Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  “Maybe not,” answered Nick. “Let’s assume that this third tway cannot afford to have even the slightest suspicion cast upon him. Maybe if the investigating team really took a close look at our boy, they would see that most, if not all, of his companions died in the massacre.”

  “A group of targets,” continued Gillian, “who are in some way connected. And that connection might lead us to whomever is ultimately responsible for these massacres.”

  “The Order of the Birch?” wondered Adam.

  “I doubt it,” said Gillian. “I believe this whole Order of the Birch business is simply a convoluted kind of smokescreen, designed to cast suspicions away from the real reasons for these killings. Namely, that there are specific individuals who have been targeted for assassination.”

  The Lion frowned. “What about this latest massacre, the attack upon the Order of the Birch itself?”

  “Just an attempt to spread more confusion.” Nick spoke slowly, measuring his words. “The deadliest Paratwa thrived on remaining unpredictable. And many assassinations were planned for multiple effects. In addition to wiping out specific targets, perhaps the assault on the Order of the Birch contributes to some long-range social manipulation.” The midget turned toward the slab-glass wall, gazed out at the distant stars.

  “These massacres,” continued Gillian, “could almost serve as archetypal twenty-first century Paratwa attacks. If you have to assassinate one person, kill ten others at the same time to disguise the real target. But in Honshu, and perhaps in the conference center as well, there must have been more than just a few intended victims. Tway three must have honeysucked a large number of targets—always a riskier proposition. And then Susan Quint came along and fouled things up.”

  “A lot of targets,” mused Nick. “That suggests that whoever is behind these massacres needs to dispose of a great number of people in a relatively short period of time.”

  “Exactly,” said Gillian. “They’re taking chances. If there were a smaller number of targets, the assassin would probably eliminate them one by one, arrange their murders to look like accidents and suicides: far safer methods of disposal than a multiple-target hon-eysuck.”

  “Maybe,” suggested Adam, “they’re using these other methods as well . . . killing people individually.”

  “That’s possible,” Gillian replied.

  “What I still don’t understand,” said the midget, turning his attention back to the table, “is why our Paratwa wasn’t able to kill Susan the moment they made eye contact? It should have instantly realized the potential threat. It should have gone out of its way to make certain she ended up on the floor as a victim.”

  Gillian nodded thoughtfully. “And she escaped from those two E-Tech officers as well.” He turned to Inez. “I believe you mentioned to Jerem that your grandniece was always a very fast little girl, a very sharp thinker.” He hesitated. “By any chance, was she adopted?”

  Inez frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “If we’re reading this whole situation correctly, it sounds to me as if Susan might have some sort of genetically modified neuromuscular system. I assume that you would have mentioned it if such traits ran in your family. But on the other hand, if she was adopted . . .”

  “She was not adopted,” said Inez firmly.

  “Did you witness her birth?”

  The councilor scowled. “Her parents—my nephew and his wife—were at a Church retreat down on the surface during the delivery. But I saw Susan’s mother several times during the period she was carrying Susan. She was certainly pregnant.”

  “Did you know her doctor?”

  “No. He was a private doctor, from the Church.”

  “Any medical records?” asked Nick.

  “Of course. After her parents killed themselves, all medical documents were forwarded to her psychplan doctors. They certainly never mentioned anything about genetic enhancements.”

  Gillian shrugged. “That doesn’t prove anything. From a practical standpoint, a genetically modified neuromuscular system only can be spotted by very sophisticated test procedures. And Susan might not have realized she was blessed with such modifications; without training, such abilities can remain latent throughout a lifetime. If Susan was an athlete, perhaps, pushing herself beyond normal physical limits, then such extraordinary abilities would have been revealed to her. Otherwise, her enhancements might only have been noticed during times of stress, like in Honshu, and when the two officers tried to kill her.”

  “This is ridiculous,” snapped Inez. “Susan wasn’t bred, she was born.”

