness, waiting for the proper sequence of events, the fulcrum that would bring it to the surface, bring Empedocles back to life.

  That fulcrum was the whelm—the dialectic of swapped consciousnesses unique to the Ash Ock, and even more unique to Gillian, whose tway, Catharine, had perished centuries ago.

  The whelm. A thing simultaneously desired and feared. Desired because it brought to him a wholeness that he could never know as Gillian.

  He was not sure why he was afraid.

  The Lion continued. “My people will be at your service; you may call on the Alexanders for transportation, technical assistance, a safe haven in any colony—whatever you need.”

  Whatever we need, thought Gillian.

  Nick hopped down from the sofa. A soft smile spread across his cheeks. “What we’ll need is a lot of luck.”

  O}o{O

  Susan Quint flattened her hands against the specially treated pinewood bartop. She began to vibrate.

  On the oval stage, in the center of the bass cabaret, tonights major act—the Elvis Tways—rhythmically gyrated their hips, in beat with the trio of delrin players seated on a wide sunken sofa off to the left. The delrin musicians, wearing matching leisure suits and opaque visors, brutally thumped the glowing black strings of their guitar-shaped instruments, producing the mushy conglomeration of notes that set the cabaret’s wooden fixtures shuddering.

  Susan pulsed along with the music, wishing for oblivion. But the reality of her predicament refused to retreat from consciousness.

  What am I going to do?

  The Elvis Tways danced vigorously, their movements in tandem—two hirsute, muscular young bodies bleeding sweat, tangerine boxers pasted across white skin. The majority of the crowd—mostly young men and women from the adjacent corporate office district—sat at the five floating horseshoe bars. Hands compressed vibrating wood, upper torsos rocked with the deep-bass echoes that transferred pulses from the treated pine into flesh and muscle.

  The cabaret was jammed—a large crowd for a Tuesday night. Couples slow-danced in the ever-changing floor areas between the motorized bars. Each bar was mounted on plastic bearings, and each one moved haphazardly throughout the spacious room, its course influenced by delicate, ground-level air currents.

  Susan forced herself to concentrate on the entertainment—the pseudo-Paratwa dance act, the Elvis Tways. She had seen better. Although most Irryans rated this cabaret a 9G screamer, this particular pair of tandem dancers lacked the really outstanding characteristics of the better acts. The pair danced well—plenty of fancy back-to-back moves. But they did not appear to be telepathically linked. Susan had seen top-of-the-line, 10G pseudos: fast-moving acts where the dancers accurately mimicked the actions of a real Paratwa. This pair lacked that professional intensity.

  Nothing like the pair she had seen in Yamaguchi terminal.

  What am I going to do?

  The specially enhanced notes continued to pulse through her body, and it was as if soothing hands were buried deep inside her, massaging muscles. “Caresses of the spirit,” advertised the bass cabarets, “streamliners of the soul.” The rhythms felt good; panaceas for her discontent. She thought about picking up one of the available males; sex would feel even better.

  But panaceas would not take away her problems.

  Could the freelancers be right? Could those two madmen in Yamaguchi terminal actually have been a Paratwa?

  All of the official sources—most especially E-Tech and the Guardians—continued to deny such a possibility. Susan was not so sure. Whatever she had seen in Honshu was fast and frightening. Worse yet, it had upset the carefully structured balance of her life. She had been on the run now for almost two days, since early Monday morning when she had escaped from the hospital. And now it was Tuesday night, and here she was, lounging in a 9G-screamer cabaret on the outskirts of the North Epsilon business district. And Saturday evening, the new marketing VP from Clark Shuttle Service was supposed to be taking her to a freefall ballet. There was no way she could risk keeping that date.

  But you simply did not break a date with a 10G screamer. The repercussions could devastate her social life.

  What am I going to do?

  A real Paratwa. Her mind kept returning to the possibility. The freelancers could be correct. She might have come face-to-face with a real tway.

&nb
sp; It was all so confusing. And the past two days had provided no answers. Since Sunday night, when the two E-Tech officers had come to her apartment, her life had become a blur of events. She remembered running out of the building, wearing only slippers and an orange wraparound, dashing down the street, ignoring the curious stares of neighbors, thinking only of escape, of getting as far away as possible from the murderous Security men.

  A hailed taxi. A high-speed ten-minute ride on the expressway adjacent to the Alpha strip; a ride to safety, to the home of one of the few people Susan had been able to count on over the years.

  And Aunt Inez didn’t believe me.

  Instead, her aunt had committed Susan to the hospital. To a psychplan.

  Why didn’t you believe me? Why didn’t you trust me?

  No way was Susan going to allow herself to be coerced into another psychplan. At the first opportunity, she had slipped out of the hospital.

  She had not dared return to her apartment, figuring that E-Tech would have been swarming all over her building by then. Instead, she had walked to the nearest ICN terminal and quickly transferred her savings account into cash cards.

  A short time later, another incredible shock. While trying on a pair of new bunhuggies in a fashionable Irryan clothier, she overheard a conversation about the murder of two E-Tech officers in a parking garage. Donnelly and Tace—the same officers who had tried to kill her.

  Monday night . . . more blurred events . . . a deep troubled sleep in a nondescript hotel, her room paid for with cash cards, under an assumed name. Twelve hours of unconsciousness, but not a satisfying rest. When Irrya faced sun this morning, she had awakened feeling groggy, uncomfortable. Sleep had not solved any of her problems.

  And it was only this morning when she realized she had forgotten about Monday night’s date with that ICN programmer.

  Well, at least that was not Apocalypse. The ICN programmer was not on Susan’s social plane; she had only been going out with him as a favor to a business acquaintance. When things returned to normal, she would have to make a few calls, issue some apologies. All in all, it was no big deal.