Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  “Of course,” uttered Ghandi, his tone subservient but his head swarming with possibilities.

  Until now, the entire skygene project had remained concentrated at Venus Cluster, CPG’s secretly owned subsidiary. Months ago, one of the Ash Nar twins—Ky—had been installed as an officer of the company. From his vice presidential post, Ky was able to recruit suitable couriers from among the many intercolonial travelers who flowed through the doors of Venus Cluster’s Irryan headquarters.

  Upon locating a courier, Ky would manipulate that individual into his executive office. Ky’s needbreeder would be activated and a short time later, one temporarily hypnotized subordinate would emerge from Venus Cluster carrying a small suitcase, with instructions on what to do when he arrived at the targeted colony.

  Each suitcase contained a living skygene and its support machinery. Each skygene was capable of releasing a deadly aerobic virus—a lighter-than-air mutagen—that could spread through the sealed atmosphere of a medium-sized colony within hours. The skygene virus, when breathed, was one hundred percent fatal to mammals. According to Colette, the skygene’s mutagenic abilities dictated that there could be no cure. Once in the bloodstream, an average human being would die within days.

  Each hypnotized skygene courier was responsible for secretly transporting one of the deadly suitcases to his home colony and hiding the unit there. Each suitcase contained a coded trigger, which—if and when remotely activated—would release the virus.

  There were complications, however. The delicate and complex nature of each individual skygene machine dictated a significantly high failure rate. Therefore, each unit had to be tested immediately prior to activation.

  The Ash Ock solution to that problem was brutally simple. Each needbreeder-driven servant, still totally unconscious of his actions, removed and ingested a minute tissue sample of the skygene organism. Next, the victim would place a call to tway Calvin, and inform the Ash Nar whether or not the skygene had tested positive in his or her own bloodstream. In the vast majority of cases, the tests themselves were not fatal as long as each victim ingested only a small dose; the ingestion merely caused a variety of cold and flu symptoms within the victim. But regardless of the test’s outcome, the needbreeder slave was scheduled to die.

  Calvin arranged for some of the victims to meet him at a certain time and place, and—gathering together a group of the hypnotized couriers—disguised their murders within the larger framework of an Order of the Birch massacre. Other victims were killed individually. A variety of “accidents” and “suicides” ensured that the courier deaths were spread over a wide arena, thus helping to negate suspicions.

  And if a particular courier tested negative, indicating a faulty skygene, Ky simply made arrangements for a second victim to transport another suitcase to that particular colony. Eventually, all two hundred and seventeen cylinders would be infested with successfully tested skygene machines, poised to release their viruses and destroy their human populations.

  That meant, of course, that at least two hundred and seventeen couriers had to be executed.

  Ghandi shook his head, still amazed at the intricate ruthlessness of the scheme. But, hopefully, few of the skygene suitcases would ever have to be triggered. The Irryan Council, once they understood how futile their situation was, were expected to quickly surrender to the Paratwa.

  “Calvin,” continued Sappho, “you and Jy will have to accomplish the next scheduled Birch massacre without your injured tway. Do you foresee Ky’s absence as creating any special problems?”

  Calvin ambled across the room in that perversely delicate manner of his, arms slithering from side to side, legs wobbling as if his knees were about to crumble out from under him. He halted in front of his mistress.

  THE MASSACRES WILL CONTINUE AS PLANNED. The tway knelt at Sappho’s side and gently lifted the cuff of her pants, exposing her bare ankle. His tongue licked at her flesh. Sappho petted the back of his neck.

  “I know,” she soothed. “You cannot bear that he still lives. I promise—you will have your revenge upon the traitor.”

  Calvin turned to Ghandi with a dark smile.

  “Corelli-Paul,” said Sappho, “you recall our discussion the other day?”

  Ghandi nodded, swallowing a sudden spasm of fear.