  “In-vitro fertilization,” added Nick, “was not the best technique for a genejob. It was easier to develop the fetus completely in the laboratory. But Susan’s embryo could have been implanted in your niece’s uterus, or genetically modified while in the womb. Either way, normal gestation and delivery would have taken place.”

  Inez glared at the Lion. “This entire discussion is becoming absurd.”

  The Lion was not so sure.

  “Remember what we’re dealing with here,” cautioned Nick. “A Paratwa assassin, and a very special one at that. Some of them were so fast and deadly that they never left witnesses—ever. Yet Susan survived, even though this assassin must have instantly realized just how imperative it was that she not be allowed to spread her story. And then she escaped from Donnelly and Tace as well.”

  “There has to be a reason she survived,” said Gillian. “If Susan’s a genejob, that might explain things.”

  The Lion said: “Since the medical records do not indicate genetic modifications, and since we don’t have Susan here, then this is all a moot point. Correct?”

  Nick looked from the Lion to Inez. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Sorry, Inez. We’re just trying to fill in pieces of the puzzle.”

  “Let’s concentrate on the assassin,” urged the Lion. “What’s our next step?”

  Nick turned to Adam. “Can you get us access into E-Tech Security?”

  The programmer looked doubtful. “Security’s not a direct part of the archives, though, of course, there are numerous junctions.

  But the junctions are heavily guarded. Lots of defenses. Security’s about the toughest system to penetrate.”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” said Nick. “I want to see the E-Tech Security reports on all of these killings. If we’re dealing with honeysucks, we’re going to need every bit of data we can dredge up to make sense out of this mess. Plus I want a list of everyone who was scheduled to pass through Yamaguchi Terminal at the time of the massacre.”

  “Don’t you already have that information?” wondered Inez. “The transit computer records?”

  A faded smile crossed Nick’s face. “Let’s see if we can’t get the E-Tech Security report as well. Just for a comparison. E-Tech Security is under a great deal of suspicion these days. Perhaps they’re hiding something.”

  Adam shook his head. He looked very nervous. “It won’t be easy. Breaking into Security is going to take time. Weeks, maybe. And even if I can penetrate Security, I might end up leaving a trail for someone to follow.”

  “I believe that it’s worth the risk,” urged Nick.

  The Lion favored Adam with a supportive smile. “You’ve gotten involved with more than you’ve bargained for here. I believe we would all understand if you chose not to cast yourself any deeper into these waters.”

  Adam swallowed. “If it’s necessary, I suppose I’ll help . . . in whatever way I can.”

  “Thank you, Adam,” said Inez graciously. “And I want you to know that we do appreciate your efforts. As far as I’m concerned, you’re an unsung hero for coming forward in the first place.”

  The young programmer looked ready to blush. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “How are we doing with the sunsetter?” asked the Lion.

  Adam frowned. “We’re still having some difficulties.”

  “What we’re having,” said Nick, “is a hell of a time. It’s ba
d enough trying to crack the sunsetter. But it’s even worse with this rescue program hovering nearby, always ready to foul our efforts. Just when we’re getting ready to lock onto a program that the sunsetter is reaming of data, Freebird shows up. Bye bye, program. We’ve even tried sending my IRS audit program after multiple sunsetter targets simultaneously. It doesn’t matter. Where the sunsetter goes, Freebird follows. When the sunsetter is even remotely threatened, Freebird saves its ass.” The midget shook his head. “Hell of a thing.”

  Adam hunched forward, “Should we tell them about our theory?”

  Nick smiled grimly. “I suppose we’d better.”

  “We’re beginning to suspect,” said Adam, “that no direct relationship exists between the sunsetter and Freebird. They both run freely throughout the system, and they obviously interact. But that interaction is based on externalized parameters—a one-way data pact. When the sunsetter is threatened, Freebird takes action to preserve the destroyer’s integrity. But the two programs seem to possess no mutual hinge points.”

