Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  “Sir, I might point out that the neurofab on the west wall can be made transparent. In about ten minutes, we’ll pass by the building’s main atrium. You’ll be able to overlook downtown Irrya, including a rarely seen perspective of the Irryan Senate chambers—”

  “Thank you, Jocko, but I believe we’d prefer privacy.”

  “Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  Gillian faked hesitation. “As a matter of fact, Jocko, there is. Today will be my first meeting with Mr. Cochise and it is despicably imprecise of me that I failed to do more than a basic data check.” He placed his hands on his hips and emitted a loud sigh. “My own fault—no use sobbing in shame about it. Still, I was wondering if you might be of some help, Jocko. Good lord willing, you might be able to tell me a bit about what Mr. Cochise is like.”

  Jocko smiled. “Certainly, sir.”

  “My blessings, young sir. I’m boundlessly relieved.”

  Buff rolled her eyes.

  “Now, Jocko, my first question. Is Mr. Cochise an easy man to get along with?”

  The escort nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Cochise is a fair-minded individual and very thoughtful. Last Rue Day, the entire staff received gifts from his office.”

  “Indeed,” uttered Gillian, having to think for a moment about what that particular holiday represented. Then he remembered: Rue Day—the perennial acknowledgment/celebration of Earth’s abandonment in the year 2099.

  “As a company vice-president,” Gillian continued, “I imagine Mr. Cochise uses these convators quite often.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, Jocko, in your opinion, is he one of those ‘hands-on’ company vice-presidents or is he the type of man who usually delegates his authority?”

  Jocko shrugged. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that sort of thing, sir.”

  “Indeed. Just one more question, Jocko. Are there any new people who have come to work with the company lately . . . say, exec-level transfers within the past year or so? To be perfectly frank. Jocko, after these legal matters with Mr. Cochise are resolved, I’m thinking about restructuring some of my own finances, perhaps make some personal investments in your firm. And Jocko, I’ll let you in on a little secret. In the business world, the newest boy on the block is usually the hungriest. That’s the person Troy Spencer De Fevre wants to deal with.”

  The escort shook his head. “No, sir. There’ve been no incoming execs recently. Venus Cluster doesn’t seem to have a whole lot of turnover. Except for Mr. Cochise, of course.”

  Gillian released a genuine frown. “What do you mean? I was under the impression that Mr. Cochise has been with the company for nearly eight years.”

  “Yes, sir, he has. But Mr. Cochise only came to our Irryan headquarters about six months ago. Before that, he worked out of one of our auxiliary training facilities in the L5 colonial cluster.”

  “He was a vice-president of the company and he didn’t work out of the company HQ? That’s a bit unusual.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. That’s just the way things were done around here.”

  “How often did Mr. Cochise visit headquarters in these prior years?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve only been with Venus Cluster about two and a half years. But from what I’ve heard, Mr. Cochise never came here.”

  “Never?” exclaimed Gillian.

  “Yes, sir. They say that he didn’t much care for Irrya. I guess that finally someone upstairs decided that it was time for him to be transferred to the home office.”

  “Indeed,” said Gillian quietly, wondering how Nick could have missed such a questionable facet of Cochise’s history. A grim suspicion took shape. Maybe he didn’t miss it.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” inquired the escort.

  “No, Jocko, but thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll call you if our desires change.”

  Jocko politely tipped his racing helmet and then returned to his control room. Gillian faced Buff. “Check the other door.”

  She nodded and moved to obey.

  Gillian sat down, thinking: What’s Nick up to? Ostensibly, the main purpose of their visit here was merely to give them the opportunity to get a good look around the inside of these headquarters, perhaps permit Gillian’s unique gestalt abilities to spot abnormalities in Venus Cluster’s operational ambience. The meeting with the vice president was of secondary importance.

  But now it turns out that this Cochise has a very suspicious past. And Nick must have known about it when he arranged our meeting.

  Anger flashed through him. He considered canceling the appointment and returning immediately to the Lion’s retreat to confront the midget.

