Dead Space: Catalyst (8 page)

His heart was beating fast by this time, and he was short of breath. He ran along the street until he figured he’d passed the last of the rally, then cut back toward Luna Avenue.

There, just a few hundred feet away, was the municipal hall. It was a much smaller crowd than the rally, the merest fraction of the number of people. Still, the steps were crowded, perhaps close to a hundred people, though as many people seemed to be looking back toward the rally as toward the man fielding questions up on the steps.

Not wanting to be conspicuous, he slowed his run to a quick walk, then slowed further still. He drifted into the edge of the crowd and stopped, waited.

“No,” said Councilman Tim Fischer, frowning. He stood flanked by two security guards, their faces expressionless. “The government can hardly have teams of wandering assessors moving from dome to dome, reporting on the integrity of each structure. We simply can’t afford it.”

Jensi looked around. A first sweep didn’t reveal his brother.

“But,” said a reporter, perhaps the same one who had asked whatever the initial question was, “how can you afford not to?”

Fischer remained unruffled. “We can afford to do a little of it,” he said, apparently thoughtfully. “But we do not have endless resources and so we have to focus them. As most of you know, we do have a team for the dome we are in today. We felt that this dome, as the largest dome, should be a priority.”

Jensi kept scanning the crowd, more slowly this time, moving from face to face.

“It is also the richest dome per capita,” stated another reporter.

“That’s beside the point.”

“But the poorer domes are not a priority,” said the second reporter. “That’s exactly the point.”

“It is a sad thing,” said Councilman Fischer, “but we do have to make choices. We depend on citizens to let us know when they see signs of stress or potential indications of failure. Whenever they let us know, we do our best to correct the problem as quickly as possible. In this case, it’s not a governmental failure that’s the problem. It’s a failure on behalf of the citizenry.
They
should have been on this sooner.”

A dull, dissatisfied rumble moved through the crowd, people turning to one another and whispering, and in that moment Jensi caught sight of Istvan. He was mostly hidden behind a large middle-aged woman, on the other side of the crowd, near the top of the steps, close to the councilman. He was standing motionless, his head down, and he remained that way even when the people around him were turning to one another to discuss something the councilman had said. But Jensi could tell by the tension of his neck and shoulders that he was as tautly wound as a spring.

*   *   *

Istvan was waiting for a sign, something that would tell him when to go, what to do next. He already knew what he would do, they had taught him, they had given him his purpose and explained to him what would happen when he did it, how funny it would be, but the question now was
when
. And they were not the ones that could tell him that. The world around him had to be the one to tell him that, a voice had to come, to signal to him, to show him its pattern and shape and draw him forward.

They had suggested to him that there was no reason to hesitate. He had a
purpose
and so as soon as he saw his opportunity he should spring forward. But no, he was almost seeing a pattern but it wasn’t quite there yet. Something was missing. Someone had not felt it yet and was standing wrong, the lines could not be traced, the shadow man remained hidden, unspeaking. Or something else was just slightly out of place and needed to be adjusted. And yet it was not his task to adjust the pattern. No, his task was only to see it, and once he saw it, to let it call him forward to his purpose.

He would wait. Would wait as long as he had to.

Patience, he told himself. Patience.

The man in front of him spoke on, answering questions but in ways that made no sense to Istvan. He pretended to be listening but he was not listening. He was watching and waiting. In his head he was saying the numbers, calling the pattern forward, reminding himself, and his voice, he realized now, was mumbling too, not too loud, not loud enough to be heard. But if the pattern did not come soon, he would, he knew, get louder and louder still.

And then he caught out of the corner of his eye a flicker of motion and the pattern slipped into place and he saw the life beneath things rear its head just a little, a voice forming inside him, calling him forward to fulfill his purpose.

*   *   *

Jensi passed back out of the crowd and circled around to the other side, began cautiously working his way up the steps, trying not to cause a disturbance. He kept his eyes open for other security in the crowd. There was nobody obvious: either there was nobody or somebody was undercover. There was Istvan’s head and shoulders just a few steps above him.