  “Hinge points,” continued Nick, “represent the data nexus between two mutually controlled programs. But in this instance, there are none, at least none that we can detect. What that means is that this particular version of Freebird must have other functions besides guarding the sunsetter from outside interference. And I have a funny hunch. It’s nothing I can really put my finger on—not yet, anyway—but something tells me that the sunsetter and Freebird are not being run by the same mommies.”

  Inez looked bewildered. “Two different controllers?”

  “Yes.”

  Adam nodded his head vigorously.

  “The sunsetter,” explained Nick, “is about twenty-two years old. That’s about as close as we can calculate, based on the size of the archives and the rate of data decimation. However, Freebird appears to be older. Again, this is just a hunch. But Freebird seems to have a quality about it . . . some facet that makes its actions seem so effortless . . .” The midget hesitated, groping for words. “It’s more than the fact that it’s an immensely powerful program. This Freebird seems so . . . sure of itself. I can’t explain it much better, certainly not with any real clarity. It’s just that I get the funny feeling that Freebird knows the archives inside and out. Like it’s been there for a long time.”

  “Fifty years or more,” clarified Adam.

  Nick went on. “There is a slight possibility that Freebird’s a remote—an automatic program, a sleeper—put into the archives hundreds of years ago for unknown purposes. Freebird’s prototype does date back to the twenty-first century.”

  “And your IRS program,” suggested the Lion, “somehow caused this Freebird to be awakened?”

  “Yes. Freebird’s tactical command center seems to have been triggered when my IRS program made its first assault on the sunsetter. The program came alive and, for reasons we can’t comprehend, began protecting the sunsetter.”

  The Lion sighed. “We seem to be producing more questions than answers here. We still have no idea who’s controlling the sunsetter. Nor do we know the real purpose behind these massacres. And now there’s this Freebird program.”

  “True enough,” said Nick, turning to Gillian. “But I’m beginning to get the odor of a particular stench hanging over all of this, an odor of massive manipulation.”

  Gillian nodded. He felt it too. Things were tied together somehow. Things were connected.

  “Ash Ock,” concluded the Lion grimly. “And for all we know, Sappho or Theophrastus could already be in the Colonies.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it,” answered the midget.

  Ash Ock, Gillian mused, his thoughts focusing on his own strange reality.

  I desire wholeness. Yet I’m afraid to permit the arising of Empedocles. I don’t know where my monarch will lead me.

  Desire and fear: a dialectic becoming more powerful with each passing day. Gillian knew that sooner or later, whether he wanted it or not, he was going to be thrust into a state of extreme tension, a state that could bring on the whelm—the forced interlace melding him and Catharine together. Eventually, the growing force of this particular dialectic alone, the yin and yang of desire and fear, could lead to Paratwa unity. And when that time came, Gillian might be powerless to stop Empedocles from arising.

  There were other paths that could also lead to the whelm. His flexing urges—those brief intervals of biorhythmic upheaval, internal cycles peaking every four hours, fusing wild subconscious tempests with rational thought, serving to relieve the interlace of excess pressure—those too were times when the possibility of the whelm was enhanced.

  But I’m still in control. For the time being, as long as he did not consciously attempt to summon his monarch, he felt reasonably confident that separation could be maintained. Yet there remained an even greater period of danger.

  A physical menace, a threat to my life. Just as it happened fifty-six years ago, the possibility of bodily harm could bring Empedocles to the forefront, bring on the whelm.

  “What’s our next step?” asked the Lion.

  Gillian was not sure. He knew only that they had to remain vigilant.

  A deep frown crossed Nick’s face. “If we assume that the Ash Ock are responsible for unleashing this tripartite Paratwa, and that this assassin is indeed honeysucking multiple victims for some unknown purpose, then something else seems clear: Our enemy is in one hell of a rush.”

  The Lion agreed. “Their goals must be accomplished with all due haste.” He paused. “Before their starships return?”

  “I believe so,” said Nick. “And that may mean that the Colonies are running out of time as well.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Inez.