  Martha eased into the chair beside Gillian and typed something into her refreshment terminal. A shot glass appeared beneath one of the hoses and a stream of Bowie-Ari—a cinnamon-flavored stimulant—filled it. She swivelled and propped her legs across Gillian’s lap. The shot glass touched her lips.

  “Cheers,” she whispered, downing it with one gulp.

  He rubbed his hand across her bare ankles, momentarily forgetting his anger, remembering last night, when she had come to him, naked and willing. And silent, uttering not so much as a sound, not even at the height of their passion. Yet her lust had been so intense that she had seemed to be swarming all over him, like some catlike creature overdosed on no-grog, unable to remain still for even an instant. Intercourse would have been impossible had he not finally pinned her to the bed.

  “I didn’t notice your PAL box last night,” he said quietly.

  Martha leaned forward, extending her arm, showing him the junction plate near the pulse of her right wrist. Gillian examined the tiny flesh-colored square—the visible face of the implanted metal cube. “It doesn’t look very recent.”

  “I was eleven.” She shrugged. “My father wanted me to have it.”

  Gillian thought he detected a hint of bitterness in her tone. “Ever think of having it removed?”

  “It’s a part of me now.”

  “Lavatory’s clear,” proclaimed Buff, returning to the table. She planted hands on hips and stood before him. “What’s next, Mr. De Fevre?”

  “Are you both wearing your crescent webs?”

  The Costeaus nodded.

  Gillian realized he had come to a decision. Absently, he flicked his tongue across the intricate rubber pads attached to his own bicuspids and molars—the activation circuitry for his defensive energy web, the hardware of which was strapped around his waist. He would keep to the plan, and meet with Venus Cluster’s vice president.

  And later I’ll have it out with Nick, once and for all.

  Martha removed her legs from Gillian’s lap and regarded him curiously. Buff pressed her heavy butt against the table, folded her arms, and scowled.

  “You think there’s going to be trouble?” quizzed the black woman.

  Gillian shrugged. “Probably not. But I read Nick’s report last night on this company VP, and there’s no mention that Mr. Cochise has been serving in absentia for the past seven and half years. Pretty unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not really,” said Buff. “A lot of businesses have very peculiar operating procedures. Especially Irryan-based ones.”

  Martha toyed with her wrist implant. “A strange cylinder full of strange people.”

  “Just stay alert,” he instructed.

  Buff gave an old-fashioned salute. “Extra yes!”

  “Funny what you can learn from a convator escort,” said Martha, staring at him curiously. Then she smiled a secret smile. “Want to know what Nick told us this morning?”

  “Would it matter if I didn’t want to know?”

  “Your little partner told us who you really are.”

  “And just who am I?” Gillian asked quietly.

  “You’re the surviving tway of the Ash Ock Paratwa, Empedocles.”

  He did not even try to hide his astonishment. “Nick told you that?”

  “Ri
ght after breakfast. And he told us to tell you.”

  Gillian shook his head, confused. What’s Nick up to?

  Deep inside, he sensed Empedocles beginning to stir. The more turmoil I experience, the more alert you become. And Gillian found himself wondering just how much of an influence Empedocles was exerting over his thoughts at this very moment. Do you sense the possibility of the interlace? Is that what calls out to you? Are you hoping to manipulate me into the whelm?

  Manipulation—it seemed to form the very bedrock of Gillian’s life. Nick works me from the outside and Empedocles works me from the inside, like a pair of dueling pros.

  A strange tingle crept along the back of his neck. He had the oddest feeling that Empedocles was laughing. And then the tingle touched the base of his spine, and the echo of amusement turned to familiar pain.

  Catharine. If only you were still alive, a separate presence. If you still walked and breathed and could touch me, not only from the inside out, but from the outside in. If you were more than just a shadow creature, a mouthpiece for the lusts of our monarch . . .

  If we were still tways, Catharine, able to be together and apart, then we could comprehend. We would know. We would possess the clarity to perceive not only Empedocles’s strategies, but Nick’s as well.

  “Is it my turn tonight?” quizzed Buff, forcing Gillian’s attention back into the room.

