Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 (21 page)

 
          
 
The only reason I could see for his missing me
under those conditions was the fact that he was injured. He emptied his weapon
at me, realized that he did not have time to reload it, turned and lurched off
up the nearest aisle. Mine had been emptied also by then, and I refused to
allow him the time it would take me to reload. I pursued him up the aisle.

 
          
 
Ahead, he turned left into a side passage or
booth, and I slowed. While it was still sufficiently dark to confuse my sense
of perspective somewhat, I realized with a start that the overhead lights were glowing
faintly now and could easily have been doing so for the past several minutes. A
bad sign, the power coming back so quickly, when I wanted to get him and clear
out before any measure of order returned to the place.

 
          
 
I jammed my pistol back within my shirt and
tore the stiletto loose from where it rode my forearm. It was moist and
slightly bent, and it occurred to me that it had been grazed by a bullet and
driven to break my skin—the stinging I had felt earlier.

 
          
 
I swung wide at the corner where he had
turned, dropping into a crouch, blade low.

 
          
 
He sprang at me. He had a blade of some sort—I
saw its faint gleam as it came toward me—but he held it awkwardly and his first
strike, which I was able to push aside, was faster than anything that followed.
He blocked mine with his forearm and slashed at my abdomen. My armor deflected
this, and after a few feints I was able to sink my blade up to the hilt in his
stomach. He made a bubbling noise, stiffened and sagged against me. I caught
him and lowered him to the floor.

 
          
 
I struck a light to better study his face. I
tugged at his hair and it came away; it was a dark wig. Beneath, his own hair
was white. Yes, it was indeed the same man who had occupied the power chair,
who had gotten Lange to order him a drink and then shot him. Mr. Black.

 
          
 
And he stared at me and smiled.

 
          
 
"
Jordan
. . . ?" he said.

 
          
 
"Winton," I replied.

 
          
 
"Close, close ... It couldn't have been
anyone later. Those creampuffs . . ."

 
          
 
"Why?" I said. "Why did you do
it?"

 
          
 
He shook his head.

 
          
 
"You'll find out. Soon," he said.
"Oh, very soon!"

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
He grimaced, then forced the smile once more.

 
          
 
"I could have taken you—with the knife—if
I had wanted . . ." he said. "Think about it—"

 
          
 
He died then, grinning at me, and suddenly I
realized what he had meant.

 
          
 
Mesh—No!

 
          
 
He was old, and somewhere along the line he
had changed the facial structure a bit more radically than the rest of us, but
as I felt his death within my own being and fought to block an abrupt
mesh-effect, I realized that Mr. Black was the missing clone.

 
          
 
Gritting my teeth, squeezing my temples, I
built walls of resistance about my mind. There is always a meshing when one of
us dies, and its effects vary. It does not matter too much, though, since we
are all of us contained within one another, "nexus" only being the
term by which we refer to the oldest among us, who is automatically head of the
family.

 
          
 
Black was indeed one of us, since the terminal
mesh-effect was occurring. For all of his life he must have been blocking the
ordinary meshings each time that they occurred. Still, as a silent party to our
telepathic bond, I could understand his uncanny ability when it came to
pursuing us, knowing our whereabouts.

 
          
 
Having dwelled apart from us all of his Kfe,
he was totally unfamiliar. The effects of his personality on our own could be
catastrophic. They would of course vary in each instance. I had a strong
feeling that he would tend to dominate, however.

 
          
 
I held him off. The impulse that had been
beating against my mind died down, faded, was gone.

 
          
 
For an instant, Winkel, Gene and Jenkins would
think it was me that had died.

 
          
 
Then it would be too late.

 
          
 
Which of them would break first? I wondered.
And what would he do when he did?

 
          
 
Damn!

 
          
 
I twisted the blade out of his belly and wiped
it on his jacket. Our wayward brother had certainly stacked the deck. I had to
get back to Wing Null immediately to try to deal with whatever catastrophe was
about to break loose there. And I was taken by the feeling that I might not be
able to.

 
          
 
I dropped the blade into an inside pocket and
turned away. Glenda was standing about ten feet up the corridor, digging at her
cheek with her fingertips.

 
          
 
"He's dead," she said. "Isn't
he?"

 
          
 
"I'm afraid not," I said, going to
her and taking her hand away from her face.

 
          
 
I did not release her arm, but used it to turn
her gently, back in the direction from which we had come.

 
          
 
"Come with me," I said. "There
are things we must talk about, later."

 
          
 
She did not resist as I led her away from the
smiling figure and back toward the flier. The fights continued to brighten as
we went

 
          
 
It was not until we were airborne and on our
way to the jackpole that she spoke again:

 
          
 
"Where are we going?"

 
          
 
"To a place called Wing Null," I
said.

 
          
 
"Where is that?"

 
          
 
"It is too complicated to explain just
now."

 
          
 
She nodded.

