Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  Under such conditions, taunting the Ash Nar would be enjoyable.

  “Playing with yourself again, Calvin?”

  Tway Calvin—Colette’s aide—namesake of the Ash Nar, withdrew from the circle. The other tways, the redheaded twins—Ky and Jy—permitted two of the sextet of hardballs to exit the game. The rubber spheres cracked sharply as they slammed against the padded walls. Ky and Jy kept the other four effortlessly suspended, their four arms vigorously pumping, a high-speed juggling act that would have been unimaginable if the same consciousness had not been controlling both bodies.

  Calvin crossed to the underside of the balcony, directly beneath Ghandi’s position. The tway leaned back so far that it seemed certain he would tumble to the matted floor. No such luck. The six-footer maintained his poise, frame impossibly bent, eyes glaring upward, full of malice, cheeks locked into a boyish smirk. Gingerly, his left hand ascended, like a schoolchild signaling for attention. Holotronic letters melted into shape above the fingertips, formed sparkling green words, laser-crisp even against the spotlight-illuminated rec chamber.

  WANT TO SEE A NEW TRICK?

  Ghandi forced himself to match the tway’s malicious grin. “Not particularly. But I suspect that you’re going to try to impress me whether I want you to or not.”

  Eyes opened wide, pretending to be hurt. BUT I LEARNED IT JUST FOR YOU.

  Ghandi knew he should step away from the balcony; Calvin’s tricks were generally unpleasant. But if he retreated now, the Ash Nar would have the satisfaction of knowing that Ghandi had been spooked.

  “All right, Calvin,” he sighed, affixing the tway with a bored stare. “Impress me.”

  Calvin leaned back even farther. And suddenly his arms flailed at the air and the smirk disappeared beneath an astonished gawk. He fell backward; his butt slammed against the mat. Ghandi let out a delighted chuckle . . .

  . . . and in the same instant, realized ruefully that he had fallen for the Ash Nar’s feint.

  Peripheral vision saw it coming, saw one of the twins catapult over his brother, power doubling—two bodies functioning in tandem, using two sets of muscles to turn a tway into a guided missile—and Ky was vaulting ten feet into the air, arms outstretched like an air swimmer, coming straight at Ghandi.

  A frozen moment, stamped by regret. I should have ignored him. He knew that he could capture my attention by having one tway pretend to do something foolish, something that I would enjoy.

  A flash of red hair, a blast of warm breath across Ghandi’s face as Ky hurtled past, inches away, the human projectile still ascending. Ghandi jerked backward, instinctively craning his neck to follow, wishing that the tway would crash against the ceiling, hurt himself, hurt Calvin.

  A sharp thud. Ky hit the ceiling above the balcony, directly over Ghandi. But he did not fall. The tway hung there like an inverted spider, facing the floor, suspended by four points of his body—the back of his heels and the back of his hands—and Ghandi realized that he must have smeared on twistik, the rubbery adhesive paste that maintenance workers often used when doing minor repairs on the exteriors of tall buildings. But twistik was always used with heavy strap-on gloves; it was unpleasant to even contemplate applying the adhesive directly to the flesh.

  Nevertheless, Ky hung there by his skin, maintaining a polite smile, revealing no evidence of pain. Ghandi remained beneath him, staring upward, watching for movement, waiting for the tway to snap wrists and ankles into a ninety-degree pivot, break the twistik’s bond with the ceiling.

  Fall on me, you bastard. Ghandi braced himself against the balcony railing, trying to keep one eye on the rec floor below him, trying to anticipate additional tricks from the other two.

  Fall on me, now, he prayed. Do it and I’ll throw you over the fuckin’ edge!

  Ky’s mouth opened into a deliberate yawn, as if to say: You don’t think I’d do something so stupid, do you?

  And Ghandi felt a sudden cramp of irrational fear tighten his stomach muscles, and he wondered if Ky was armed, if the tway had somehow concealed a weapon beneath his workout shorts. This one’s muscles were adroit in the use of flash daggers. Ky was the tway that the freelancers called Slasher.

  Ghandi’s peripheral vision caught sudden movement, down below, and he saw twin Jy vault over a pommel horse, cartwheel twice in midair, land perfectly in a small painted circle ten feet away. Ghandi instantly focused his attention back on the hanging tway, but Ky had not budged. However, the crotch of Ky’s shorts now appeared to be soaking wet.

  Before Ghandi could think to move, before common sense warned him to get out from under the maniac, droplets of urine were falling on his face. He spluttered and wrenched his body backward, shielding his face with his arm, dashing out of Ky’s spray path.