  He shook his head, confused.

  “Martha and I are partners,” said the black Costeau. “We always like to share. I’d like to try tway-fucking.”

  Martha smiled sweetly.

  “Just stay alert,” said Gillian, ignoring their banter. He remained silent for the rest of the convator ride, until Jocko emerged from the control room. “Mr. De Fevre, our CV will be docking with Mr. Cochise’s office in about forty seconds. I trust you had a pleasant trip.”

  “Very enlightening.”

  The convator rumbled softly, then seemed to spin slowly clockwise. It was the first real sense of motion Gillian had felt since entering. A muffled sound of pressure equalizers echoed in the distance and then the door opened into a wide brightly colored corridor flanked by a pair of vivid green desks. The one on the left was occupied by a young woman.

  “Mr. De Fevre?” she asked.

  “Indeed, yes.”

  The secretary smiled politely. “Mr. Cochise will see you immediately.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to the Costeaus. “Dears, why don’t you see if darling Jocko can be persuaded into holding the CV for us.” He grinned at the young secretary. “Regular elevators are so upsetting.”

  She touched a key on her desk and a portion of the wall behind her slid open. Gillian waited until Martha and Buff ambled back into the convator before proceeding through the portal.

  The door closed quietly behind him. Gillian was immediately struck by the dead silence inside the vice president’s sanctum.

  A soundproofed chamber. No desk. Two long benches, parallel to one another, each covered in bright red cushions. Plain gray walls, unmarred by the typical displays of paintings or rare prints. No visible windows. No detectable electronics, not even a simple terminal.

  Cochise stood in the far corner with his hands folded in front of his crotch. He was shorter than Gillian—maybe five-feet-six—and he wore a sleeveless gray muscle shirt, pinstriped white trousers, and shiny black boots. Whipcord muscles snaked across his bare upper arms. A bronze Rob’n’hood archer’s cap lay perched delicately atop his skull, hiding all but the fringes of his closely cropped red hair. Dark pupils regarded Gillian silently for a moment. Then a warm smile filled his face as he came forward.

  “Welcome, Mr. De Fevre.”

  The words had a strange quality about them, as if each syllable was being uttered from a pronunciation guide, like a perfectionist attempting a foreign language for the first time. Gillian, for reasons he could not ascertain, found his senses instantly soaring to their hyperalert state, blanking out all thoughts and concerns, synchronizing to the immediacy of the moment.

  “My home is your home,” uttered Cochise.

  “Thank you,” said Gillian, returning the smile. Deep inside, he sensed Empedocles probing, hungering for additional data. Cochise’s odd demeanor had put his monarch on the alert as well.

  “I am told,” continued Cochise, “that the Lord and Lady Valsacko provided you with two bodyguards. They must think most highly of you.”

  Gillian sensed an air of challenge in those words. He bowed his head, ostensibly in acknowledgment of the compliment, but actually to hide his growing concern. What have I stumbled into here?

  Who the hell is this man? He could almost feel the hair standing up along the back of his neck.

  “Please have a seat,” offered Cochise, pointing to one of the red-cushioned benches.

  Gillian sat down. The seat was extremely soft and the bench was slightly lower than a normal chair. Insight flowed across awareness.

  He has a juvenile look about him. But this austere office suggests a deliberate ignorance of physical amenities, a maturity of purpose. A strong contradiction.

  “So, Mr. De Fevre,” Cochise began, “to business. I was just reviewing your file. Your employers have a long-standing multiservant contract with us. For years, Venus Cluster had provided the Valsackos with some of our company’s finest—and most expensive—domestics. Our top of the line model—the luxuriator.”

  Cochise pouted and stepped over the circle of benches. “But now, rather abruptly, the Lord and Lady claim that some of our people are . . . how shall we say . . . removing artistic dainties from the immediate premises?”

  “They’re stealing from the Lady’s classic shoe collection,” clarified Gillian, recalling the details of the cover story. But even as he spoke, he fought an almost desperate impulse to roar to his feet. I’m seated. He’s still standing. I’m at a disadvantage. He recognized his urge as a natural combat instinct.

