Read Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 Online
Authors: Today We Choose Faces
The stellar panorama had something to do with
it— those stars we had tried to make somehow obscene—as well as the still,
stark landscape through which I moved, alone now for the first time in ages,
outside the House, pursuing the most enigmatic individual of whom I had
knowledge, in the direction of those puzzling ruins. It was unusual that I
should think along these lines. The ruins had not been puzzling to me up until
then. They were simply there, and that was it, a fact which also contributed to
this odd moment's introspection. The possibility then occurred to me that peculiar
things which did not normally strike me as puzzling were probably things about
which I had once known something, and like a sword in a stone the edge of my
curiosity was blunted at a subconscious level.
How many things had I known and forgotten? Would
any of them be of value to me now? Was I rushing to my destruction by pursuing
a man who knew almost everything that I knew, plus several lifetimes'
experience of which I knew nothing? Possibly. But I thought I had this
encounter worked out. The thing that bothered me was that he should be able to
see it, too.
And why choose this place as our battlefield?
It had to do with the ruins, I knew. I realized then that I was somewhat afraid
of them. Why?
If only I had pulled more pins . ..
I moved ahead, ready for an ambush but
doubting one would come, yet.
Not a sparkle, not a glimmer emerged from the
ruins. They were still, their shadows only just now beginning to retreat from
the moonlight.
My footfalls came soft, muffled. My breathing
seemed the loudest thing about me . . .
The ground rose, then dipped again, and for a
moment I had a very clear view for a good distance. He was nowhere in sight,
though. There came a breeze, cool, light, and the fogs diminished, were gone,
as I made my way onto higher ground.
I was aiming to kill a man in the name of
pacificism, harmony, fraternity, and to maintain the integrity of the House.
That his intentions toward me were also lethal was fairly obvious by now. While
I was uncertain as to the principles involved, it was apparent that he
disagreed with me on the question of cloistering humanity. This was sufficient
reason to remove him, so far as I was concerned. However, while with anyone
else I would simply have dismissed him as misguided, his persistence and
occasional ingenuity had aroused my curiosity as to his reasons.
I had no doubts as to the correctness of my
own beliefs, that human nature could be altered, that man could be forced to
evolve morally. As I made my way about a small, scummy pool at the center of a
crater, I did, for a moment, wonder why. It was not a questioning of the
notions, simply a sudden curiosity as to where I had obtained them. It seemed
that they had always been a part of my mental equipment. This being so, it
struck me that with all those pulled pins Black and I now shared an ancestry
with which he should be by far the more conversant. Such being the case, it
would seem he should have acquired the proper philosophical attitude. There
were several possibilities . . .
Either he possessed an overriding imperative
to the contrary, he had been changed, or our early past was sufficiently
ambiguous for him to live without altering his attitudes.
It may have been that all three were to some
extent correct. The nature of the former was presently as unknowable to me as
the ultimate source of my own sentiments. I mean, I was aware that my own
notions were rational without necessarily being logical, that is to say,
deductive. They were a part of my mental—"tradition" I guess is the
best word. Say his feelings were as strong, and I suppose it was possible that
the accumulations of four lifetimes dumped upon him by the pulling of the pins
might not have swayed him over to my way of thinking. Still, there had to be
some effect ... It was like guessing at the results of a test wherein two
virtually unknown chemicals were to be mixed and heated, though.
The third thought was what troubled me, as it
touched on something of a sore spot I had but recently developed . . .
Namely, the possibility that my past was not
so firm a thing as my present. Supposing there was actually something there to
comfort and abet him? The reason for the partial suicide by means of the pin
with each succession of the nexus was more than personality adjustment for a
permanent meshing. It was also intended as a progressively civilizing act, a
further paring away on each occasion of those elements best classified as
antisocial, in keeping with the evolving temper of the times. My present state
of being was evidence of the effectiveness of the system. I was capable of
things which I knew would have caused Lange or Engel to writhe, to recoil with
revulsion, possibly to pass out. For the moment I was glad of this, because of
the man I pursued. But although I felt myself a necessary evil, I regretted the
necessity. The means were vindicated only because Black was an anachronism.
But what things lay behind the other pins?
