Authors: Mike Resnick
He wanted to drink more, to drain the container, but he seemed to remember reading or hearing somewhere that he should drink frequently but in moderation until he regained his strength. He took a tentative step, then another, and found that he wasn't as weak as he had anticipated. Obviously the Blue Devils had gotten him out of the sun before any serious damage had been done.
The door to his cubicle was closed. He had no idea if it was locked, and at the moment he didn't particularly care. It would be another hour or so before he could take advantage of being here anyway—if indeed there was any advantage to be taken by being inside the building.
He walked from wall to wall a few more times, getting some of the stiffness out of his body, then sat delicately on the edge of the cot and just luxuriated in being out of Hades’ sunlight. In fact, the room was still quite warm, perhaps 36 degrees Celsius, but it felt cool and comfortable compared to being outside.
He waited another five minutes, then got up and began walking back and forth again, feeling stronger this time. It was as he approached the far wall that he heard the voice.
"I see you're finally awake, Iceman,” said a cold, dispassionate, vaguely familiar voice.
He turned and found himself staring at the image of a slender young woman on the holoscreen. He studied the face: the cheekbones were more prominent, the chin a little sharper, the hair a bit darker, but they were definitely hers. Only the eyes had really changed; they seemed strange, distant, almost alien.
"It's been a long time,” he said at last.
"Fourteen years,” replied Penelope Bailey.
"I'm getting sick and tired of waiting,” remarked the Injun, as he and Broussard sat in his room at the embassy. “I think it's just about time to go to work."
"I thought you weren't going to make a move until the Whistler showed up,” said Broussard.
"For all I know, the Blue Devils killed him on one of the moons and he won't be showing up at all."
The Injun got to his feet and started pacing the room restlessly, while Broussard stared at him and tried to understand the change that had come over him during the past few days. He had grown more irritable, more restless, and had been given to violent outbursts of temper. It just didn't jibe with the cool professional Broussard had been working with, and the young man was sincerely worried about the Injun's mental state.
"Where the hell is he?” muttered the Injun, slamming a fist into the wall. “I can't wait much longer!"
"There's no deadline on killing the Oracle, sir,” said Broussard. “Or if there is, you haven't told me about it."
"I've got a personal deadline,” snapped the Injun. “And I've just about reached it."
"A personal deadline?” repeated Broussard, puzzled.
"Just shut up and let me think!"
"I can leave the room if you wish, sir."
"Leave, stay—what you do doesn't interest me."
He continued pacing the room, faster and faster, and after watching him for another few minutes, Broussard walked to the door and went to his own quarters, deeply troubled about the change that had occurred to his superior.
Finally the Injun came to a stop in front of his computer and stared at it, as if it was some alien machine he had never seen before. Finally his eyes, which had seemed wild and unfocused, cleared and he sat down next to it.
"Computer—activate,” he commanded.
"Activated,” replied the computer.
"Check all planetary databases and tell me if Joshua Jeremiah Chandler, also known as the Whistler, has arrived on Hades yet."
"Checking ... unknown."
"Damn!” muttered the Injun.
He was about to begin walking around the room again when it hit him.
"Computer!” he yelled.
"Yes?"
"Every other time I've asked you, you said No. This time you said Unknown. Why?"
"Because a human has landed at the Polid Kreba Military Base, and I have been unable to ascertain his identity."
"That's got to be him!” said the Injun. “Has he been incarcerated?"
"Unknown."
"It doesn't matter,” said the Injun. “If he's in jail, he'll rot there, and there's no sense waiting any longer—and if he's not, then he's talked his way out of a military base and probably has freedom of movement, and I've got to move tonight."
The computer made no reply, as no question had been put to it.
"Deactivate,” ordered the Injun.
The computer went dark, and the Injun walked out of his room, went down the hall, and entered Broussard's room.
"I'm going after her tonight,” he announced.
"You're quite certain, sir?” asked Broussard, obviously concerned.