 
          
 
"I understand about your secret
place—that you have one, I mean."

 
          
 
"How is it that you do? Mr. Black?"

 
          
 
"Yes," she said. "What did you
mean when you said that he was not dead? I saw you—kill him."

 
          
 
"Only a body died. He still exists."

 
          
 
"Where?"

 
          
 
"Wing Null, I fear."

 
          
 
"How? The same way as you—do it?"

 
          
 
"Perhaps. What do you know about
it?"

 
          
 
"I am sure that you are somehow Mr.
Engel, the man I was with earlier, the man I saw die. You transmigrated some
way, and you came to the address I gave you then. I have no idea as to the
mechanism involved."

 
          
 
"Mr. Black again? That is where you heard
of this?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"What is he to you?"

 
          
 
"He was my guardian, after my father died
and my mother had to be sent away, for treatments. He volunteered and the plat
council appointed him. He had been a friend of my father."

 
          
 
"What did he do? What was his
occupation?"

 
          
 
"He was a teacher. Classics. He used the
name Eibon then. Henry Eibon."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"Originally, he had told me it was a
game. You see, I had known him as Mr. Black when he used to visit us. He began
using the other name when he became my guardian. Later, of course, I realized that
it was more than a game, but I kept my mouth shut because I loved him. He was
very good to me. —You say there is a chance that I will see him again
soon?"

 
          
 
"I am afraid so."

 
          
 
"Suppose you tell me what he is to
you?"

 
          
 
"We have been enemies for a long while.
He started the vendetta. I have no idea why."

 
          
 
She was silent as we traveled the remaining
distance and I located a deserted area not too far from the jackpole and landed
the flier in a three-walled reading lounge. As I helped her out, I said,
"Do you?"

 
          
 
"What if I were to say 'yes'?"

 
          
 
I seized her by the shoulders and spun her, so
that her face was about eight inches from my own.

 
          
 
"Talk!" I said. "Tell me
why!"

 
          
 
"Let me go! I didn't say that I
knew!"

 
          
 
I tightened my grip, then relaxed it. I slid
my hand down her arm and turned her by the elbow.

 
          
 
"Come on," I said. "We have to
go up a couple levels."

 
          
 
If she did not want to talk, I did not have
the time to shake the answers out of her. I had wanted to reach her for two
reasons: to protect her and to obtain the information it seemed she possessed.
Now she seemed to be in no need of protection and unwilling to part with
information. But now that I was aware of her special relationship with Black, I
felt myself automatically begin thinking of her as something of a hostage. I
was not pleased with the discovery of this reaction, but I was not about to
abandon it either.

 
          
 
"Basically," she said, as we headed
toward the jackpole through the growing light, "you want to keep people in
the House, don't you?"

 
          
 
"Well," I said, "to be basic
and general about it, yes. I think it is a good idea."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"It is the best way I know for people to
learn to really live together."

 
          
 
"By forcing them?"

 
          
 
"Of course. When the alternatives to proximity
have been removed and aggressive energies are rechanneled, people tend to
cooperate rather than compete. Some measure of coercion is needed, though, to
set up such a state of affairs."

 
          
 
"Then what happens?"

 
          
 
"What do you mean?"

 
          
 
"Have people changed much, from living in
the House?"

 
          
 
"I think they have."

 
          
 
"Will they continue to change?"

 
          
 
"I believe so."

 
          
 
"They will be allowed to go outside when
they have reached some ideal point of adaptation?"

 
          
 
"Of course."

 
          
 
"Why 'of course'? Why not right now? Why
do you want to see them prisoners until they have changed?"

 
          
 
"They are not prisoners. They can come
and go as they please."

 
          
 
"In the House!"

 
          
 
"In the House."

 
          
 
"Why not outside, too?"

 
          
 
My head began to hurt and I became acutely aware
of all my other aches and pains. I did not feel like answering her.

 
          
 
Do you want me to?

 
          
 
"Why not?" I decided. "Go
ahead,
Jordan
. Say whatever you want."

 
          
 
Give me your mouthy your throat, your
breathing. Relax.

 
          
 
I did this, and moments later he began to
speak.

 
          
 
“Turn them loose?" he said. "To
diversify, accentuate their differences, to stimulate competition, aggression,
violence toward one another? They very nearly succeeded in destroying
themselves that way once. Given similar circumstances, they might succeed the
next time. To prevent this, man himself needs to be changed. He is not yet what
he will be, but he is better than he was. When he has learned to live with
himself, peacefully, here in the House, then he will be ready to go outside it."

 
          
 
"But will he still be human?" she
said.

 
          
 
"Whatever he is will be human, for that
will then be the measure of humanity."

 
          
 
"What gives you the right to make all
these judgments?"

 
          
 
"Someone must. Anyone who wants
can."

 
          
 
"Mr. Black did. And he disagreed with
you. To make the House safe for your nonaggressive, nonviolent ideals, you
killed him."