All I have to do is get to him,
thought Jensi.
If I can get to him and touch him, I’ll be able to coax him out of doing whatever he’s thinking of doing.

But even as he thought this, Istvan lifted his head and began to move.

“Don’t you think—” a new reporter began to say, and then stopped when she saw Istvan suddenly dash toward the podium. The security man nearest to him had been caught napping, too, and by the time he’d uncrossed his arms and begun to react, Istvan had kicked him hard in the knee. Even from where he was, pushing desperately forward through the crowd to try to get to his brother, Jensi heard the snap of the bone.

The man went down in a heap, with an unearthly cry. The other guard turned and rushed forward. He was now grappling with Istvan, trying to pull something out of his hand. Someone in the crowd started screaming and suddenly everyone was fleeing down the stairs and away, the flood of moving bodies carrying Jensi along with it. He tried to resist the current, then turned and fell. Someone stepped on his hand, hard, and somebody else stumbled over him and careened farther down the steps, and then he had scrambled to his feet again and was rushing forward. He saw Istvan head-butt the guard he was struggling with. The man let go, stumbling back a little bit before falling down. Fischer now was crouched behind the podium, cowering, protecting his head with his hands. Istvan spun and pointed what was in his hand at the man, and Jensi realized it was a gun.

“Istvan, no!” he shouted.

But Istvan didn’t seem to hear him. He had a strange grin on his face—strange because it did not seem malevolent or malicious, but only like the grin of someone who was playing a joke.

And then he pulled the trigger and there was a roar and Councilman Fischer’s head broke apart to spatter the podium. For a moment the body swayed there and then all the joints went loose and it collapsed. Istvan’s face had changed: he was no longer grinning. Instead he seemed genuinely shocked. He turned the gun around and brought it close to his face and stared into its barrel, as if it could tell him something. Then he lifted his head and suddenly met his brother’s gaze and this time seemed to see him. Shaking his head, he said, “This is not my purpose.”

“Put the gun down,” said Jensi. “Please.”

But Istvan kept holding it. “Brother,” he pleaded, “help me.”

Jensi took a step forward, but it was already too late. The second security guard had regained his feet and plowed into Istvan, knocking him down, the gun clattering away. Istvan didn’t resist. He allowed the man to force his head against the concrete and hold it there while he zip-tied first his arms and then his legs. And Jensi, watching all of this, remembered above all else the way that Istvan’s expression remained puzzled, confused.

“Who are you?” shouted out one of the reporters who had remained behind. But Istvan didn’t answer.

Jensi tried to get close but the security guard waved him back and, when he kept on coming, pulled out a pistol, threatened him. “If I need to, I’ll have you taken away along with him,” he said. The other security guard was still lying on the ground, groaning, holding his leg.

“Why did you do it?” asked one of the few people who had stayed, apparently a reporter.

“No vids!” said the security guard brandishing the gun, but more than a few people were already taking them with their mobiles.

This time Istvan did speak. He licked his lips and said, softly enough that Jensi himself could barely hear. “My purpose. But no, it wasn’t … it was wrong.”

“What was that?” asked the reporter. “Speak up.”

“Shut up,” said the guard, and kicked Istvan in the ribs.

“Who gave you your purpose?” asked Jensi.

“They did,” said Istvan.

“I told you to shut up,” said the guard.

“What is it you want to tell the world?” asked the reporter. “All eyes are on you now. What do you want the world to know?”

“Who’s they? Who gave you your purpose?” said Jensi again.

“
They
did,” said Istvan, and grimaced.

A moment later the steps were flooded by SCAC officers in riot gear, and Jensi wondered fleetingly if they were the “they” that Istvan had been talking about. One of them was in front of Jensi now, pushing him back and down the steps, the others moving rapidly to establish a perimeter. Jensi tried to resist and found himself pushed over and clattering down the steps. Through the gap between the officer’s legs he caught a brief glimpse of his brother’s face, still as confused as ever, and then they had forced a bag over Istvan’s head and were hustling him away.