  Anger rose within him; muscles twitched as the microbes began their furious dance.

  Mindless fucking maniac!

  A wild crescendo of laughter—in triplicate—rocked the gym. Brimming with rage, Ghandi leaned out over the balcony, not caring whether the Ash Nar had other pranks in store. Tway Calvin still lay on his back, chuckling with boyish delight. Jy had stopped jogging, was now hopping madly around the gym, screaming with amusement, his bare legs whipping through the air as if his feet were on fire.

  DID YOU ENJOY? grinned Calvin.

  Ghandi gripped the balcony railing, squeezing so hard that his wrists hurt. He forced control into his voice. “Too bad that you don’t seem able to apply your ingenuity to solving our problems, Calvin. Why don’t you see if you can find Susan Quint? Maybe she’d enjoy your baby games?”

  YOU SOUND PISSED OFF. A fresh peal of laughter circled the gym, going round and round from tway to tway, three sets of vocal cords contributing to a melody of one.

  An image filled Chandi’s mind: that day in Denver, twenty-five years ago, his needbreeder-controlled crewmates transferring two stasis capsules from Colette’s shuttle to his own. Calvin asleep: twins Ky and Jy sharing one capsule, tway Calvin, tallest and physically strongest of the three, occupying the other.

  I could have destroyed you then. I should have blown those capsules apart with the thruster rifle.

  And suddenly he felt himself stagger sideways, caught in a wave of dizziness. He pinched his eyes shut. The agitated microbes assumed a new level of frenzy as the physical manifestation of his third demon threatened to overload consciousness.

  Demons one and two, growing old and growing stupid—body leavened by the passage of years, mind becoming less attuned to Colette’s intricate schemings—those could at least be faced with a certain degree of fortitude. But against demon three Ghandi possessed no defense. Demon three remained a brooding agony, a sin without any hope for redemption.

  He rode out the storm, the maelstrom of agitated microbes, a thousand tiny electric sparks snapping inside him, relentlessly punishing a netherland of inner flesh. And he found himself thinking: This is how I flex; this is how Ghandi the human being expunges an overload of pain.

  The microbes soared to an apex, reached their epitome of agitation. And then a familiar metamorphosis: the twitches decomposing into a series of shivers, which raced up his spine, spreading chills through the muscles of his upper back. Finally came relief, a sanctitude of body silence. He sensed that this was how an epileptic must feel after emerging from the cruelty of a fit.

  Calvin still lay on the floor, smirking. Fingers flickered. I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T THINK MY PISS WAS SO STRONG.

  Ghandi wiped his face. His anger had disappeared, had again been repressed, transmuted from an outward manifestation to an inward tension. It was always like this. When the twitching microbes were appeased, all strong emotions were neutralized, grounded by the body. The repression was the only positive aspect of these emotional fits. Sometimes it felt good to feel nothing.

  He turned slightly, sensing movement. And there stood Colette, wearing a silk robe.

  “Be together,” she ordered.

  The Ash Nar obeyed instantly. Ky twisted his w
rists and ankles, broke the twistik’s tension with the ceiling. The tway fell gracefully, catlike, landing on his hands and feet on the balcony railing, pushing off, vanishing over the balustrade, dropping down into the rec chamber. Calvin and Jy were poised below and they caught him easily in their arms. A moment later, the three stood in a line, holding hands, tway Calvin in the middle, looking like a proud father posing with twin adult sons.

  Colette laid her hand on Ghandi’s shoulder. Her palm was cool to the touch and it made him realize just how overheated he had become. A good nasty twitch of the microbes always elevated core body temperature.

  She spoke patiently. “Calvin, Ghandi has a point. I am disappointed that you have failed to locate this Susan Quint.”

  Calvin freed his right hand from Jy’s grip. Fingertips rose, came to life. SHE HAS VANISHED. PROBABLY GONE UNDERGROUND.

  Ghandi sneered.

  SHE HAS NOT ATTEMPTED TO CONTACT HER AUNT, NOR ANY FRIENDS OR WORKMATES. SHE DID NOT KEEP HER OSTENSIBLY IMPORTANT DATE WITH THE MAN FROM CLARK SHUTTLE SERVICE.

  “Are you certain?” asked Colette.

  YES, I WAS WATCHING. AND LAST NIGHT I ALSO QUESTIONED A SECTECH FROM THIS MAN’S OFFICE. THE WOMAN INFORMED ME THAT SUSAN QUINT NEVER CONTACTED CLARK SHUTTLE SERVICE TO CANCEL OR POSTPONE. SHE SIMPLY DID NOT SHOW UP.