  “I’m shocked,” said Cochise, bending his cheeks into a frown.

  “It is shocking,” agreed Gillian, focusing on Cochise’s eyes now, trying to see past that phony mélange of expressions, trying to perceive deeper intentions, baser emotions.

  Abruptly, Cochise turned sideways, displaying his left profile. “What is to be done, Mr. De Fevre? Naturally, Venus Cluster wishes to avoid the rambling oddities of the law.”

  The rambling oddities of the law. The words sang to Gillian’s subconscious, and he sensed Empedocles analyzing, using the essence of a gestalt far more powerful than Gillian’s own to rip into the phrase, seeking disguised permutations of meaning, phonetic displacements, intricate patterns that would reveal the truth behind this bizarre individual.

  Cochise rubbed his palms together and then abruptly sat down on the other bench, facing Gillian. “I am deeply distraught over this incident. Venus Cluster takes pride in our people. Luxuriators especially are well screened.”

  “Mistakes occur,” offered Gillian, feeling no more at ease now that Cochise was seated than he had been when the man was standing.

  Cochise folded his hands on his lap, palms down. “You do understand that most of these types of problems—when they occasionally plague us—do not involve the vice president of the company. Naturally, the Lord and Lady Valsacko’s outstanding social standing requires downgrading/correction from the highest echelon.” A deep smile settled on his face. “How may Venus Cluster live up to its name?”

  Downgrading/correction. Another phrase bubbling with tonal eccentricities, wailing to be comprehended. Again, Gillian sensed Empedocles analyzing this latest input.

  Cochise hunched forward. Gillian, in response to the sudden movement, instinctively twisted his right wrist and gently compressed his knuckles. It was another combat impulse: Had Gillian been wearing a slip-wrist holster, the Cohe wand would have been launched straight into his palm.

  Cochise observed Gillian’s subtle motion. A momentary frown crossed the vice-president’s face. Then he smiled.

  Their ey
es met. And Gillian knew.

  I’m sitting across from a tway! Cochise is Paratwa!

  From deep within, he sensed the consciousness of Empedocles mushrooming, becoming an electrified, writhing conglomeration of forces, desperate for full consciousness, for unity. A terrifying feeling of unreality washed over Gillian, as if the symbols of his environment were being unraveled from the normal apparatus of physical perception—like a tree being stripped of its leaves, reduced to a bare tangle of twisted branches.

  To Cochise’s left, a golden bubble took shape, burning fiercely, and within it, Catherine appeared, her wild brown hair lacing the air, the delicate elfin face straining for solidity. Her mouth opened. Her voice whispered: Bring us together, Gillian. Bring on the whelm.

  Cochise began to rise from his bench.

  Gillian’s desire for unity ripened, became an unbearable need; the whelm was almost upon him. But beyond that desire lay a cloud of darkness, a groping energy that he recognized as the interior manifestation of his own fear. He probed into that dark cloud, seeking an answer: Why am I so terrified of the whelm?

  With an abruptness that took his breath away, the dark cloud ripped in two. Gillian was expecting to behold some terrible thing, but there was nothing behind the cloud—nothing but more darkness. And then his own gestalt came to life, turning inward, focusing on that interior symbolism, translating raw emotional resonances into abstract patterns of thought. A flash of golden light. Clarity.

  It’s not the whelm that terrifies me—it’s not the arising of Empedocles that brings on such dread!

  At last he understood.

  I’m not afraid of what I’ll become if I allow the whelm. It’s what we’ll become—Empedocles and I!

  Cochise was on his feet now, his body deliberately relaxed, ready for action. The tway was observing Gillian calmly, but with a curious intensity.

  Gillian’s monarch had been right all along: There is a way for us to be united forever. Gillian and Empedocles—eternally interlaced in a monstrous surrender of personality, melded together in a whelm that could never be broken; tway and monarch, slowly synthesizing, until neither existed as a discrete presence, but only as a grotesque mélange of consciousnesses—not tway, nor Paratwa, but something else, something nightmarish.