That was what troubled me. I knew what I had been until very recently, and I
knew what I had become. The return had been a comfortable and natural thing,
and I absorbed and dominated my later selves quite easily—as if they had been
but brief moods. All the unsacrificed portions of
Jordan
were part of my memory; the rest I knew
through the interface darkly when, at times of crisis, he became my personal
demon. Offhand, I would say that he was a trifle meaner and more unprincipled
than I. By extension, then, might not the even earlier versions of myself lend
support rather than contradiction to whatever made Black run? I had been
lifting myself by my own bootstraps, step by painful step. But what if I had
not? What if there had been no overpowering will to improve my condition, and
no effort? Black and I were of the same flesh. I did not understand how or why,
but we were. And this was what made me apprehensive. The only real difference
between us was an idea, or an ideal. And, as facets of the same person, we were
still willing, in a completely literal sense, to kill ourself over it. The
feeling that gripped me at that moment was not unlike the one that had taken
Engel as he fled by ranks of jangling phones. Only I knew that if I answered,
the voice on the other end would be my own.
Peering ahead, I picked my way among haphazard
heaps of shattered stone. I contained my feelings, partly suppressed them, kept
alert. He could be waiting in ambush at any point.
I passed a small crater within and about which
the rocks had been fused. Almost immediately after that, the ground took a turn
upward and I picked a broken course up the long incline, shards and splinters
of some mineral glittering underfoot. Abruptly, I came to a
high point
beyond a stand of boulders, from which I
could see the ruins about three-quarters of a mile distant.
I sought cover immediately and studied the
prospect It was still and clear in the moonlight, with no apparent movement
anywhere, except for a few small flying things that dipped and darted quickly
by. There was no light from within the ruins. I watched for a brief while,
glanced back at the dark bulk of the Wing with its one small square of
illumination, turned my eyes ahead once more.
Then I saw him.
Advancing quickly, he had just emerged from a
jagged declivity that lay like a broken lightning bolt halfway across the
plain. Dodging among rocks, he continued on toward the ruins.
I was after him immediately, racing down the
slope, skidding and slipping, dislodging gravel. No need for stealth now I knew
where he was. I broke into a run at the first opportunity. It appeared that he
was indeed making his way toward that smashed fortress, and I felt a sudden
need to reach him before he got there. I felt more troubled that he was heading
for it than if he had been laying a simple ambush. His knowledge of the past being
greater than mine, I feared that he knew to seek something within that might
give him the edge in our coming conflict.
Down, then up again. There were no more major
dips the rest of the way. It was all uphill, pocked, fused, cracked, strewn
with rubble. Running became impossible before very long, but I pushed myself to
my limits and gained on him. How long before he became aware of me?
Minutes later, it did not matter. I was closer
to him than he was to the ruins. And the first couple of times he looked back
he missed me somehow. I was gasping by then and very conscious of the rushing
of blood in my temples. I slowed. I had to.
He caught sight of me shortly after that,
stared a moment, turned and broke into a run. Cursing, I followed at the best
pace I could manage. We were still too far apart to bother shooting at each
other.
For a little while then, it was a question of
hoping for him to tire quickly while I tried hard not to myself. If I could
just hold up a little longer, he might become convinced that this was the way
it was going to work. I wanted him to decide that running was not going to get
him where he was headed in time, so that he might as well turn and fight and
get things over with, one way or the other.
He looked back again, and although it pained
me I put on a burst of speed. We were almost within hailing distance. He
faltered slightly, hurried again.
Slowly, things cleared a bit, steadied. It
seemed my second wind was on its way. I began to feel that I would hold up. When
he looked back about a minute later that was apparently his conclusion, too.
He veered to the right, making for an area of
large stones and small rubble. Great! I did the same. I was not about to play
it slow and careful when I was wearing body armor.
I had my pistol ready before he disappeared
behind the nearest boulder. I swung wide as I passed it, but he was not there.
He had kept going, and the first shot came at me from a stand of stone about a
hundred feet away.
I held my own fire as I charged his position,
waiting for him to show himself again, as he pulled back that first time. I was
not going to waste a shot on that skimpy a target at that distance.
He did, at about fifty feet, and we both
fired. I felt the impact on my chest armor, and my own shot ricocheted off the
stone.
I kept running and we both kept firing. This
time he did not retreat. My armor stopped two more of his shots, I believe.
Then he jerked with one of mine. For a moment, my hopes rose.
We each got off one more shot, though.
It came as a blinding pain in the left side of
my head, and I stumbled. My pistol fell from my numbed fingers.
I could not permit it to end that way. I
thought that I heard a metallic click near to my head. Turning, I saw the tops
of his shoes. My right arm was completely useless, but I could not let him
simply stand there, reload and pull the trigger again.
I grabbed at his ankles with my left hand, and
I caught one. The left, I think. He tried to pull free, but I was able to
maintain my grip. Then he tried to kick me with his free foot, just as I jerked
at his ankle and rolled myself toward him.
He went down.