8

The news was in people’s minds for a day or two, the subject of discussion on the vids, and then it disappeared almost as suddenly as it had first begun. Jensi had a hard time not thinking it had been deliberately quelled. For a week or two you could find the vid if you looked hard enough, hiding in some of the backwaters of the system. It showed nothing of the assassination itself, since the killshot had been hidden by the podium. No, you had to be to one side, as Jensi had been, to see Fischer’s head burst and scatter blood and brain. But what you did see was the look of confusion on Istvan’s face directly after the shot, a confusion and puzzlement that continued well after he’d been knocked down and tied up.

Jensi kept whirling the footage back, looking at it, trying to understand exactly what had happened. Was it simply an indication that Istvan had come out of his fantasy world, was now realizing that the blood and brains were real? Had he convinced himself that the gun, when fired, would do something else? Or had he, in fact, been
told
that the gun would do something else: fire blanks, fire a flag, not fire at all? Was it a question of Istvan’s madness, or had he been set up?

And, more importantly, was there any way in watching the vid to know for certain? After a few dozen viewings, Jensi guessed not. He might, he realized, never have a clear handle on what had happened to his brother. Yet he could not stop himself from continuing to watch the vid, continuing to hope that this time, by slowing the footage down to a crawl, he’d see something that he had missed before.

*   *   *

Henry had shown up shortly after they’d carted Istvan away, when Jensi was still standing there at the scene, trying to take in what had happened. “I came as fast as I could,” he claimed. “As soon as I saw it on the vids. I’m so sorry.” Without Henry, Jensi did not know how long he might have gone on standing there, shocked. But he let Henry gather him around the shoulders and lead him away.

Back in his apartment, he slept the sleep of the dead, not waking up for almost twenty hours. When he did, he found Henry still there, asleep on the couch. Once Henry realized he was awake, he roused himself and made Jensi something to eat.

“I’ve been asking about him,” said Henry. “Trying to find out what they’re going to do with him.”

Jensi nodded listlessly. “They arrested him,” he said. “I was there. I saw it. He shot the man. What other choice did they have?”

Henry shook his head. “They took him away, but they didn’t arrest him.”

“What?”

“No. He’s not at the police station or in any holding facility I could locate. Or if he is, they won’t tell me. Since you’re a relative, you might have better luck.”

But when he began contacting people, he had the same results, or lack thereof, as Henry. Nobody in the police station admitted any knowledge of Istvan. None of the facilities in the incarceration dome had received him, either.

“But he has to be somewhere,” said Jensi to a prison representative on the other end of the line.

“No doubt he is somewhere,” she said acidly. “But he isn’t here.” And then she broke the connection.

They tried again. Henry called his father and got him to talk to an acquaintance on the police force. He reported to Jensi that yes, there had been a man brought in with a bag over his head, surrounded by SCAC forces, but almost as soon as he had arrived he had been taken away again. He didn’t know where or why—this wasn’t, he made clear to Henry’s dad, standard procedure. The man promised to ask around if he could do so without raising too many hackles, see what he could find out.

After that, they didn’t know what else to do. They sat silent for a while, trying to come up with other ideas of how to locate Istvan.

“Maybe they killed him,” Jensi finally said, breaking the silence. And then, when Henry didn’t contradict him, said, “Say something. Did they?”

Slowly Henry shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It doesn’t seem like a smart move on their part, particularly with the vids still available.”

“But they seem to be getting rid of the vids.”

“They can’t get rid of all of them. They don’t know who has them on private systems—it could come back to haunt them. It’s not in their best interest to kill him unless they’re sure he won’t be needed later. I don’t think they could possibly know that yet.”

“But you think it’s possible they killed him?” asked Jensi.

Henry nodded. “It’s possible,” he admitted.

*   *   *

He took sick leave. He watched the vids over and over, still looking, still searching for something that would mean anything. If only he’d tried to keep Istvan from leaving. Maybe if he hadn’t been as tired as he was, he’d have managed to do that. But then again, maybe not. Or if he’d asked Istvan more questions, tried to coax what he meant out of him. Then, even if he hadn’t managed to get him to stay, Jensi would have more of a sense of what he meant by his purpose and of who “they” were.