  “With Venus Cluster gone, CPG Corporation must remain fully operational. Should enemy eyes turn upon us before the infection program has been completed, drastic measures will become necessary.” Sappho rubbed her fingers across Calvin’s cheek. “In the event CPG falls under suspicion, we must provide our enemy with a suitable shadow to chase. You will be that shadow, Corelli-Paul. It is you who will be called upon to make the great sacrifice, to become the public scapegoat.”

  “What sacrifice?” he asked, feeling the microbes begin their furious little dance.

  Sappho perceived his quiet struggle. “Sometimes, Corelli-Paul, life is not easy. But the alternative to life is always much harder. Please remember that.”

  The threat was clear. “I’ll do as you wish,” Ghandi heard himself whisper, as the microbes roared up his spine: tiny shards of metal, cutting into muscles and bone, cutting into his very being.

  “I know that you will,” said Sappho.

  O}o{O

  “Do you feel trapped?” asked Timmy. “Do you feel as if your situation in life has conspired to keep your true soul repressed? Deep inside, do you sense the real Susan Quint lying dormant?”

  They were out on the beach again, sitting side by side on the damp sand, alone, further away from the low buildings of the cloister than ever before. The day remained heavily overcast. Susan knew that there would be no sunbursts.

  “Do you ever wonder what it would feel like to suddenly wake up?” wondered Timmy. “And not be confused. Not be frustrated.”

  No sunbursts, Susan thought, churning the disappointment over in her mind. If the clouds would only part, even for a few seconds. Just a brief flash of that delicate heat, the glistening brightness, the shadows so crisp that you felt you could pick them up, move them as if they were real physical objects.

  Timmy sighed with exasperation. “You’re not paying attention.”

  “So throw something at me.”

  As always, their conversation had begun innocently. But today it had degenerated even more rapidly into a twisting, senseless interplay: Timmy challenging her, prying and pushing, wanting something, yet unwilling to clarify his desires.

  “I’m tired, Timmy.” I’m tired of you.

  She kept her attention on him, just in case he did decide to throw something at her. But he just stared dispassionately, his jowled face lost in thought, the wetware eye moist, shimmering.

  He broke into a sudden smile. “You need a change of pace!”

  She shrugged.

  “How about a swim?” he asked.

  “The water’s too polluted.”

  “That’s true. I’ll stay on the beach. You go in.”

  “Very funny.”

  With effort, Timmy shifted his weight on the sand. Knees compressed and his legs seemed ready to buckle out from under his massive frame, but he managed to stand up. “All right, Susan, I believe that Lake Ontario beckons. I promised yesterday that today would be a special day for you, and I like to remain true to my word. It is time for your baptismal. It is time for you to become.”

  “Become what?” she wondered dreamily.

  “Susan,” he announced sternly, “I want you to go into the water.”

  She compelled herself to laugh at the absurdity of his request. “I don’t think so, Timmy.”

  “Kascht moniken keenish,” he uttered.

  Unpleasant sounds, she remembered thinking, almost words, but not quite, more like the guttural outpouring of some sleeping animal, caught in the turmoil of a dark dream. Foolish sounds, devoid of meaning yet endowed with a curious quality, something quite indescribable.

  Plasma flowing through my pores, she thought, aware that her attempted transl
ation merely skimmed across the surface of meaning, like a child trying to describe some adult posture, a three-year-old explaining the intricacies of the Socratic teaching method.

  And then the plasma seemed to be inside her skin, flowing freely, and she kept thinking of an inner wetness, a liquid breaching some part other that had never known moisture. The wetness rose within her. She felt oddly transparent, like a vial being filled with colorless fluid.

  It did not feel bad and it did not feel good. The experience was so utterly novel that no preconceived mental fabrications existed to provide bias.

  I feel with the freshness of a child.

  And abruptly, she became aware that her pants were wet.

  The odd sensations left her, vanishing down some nerve pathway, dissolving into memories. She felt her face reddening with embarrassment as she realized that Timmy would take notice of her childish accident.