"Of course I'm certain!” said the Injun. “The Whistler has landed on Hades!"
"You're sure of that?"
"The computer confirms it."
"The computer says that the Whistler has landed?” repeated Broussard. “Then why didn't it show up on our immigration lists?"
"He landed at a Blue Devil military base."
"Why would he do that?"
"How the hell should I know?” snapped the Injun irritably. “He's here, and that's all that matters."
"What name is he using?” asked Broussard.
"I don't know."
Broussard frowned. “Then how do you know it's the Whistler?"
"Who else would land in this godforsaken hellhole without going through Customs and Immigration?” The Injun paused. “I'm going to need your help."
"Sir, I don't mean to offend or to be insubordinate, but I wish you'd undergo a psychological evaluation first,” said Broussard.
The Injun glared at him. “What are you saying? Do you think I'm crazy?"
"No, sir,” answered Broussard. “But you haven't been yourself lately."
"I will be soon,” said the Injun.
"You're nervous and short-tempered and you've become forgetful,” continued Broussard. “I don't think you're in any condition to confront the Oracle."
"I'll be fine,” said the Injun, struggling to control the rage and hunger that surged through him. “Believe me."
"I still wish you'd present yourself to our staff psychologist."
"He won't tell me anything I don't already know,” answered the Injun. “Look, I'm going to go out there tonight with or without you, but it would make my life a lot easier if you'll come. All I need you to do is drive me to the same spot we went to the other day. I'll take care of everything else.” He paused and stared at the young man. “Now, are you in or out?"
Broussard uttered a sigh of resignation. “I can't let you go out there alone."
"Good,” said the Injun. “We leave at twilight."
Broussard turned to leave.
"One more thing,” said the Injun.
"Sir?"
"I appreciate your concern for me, and I realize that you have my best interests at heart.” He paused. “But if you or anyone else tries to stop me, you'll find out just how good a killer I am."
Broussard drew himself up to his full height. “That was unnecessary, sir,” he replied with dignity.
"Let's hope so."
They left at twilight and took the main road out of town, driving at a leisurely pace. Traffic thinned out within twenty minutes, and vanished completely after half an hour.
"None of this looks familiar,” said the Injun, squinting into the darkness. “Where are all the rocks?"
"We'll reach them in another forty minutes, sir,” said Broussard.
The Injun leaned back and closed his eyes.
"You haven't told me your plan yet, sir,” remarked Broussard.
"I know."
"You do have one, don't you?"
The Injun patted his tunic. “Right here in my pocket."
"A gun?” said Broussard.
The Injun smiled. “That, too."
Two armed Blue Devils entered the Iceman's cubicle and silently ushered him down a long darkened corridor, then up a ramp, down another corridor, and finally came to a halt at a large door, where Praed Tropo was waiting for him.
"She wants to see you, Mendoza,” it said.
"So I gathered."
"Do not approach her."
"I don't understand,” said the Iceman.
"You will."
He uttered a low command, and the door receded, revealing a large, luxurious room almost fifty feet on a side. There were beds, chairs, desks, tables, even a holoscreen, each of them designed for the comfort of a human occupant.
The occupant herself stood about thirty feet away, tall, slender, with dark blonde hair and pale blue eyes that seemed to be looking through the Iceman into some hidden place that only she could see.
"Welcome to my domain, Iceman,” she said.
"Hello, Penelope."
"You have seen her before?” said Praed Tropo, surprised.
"A long time ago,” answered the Iceman.
"I had thought we would never meet again,” said the Oracle. “I thought you would die where I left you, but I was very young, and my abilities were immature."
"And now you're an adult,” said the Iceman.
"Now I am an adult,” she replied vacantly, as if her attention were directed elsewhere. “Now I see things more clearly, more vividly, and now I interpret them more accurately."
"What kind of things?"
"Things that would drive you mad if you were to see them, Iceman.” She paused. “A million futures, all struggling to be born; a trillion events, all lining up to take place, all waiting for my approval."