  Ghandi released an exasperated sigh. “How do you know this sectech was telling you the truth?”

  Tway Calvin grinned broadly. I SEDUCED HER.

  “Like you seduced Susan Quint?” taunted Ghandi. “Are you trying to create more troubles for us?” He forced a grin. “Or maybe by now you’ve acquired a bit of wisdom. Maybe you killed this sectech right after you climbed out of her bed.”

  Calvin’s grin faded to a murderous glare.

  “Enough, both of you,” warned Colette. She leaned over the railing. “Calvin, are you certain that she did not attempt to contact her aunt? I find it odd that Inez Hernandez—Susan Quint’s closest living relative—failed to report her disappearance to E-Tech Security. Doyle Blumhaven has confirmed this.”

  LA GLORIA DE LA CIENCIA HAS BEEN ONE OF THE MORE VOCAL CRITICS OF CORRUPTION WITHIN E-TECH SECURITY. ALSO, INEZ HERNANDEZ’S POSITION MAKES HER NATURALLY SCANDAL-CONSCIOUS. THOSE TWO FACTORS SUGGEST THAT THE COUNCILOR WOULD NOT TURN TO E-TECH SECURITY FOR HELP. SHE WOULD BE MORE INCLINED TO GENERATE A PRIVATE INVESTIGATION.

  “Perhaps,” mused Colette.

  I HAVE RESEARCHED SUSAN QUINT EXTENSIVELY. UNFORTUNATELY, SHE REMAINS HARD TO PREDICT. SERIOUS CHILDHOOD TRAUMAS HAVE LED TO A HISTORY OF ADULT EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS. SHE IS CONSIDERED TO BE UNSTABLE AND THUS DIFFICULT TO LOCATE ON A PROBABILITY GRID. HOWEVER, HER INHERENT INSTABILITY HAS A POSITIVE ASPECT—IT IS UNLIKELY THAT SHE WILL BE ABLE TO FULLY CONVINCE ANYONE TO BELIEVE HER STORY, INCLUDING HER AUNT. I CONCLUDE THAT SHE POSES NO REAL DANGER TO US.

  Colette gave a slow nod. “You’re probably correct. Still, do not underestimate the importance of what Susan Quint witnessed. If she should connect with the wrong people and identify you—Ghandi’s aide—as being in Honshu, our plans could be severely jeopardized.”

  THE SUNSETTER WIPED OUT MY PRESENCE IN THE HONSHU TRANSIT RECORDS—

  “—And Edward Huromonus’s action/probe could place you back at the scene.” Colette wagged her finger. “Remember, Calvin, this action/probe could conceivably gain access to the unaltered data from the original E-Tech Security investigation into the massacre, before I was able to employ the sunsetter.

  “Fortunately, Huromonus is not presently concentrating on the Order of the Birch killings. Right now, he is more interested in corruption within E-Tech Security. And Doyle Blumhaven has been instructed to feed the action/probe information along those lines. But Susan Quint must not enter the picture. She has the potential to connect you, the massacres, the slain Security officers and, ultimately, CPG, together into one package. That cannot be permitted. Not now, not when our goals are so close to being achieved.”

  I WILL REDOUBLE MY EFFORTS TO LOCATE HER.

  Colette stared upward, at the ceiling, her face momentarily blank, and Ghandi wondered if she was on the verge of interlacing, becoming Sappho. But when she spoke, she remained Colette.

  “It was a mistake trying to dispose of so many couriers at the same time in Honshu. My error, but one that will not be repeated. We’ll go back to our earlier pattern: three or four targets per massacre.”

  I KILLED SEVEN COURIERS THURSDAY NIGHT IN THE ARTWHILER AUDITORIUM. THAT ACTION DID NOT JEOPARDIZE US.

  “Nevertheless, from now on, we will be doubly cautious. Three or four targets per massacre—no exceptions to that rule.”

  Three tways nodded in unison. THAT WILL MEAN AN INCREASED NUMBER OF MASSACRES IN ORDER TO MEET THE TARGET DATE.

  “Yes. But now that the Colonies have been informed that a Paratwa starship has been detected, no one in the Colonies will be surprised if the Order of the Birch killers suddenly become even more violent.”

  THE PARATWA MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO RETURN. Calvin smiled. LONG LIVE THE ORDER OF THE BIRCH.

  Colette nodded. “And we’ll try to cut down on the overall number of couriers disposed of through the massacres by increasing the number of individual murders and, where feasible, suicides.”