  She turned around to hide the front of her wet shorts. But somehow, Timmy had moved. He now stood in front of her, yet at an unbelievable distance away—at least fifty feet. Understanding brought a cold chill. Timmy had not moved. He was standing at the same spot on the beach as before.

  And I am in the water.

  She had not wet her pants at all. In fact, she was up to her waist in the gentle waves of Lake Ontario.

  A feeling of confusion overtook her and for an instant, she felt like she was going to faint. She closed her eyes tightly, hoping that when she opened them again, things would be all right, things would be normal.

  But she was still in the water.

  “How’s the temperature?” he yelled gleefully. “Should be pretty warm this time of year.”

  “You hypnotized me,” she mumbled.

  “Not hypnosis. Something else. Come on out—it’s not good to stay in that dirty water for too long.”

  She waded back onto the beach, walked to within twenty feet of him. Close enough.

  Timmy smiled. “Enjoy your baptismal?”

  She regarded him warily. “No.”

  “Remember to take an extra-long detox shower tonight. That water’s still heavily polluted—”

  “What do you want from me?” It was a simple direct question, she thought. It should earn a simple direct answer.

  “I just wanted you to feel the water—”

  “What do you want from me?” she repeated, more forcefully.

  He just kept grinning. “Are you angry with Timmy?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good. I’d rather see you angry than dreamy and unconcerned. Just remember not to allow—”

  “—Not to allow my anger to interfere with my body-thought,” she snapped. “Yes, I remember your lessons. But I’m sick of them, and I’m sick of you and your tricks. I’m sick of this whole damn planet and I want these absurd games to end! Now!”

  “Good, Susan. I’m pleased by your reaction.”

  She lost control. “Bastard!” she screamed, reaching down, scooping up a handful of sand, hurtling the grained particles toward him. From twenty feet away, her attack remained largely symbolic: The spray of sand fell harmlessly to the beach, ten feet short of its target.

  “Excellent!” Timmy exclaimed. “Real and honest fury, completely attuned. I was beginning to think that my poor little orphan girl was not capable of such emotion.”

  Something snapped inside her.

  Motion. Her long legs plowing across the beach, running hard, straight toward him, every micro motion perceptible, her body soaring with clarity. It was as if she was hurtling along a razor-thin pathway, where thought and action flowed together, perfectly balanced, like in the Honshu terminal, like in her Irryan apartment, when the two E-Tech investigators had tried to kill her. But there was a difference; on those two occasions, fear had sent her racing along that razor. Now, fury drove her forward.

  Debris. On the sand. Her eyes scanning, seeking a weapon, but watching Timmy at the same time, watching his face, alert for any emotional signals, however faint, that might portend resistance.

  But he just stood there, a study in passivity.

  A weapon on the sand—an eighteen inch cylinder of thick plastic, some long-abandoned piece of construction material, grimy with age. A slight shift in direction—the razor-path obediently shifting within her to compensate—and then her arm was sweeping downward, snatching the weapon from the sand, spinning it over her head, a deadly propeller, ready to create havoc.

  Timmy’s left eye opened wide.

  She was five feet away from him, coming on strong, and suddenly his fat body dissolved with fear, and his arms flew up in front of his face, quivering.

  “Don’t hurt me!” he screamed.

  Some of Susan’s rage vanished, diminished by an onslaught of pity for the frightened and pathetic creature who cowered before her. She stopped a pace in front of him and lowered the makeshift weapon.

  Timmy collapsed to his knees. “Please!” he begged, twining his fingers into the ancient symbol for prayer. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “Goddamn you!” she yelled, throwing the stick back toward the lake. “Just who in the hell do you think you are!”

  In that instant, he struck.

  She barely had time to register the fist, slamming upward from the folds of his thick gray robe, knuckles shimmering red under the transparent field of an attack gauntlet.