"I felt sorry for you when you were a little girl,” said the Iceman. “I feel sorry for you now."
"Save your sympathy, Iceman,” she replied. “I would not trade places with you."
The Iceman stared at a thin line on the floor about ten feet ahead of him, and noted that it ran up the walls and across the ceiling.
"In point of fact, you couldn't trade places with me even if you wanted to,” he said.
She smiled again. “You refer to the force field."
"If that's what it is."
"It keeps me in ... but it also keeps you out,” she replied. “You and the others."
"What others?” he asked.
"Don't be obtuse, Iceman,” said the Oracle. “It's unbecoming."
"Do you refer to the assassin, Chandler?” asked Praed Tropo.
"Perhaps,” said the Oracle. She turned to the Blue Devil. “You must leave us now."
Praed Tropo turned and joined his two Blue Devils on the far side of the door, which immediately slid shut.
"How long have you been a prisoner, Penelope?"
"What makes you think I am a prisoner?"
"Can you leave this room?"
"Eventually,” she said.
"But not right now,” he said.
"I am content not to leave right now."
He stared at her for a long moment. “You've changed."
"I've grown,” said the Oracle.
He shook his head. “You're scarcely human anymore."
"Look at me,” said the Oracle, turning around before him. “Do I not appear like any other young woman?"
"Other young women concentrate on what they are saying and hearing. You're hours and days ahead of where everyone else is, aren't you? Our present is your past. You're mouthing words that occurred to you before I arrived."
"You are very perceptive, Iceman. I am glad I brought you here."
"I came of my own volition,” he replied. “If it happens to serve your purposes, it's just a coincidence."
"You are free to think so,” she said. Suddenly she turned sharply to her left.
"What's that all about?” asked the Iceman.
"Your friend the Whistler is on his way here,” she replied. “He arrived on Hades three days ago, hidden in the hold of a cargo ship, and made his way out of the spaceport under cover of night. It took him this long to find out where I am.” She paused. “If I had stood where I was, he would have been seen by one of my agents as he left Quichancha."
"And you think that just by turning your body, he'll get out of the city unobserved?” said the Iceman skeptically.
"There are an infinite number of futures, Iceman. My freedom of action is limited, but in every future in which I turned, he leaves the city unobserved."
"How can turning your body make a difference in what happens a hundred miles away?"
"I do not know the Why of it, only the Truth of it,” the Oracle replied serenely. “In a universe of cause and effect, I am the Cause, and by my willpower and my actions, I select the effect."
He stared at her and made no reply.
"Why do you look at me with such an odd expression on your face?” she asked.
"Because I'm surprised."
"By me?"
He shook his head. “By me."
"Explain, please."
"Why bother? You know what I'm going to say."
"I know a million things you might say,” she replied. “I cannot consider all of them."
"All right,” said the Iceman. “I'm surprised by my reaction to you."
"In what way?"
"The last time we were together, you caused the death of someone I cared for very much,” he answered. “You caused her death, and you crippled me, and I thought I hated you. I thought that if I ever met you again, all I would want to do would be to put my hands around your throat and squeeze until you died."
"But this is not the case?"
"No,” he said. “I hated a little girl, who killed out of passion and jealousy—but you're not that girl. You have no passion left. For all I know you don't possess any other human emotions, either. You're a force of nature, nothing more.” He paused and sighed. “You can't hate a hurricane or an ion storm for being what they are, and I find I can't hate you."
She stared at him curiously, but made no reply.
"That doesn't mean you shouldn't be stopped,” he continued. “When winds build up to hurricane velocity, we dissipate them. When an ion storm approaches a habitable planet, we neutralize it."
"You cannot stop me, Iceman,” she said with detached amusement. “Surely you know that by now."
"Someone has already stopped you,” he replied. “Or have you the freedom to walk over to where I am standing?"
"I have not wanted it until now,” she said placidly. “And now that I want it, I shall have it soon."