  “I’m not sure,” Nick answered grimly. “But I’m starting to get a really bad feeling about all of this. Like we’re heading into a battle that we’ve already lost.”

  The Lion found himself gazing at Gillian, thinking: You’ll find a way to solve these puzzles. You’ll find a way to save us. But he instantly recognized such thoughts for what they were: exercises in wish fulfillment, the vague hopes of a twelve-year-old child.

  Inez turned to Nick. “You make it sound like we don’t stand much of a chance.”

  A rueful smile crept across the midget’s face. “Yeah, I suppose I do. But hell, I’m an optimist from way back. And when you’re faced with a losing ball game in the ninth inning, it just means that you have to start bending the rules a bit.”

  O}o{O

  On her third day at the Ontario Cloister, the sun came out from behind the clouds.

  When it happened, Susan was sitting cross-legged beneath the old steel dock, her back to a smooth concrete pier, staring out across the faintly misted lake, watching a pair of imported sea gulls take turns splashing against the dull gray surface of the water. To her left lay the sprawling complex of the cloister, a sextet of interconnected two- and three-story structures that had been built over a hundred and fifty years ago by the original Church of the Trust. To her right and slightly forward, at the edge of the water, a stark four-hundred-foot tower rose into the gloomy skies. It was a revivifier—one of two protecting the cloister—a tarnished red plastic monstrosity responsible for circulating fresh air and maintaining the immediate area free of organic pollutants. Without it, Susan would have been sitting lakeside in a sealed breathing suit, not shorts and a halter.

  To the north, the swirling clouds of slate suddenly parted. And brightness poured from the sky.

  It startled her. The surface of the lake transformed, became a shining tapestry; the tops of the gently breaking waves looked like they had been sheathed by an undulating skin of white flame. One of the gulls, gliding across the water, sent up a frothy spray, and the trembling droplets seemed to hang in the air, sparkling in the new light. And the shadows . . .

  In the Colonies, with their standard arrangement of three land strips and three sun strips, controlled tripartite images of a dulled sun cast three shadows—one strong an
d two weak, the more potent light source always directly overhead. But here there was only one source, a fiery golden ball far brighter than any light that was allowed to pass through the glass of the sun sectors, a light so fierce that she could not even look at it. Crisp black silhouettes appeared everywhere: the buildings of the cloister cast down their images along the gently rising bare-faced hills to the south. The outline of the revivifier darkened a huge expanse of newly planted pines behind the dock.

  Susan held out her arms, wiggled her fingers, fascinated not only by the perfect shadows on the moist sand but by the sudden warmth along her flesh, as if she were inches away from a heating grid. She twisted her arms, rotating them so that all flesh received an equal chance to experience the curious sensation.

  “Sunbathing?”

  It was a man’s voice, directly behind her, and she turned quickly, not startled, but surprised that someone had managed to sneak up on her. He stood beside the thick pier that supported her back, enveloped in shadow.

  “Sunbathing,” he explained in a deep melodious voice, “was an old Earth custom. People used to actually coat their bodies in protective gels and expose their flesh for hours—”

  “I know what sunbathing is,” she interrupted quietly. “There are places in the Colonies—”

  “Not the same,” he insisted, stepping forward into the sunlight.

  She frowned and turned completely around to study this stranger.

  He was an older man, and big—over six feet tall, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, his oversized frame enclosed in a simple gray robe that hung to his ankles. Massive brown boots had sunk into the wet sand; he must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. The round face drooped below the mouth, indicating the beginnings of a double chin; the skin had a dark, but healthy-looking complexion. Thin gray hair curled around his ears but the strands were carefully trimmed in front, permitting scalloped bangs to fall almost to the eyebrows.

  He craned his neck and squinted up at the sun. “Ahh, we’re going to lose it. Too many reversal layers on the Canadian side of the lake. Can’t sustain a sunburst for more than a few minutes, usually.”