  The fisted energy web smashed into her guts and she doubled over with the pain, on the verge of vomiting her breakfast onto the sand. Something swept across her ankles—his other arm—and then her feet were flying out from under her and she was gazing upward at smog-filled skies. Her butt slammed onto the beach first, followed an instant later by her head and middle back. Dizziness blurred vision.

  And then Timmy’s massive form was on top of her and she thought: He’s going to rape me. His fist, power-enhanced by the energy web, pressed under her jaw, forcing the back of her head further into the sand. Something sharp and cool pressed into her aching midsection.

  His head descended. Mere inches separated their faces and she could no longer focus properly. Yet still, she had the impression that his artificial right eye was leering at her.

  Hot breath blew across her mouth. “Don’t move,” he warned, pressing the sharp object into her stomach so ferociously that she feared her skin would suddenly rip open and the blade plunge through.

  “Do I have your attention?” he asked.

  She tried to nod her head but could not; the attack gauntlet compressed her neck so tightly that even the barest movement was impossible.

  “Good,” he said, reading her eyes. “Now, Susan, tell me what you’ve learned.”

  The fist pulled away, permitting her mouth to open. “Let me up,” she whispered.

  The knife pierced her. She gasped.

  “The blade’s inside you now,” he explained calmly. “It’s known as a bab knife—extremely sharp along all four edges, but very thin. Minuscule tissue damage has taken place thus far. If I remove the blade cleanly, you’ll heal fairly rapidly, without a scar.

  “However, this particular bab knife has been equipped with a rather gross version of a rhythm detector. If you make any sudden movements, those four tiny edges will sense it. They’ll begin to vibrate. The bab will literally yank itself out of its handle and burrow straight through your body. I doubt if it will kill you; in fact, I’ve experienced it myself once, and obviously, I’m still here.” A grim smile folded his flesh, outlining the cheekbones, as if they were tiny plateaus emerging from the rest of his face. “But believe me, Susan, a bab knife cutting straight through your body is an incredibly painful experience.”

  She felt her lungs convulsing, a panicked gasp for extra air. The blade seemed to stab deeper into her midsection. Her lips quivered, fighting terror. “What . . . do . . . you . . . want?”

  “I’m training you. That much should be obvious. Pain techniques are perhaps not the best teaching methods, but they do have the advantage of being the fastest. And unfortunately, time does not al
low for gentler ways. It’s taken six sessions of stimulation just to awaken your real fury—one of only a handful of emotions that can serve to link body, spirit, and intellect. And now I am using that temporary linkage—that pathway extending into the deepest roots of your being—with the hopes of fully awakening you. Now, once again, Susan: What have you learned?”

  Don’t panic! screamed some inner voice. Stay calm. Stay in control.

  She forced her breathing into a steady rhythm. The bab knife seemed to become motionless; a deep splinter, but not unbearable. As long as she did not move.

  “I’m waiting,” said Timmy, his words crackling with impatience. “I must warn you, Susan, there’s another way for the bab to burrow through your body. With the push of a button, I can disengage the blade from the handle, and it will cut through you automatically. In other words, both of us have the power to cause you unbearable agony. You can do it to yourself by trying to move. Or I can do it to you.”

  She thought: Someone from the Cloister has to see what’s happening! Someone has to help! But she knew they were too far away. From this distance, any observers would probably conclude that old Timmy was just having fun with the same young woman who had willingly accompanied him onto the beach every afternoon for the past six days.

  Terror began to overwhelm her. The thought of that blade cutting through her body was almost too much to bear.

  Don’t panic! came the inward voice once again. Give him what he wants. Then get away from here!

  She swallowed her fear. “I’ve learned . . . I’ve learned that I should listen to you . . . that I should obey your wishes . . .”

  His cheeks bent into a grimace. “One more stupid answer like that, Susan, and I swear that I will release the bab! Now speak to me truthfully. What have you learned?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve learned that I can’t trust anyone!”

  “Clarify that,” he ordered. “Be specific.”

  “I have to rely on my own instincts—”

  “What are your instincts telling you—right now?”

  “To . . . get away.”