  Mild disappointment showed on the faces of the three tways. Ghandi knew that the maniac did not gain as much pleasure from a secret solitary killing or an arranged suicide as he did from a full-blown massacre.

  “What is the latest count of infected colonies?” asked Colette.

  THE SKYGENE SUITCASES HAVE BEEN SUCCESSFULLY TESTED AND ACTIVATED IN ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE COLONIES. SEVENTEEN MORE CYLINDERS ARE CURRENTLY BEING PREPARED.

  “Good. We’re over halfway there.”

  Ghandi shook his head. “Why not stop now?” he argued. “I still don’t see the point of having these skygene machines hidden and activated within every single colony.”

  “You know the answer, my love. The Irryan Council must be absolutely convinced that every colony is infected, that there is only one solution to their problem.” Gently, she rubbed Ghandi’s back. “Out of their hopelessness will grow the seeds of peace. The Ash Ock have been planning the return for centuries. Believe me, our way is best for both humans and Paratwa. The deaths that have resulted thus far are but a fraction of the lives that would he spent in an all-out confrontation.”

  Calvin broke into a three-pronged smile, as if the thought of an all-out war was extremely pleasing.

  Mindless maniac.

  “Don’t worry,” Colette soothed, reading Ghandi’s tension. “Everything will turn out for the best.”

  Ghandi nodded. But he did not believe her.

  O}o{O

  The Lion ordered his Costeau guards to remain outside, then led the group into his private study. As the door slid shut, preprogrammed illumination circuits ignited glow panels, bathing the room in warm amber light. Opposite the entrance, a wall of vertical slab glass overlooking the garden of the Alexanders’ retreat yielded a measure of cool starlight from the transparent cosmishield strip nearest the horizon, providing a wealth of luminous counterpoints to the soft artificial fluorescence. Irrya’s mirrors had just completed their rotation into darkness, and most of the daylight clouds had been vacuumed, permitting a clearer view of the reflected heavens. Shortly before dawn, center-sky pumps would reactivate, create a fresh pattern of cumulus vapors for the following day. The Lion did not know tomorrow’s weather; he no longer paid much attention to the monthly schedule of ecospheric conditions. Even if a rare thunderstorm had been programmed, he would not have been aware of it until the first crack of thunder.

  Servants had moved his oak desk to the corner, and a rectangular table of compressed lunar shale laminated in plastic now dominated the center of the study. Five cushioned uprights surrounded the heavy construct. The table was fully functional, yet priceless because it was the only known artifact to have survived Ari Alexander, a shuttle pilot who had helped construct the Colonies over two and
a half centuries ago, and who had later become one of the founding fathers of the Costeau movement.

  As the Lion sat at Ari’s table, his fingers instinctively felt along its edge for the tiny inset animal heads that Ari had carved into the compressed lunar material. He traced the sharp outlines, the simple strokes that represented tigers and elephants and giraffes, as well as Ari’s favorite, the lions. All were ancient beasts of the jungle. Most were extinct.

  Inez Hernandez and Adam Lu Sang assumed the two chairs on the left side of the table; Nick and Gillian captured the opposite set. The midget deftly snatched his partner’s cushion out from under him an instant before Gillian’s bottom landed on it. Nick added the second cushion to his own, enabling his elbows to reach the top of the table.

  Gillian forced a smile at the midget’s action. Always you play games. Always there are tricks. But then his thoughts turned to a more somber element of Nick’s horseplay.

  Lately, my reflexes do not seem to be as sharp. With only a modest effort, I should have been able to stop Nick from snatching that cushion. Yet I literally did not see him reaching for it. Gillian hoped that the midget had mistaken his slowed reaction time for simple disinterest.

  Nick squirmed on the double cushion and balanced his stubby arms on the laminated surface. For a long moment, he stared at Gillian. Then his bright blue eyes brightened with delight and he turned to the others.

  “Councilor Hernandez, it’s good to finally meet you in person. The Lion has told us so much about you. We’re honored.”

  Inez Hernandez smiled at Nick’s greeting, but Gillian saw the strain on her face: a delicate lifting of the shaggy eyebrows, tension lines beneath the pupils, an infinitesimal quiver of the lower lip. She laid her hands on the table, but the fingers quickly interlaced, tightening until bony knuckles protruded. Even the tone of her voice suggested the exertion of forced control.

  “Please,” she urged, “there should be informality among us. My name is Inez.”

  The Lion spoke. “I appreciate that both of you were able to come here on such short notice. I trust that neither of you experienced any security problems.”