Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 (19 page)

 
          
 
"Of them all, who do you most feel
like?" he said.

 
          
 
"Myself! Damn it!" I said. I was
half-minded to mesh then and there and remove all cause for argument and
explanation both. But I held to my conviction that this might not be wise in
terms of whatever personal editing I might eventually be required to undertake.
Also, from the look on his face, I believed that Winkel might be prepared to
resist the mesh at this time. So, "There was some influence, of
course," I said. "That was unavoidable. Fortunately, it is of benefit
in the present situation. I am still basically me, though."

 
          
 
He still looked unconvinced, but further
insistence was not going to strengthen my statement—just the opposite,
perhaps—so I decided to let it rest at that and get down to essentials.

 
          
 
"It appears that, several generations
ago, an individual became aware of our existence," I began. "How he
learned of us remains a mystery. But he demonstrated his knowledge of the
personal identities of all the members of the family at that time. He did this
in a manner that bore a close resemblance to our present plight. He attempted
to murder all of us. He was obviously unsuccessful, possibly because the
tendency was still strong within us to strike back instantly. We did not,
however, succeed in obtaining his destruction, rehabilitation or even—for that
matter— knowledge of his identity. He did succeed in killing three of us before
we increased our wariness and the variety of our defenses to the point where
several further attempts on his part were frustrated and he became the hunted.
We came close to capturing him on two occasions, but he managed to escape us
both times. Then he vanished. The attacks ceased. Years passed. Nothing.

 
          
 
"While we did not forget what had
occurred," I went on, "the absence of the peril allowed for a gradual
return of some feelings of security. Perhaps he was dead, we felt Or had given
up on his vendetta for reasons as inscrutable as those which had caused him to
embark upon it. Whatever his disposition, he apparently took his knowledge of our
affairs with him, for there was never any indication, anywhere else, of an
awareness of our existence.

 
          
 
"Then, almost nine years later, he struck
again, as suddenly as before. His planning and his coordination were very good.
He got five of us at that time. He might have done even better, had not
Benton
been able to shoot him before he died
himself. He was apparently pretty badly wounded, but he managed to get away
before we reached the scene. Then, again, nothing. For several years. We
assumed he had died as a result of his wounds."

 
          
 
"How do you know it was the same
man?" Gene asked me.

 
          
 
"An assumption," I replied,
"based primarily upon the similar pattern of attack. We also have a gross
physical description, from the terminal impressions of several of his victims.
And we have other data, such as his blood type—"

 
          
 
"Was it the same man who shot you?"
Winkel asked.

 
          
 
"In light of what I know now, yes. I
believe that it was."

 
          
 
"Where there any other attacks besides
the two you have described?"

 
          
 
"Yes. Many years after the passing of
Jordan
, during the time when Winton was nexus, he
came here, to Wing

 
          
 
Null. The nature of his intentions was never
clear to us. We have no idea what he would have done had the place been
unoccupied, as it is so much of the time. As it was, Winton just happened to be
here—here in Comp, as a matter of fact—when he arrived. The klaxon sounded and
Winton picked him up on the screen. Interestingly, he had succeeded in avoiding
the automatic defenses. How he achieved this remains a mystery. Winton headed
for the hall and startled him there, opening fire immediately. He fled,
returning the fire, and although he was wounded he succeeded in throwing
himself across the grid and making an exit. Winton returned here and traced him,
discovering he had gone to the Chapel on Wing 7. He immediately meshed with the
others, and we attempted an intercept there. But beyond a few gory traces, he
was not to be found."

 
          
 
"That was the last such occurrence—until
recently, that is?"

 
          
 
"Yes. Old Lange retained the memory as a
precaution. Lange erased it as a useless violence-reminder when he became
nexus, though. So much time had passed that it seemed a safe assumption that
our enemy was dead."

 
          
 
"A mistake."

 
          
 
"Obviously."

 
          
 
"He left no clues?"

 
          
 
"A few here and there. Dead ends, all.
For instance, he dropped a tool kit when I—Winton shot him. It proved to have
been stolen from a maintenance locker in the Cellar of Wing 11. The trail ended
there."

 
          
 
"No prints, no traces of any sort on the
tools or their container?"

 
          
 
"None. He always wore gloves at the
proper time. Careful sort. We spent a long while checking on everybody even
remotely associated with the maintenance locker. Again, nothing. But the nature
of the tools themselves gave rise to some interesting speculations."

 
          
 
"Of what sort?"

 
          
 
"The tools were of the type a person
might choose to work on the locks we had on the vaults then. Does that remind
you of anything?"

 
          
 
"The missing clone!"

 
          
 
"Exactly. Our big, unsolved mystery, over
a century old now. One day a clone is gone from its locker, never to be seen
again. Where? How? Why? No answers. Absolutely useless to anyone but the
family. Supposedly inaccessible to anyone but us. Gone. That was why we
installed fancier locks on the vaults and built the defense system. We changed
our subway setup, too. Despite these precautions, though, someone reached us
again and it was only by chance that we were able to stop him. The connection
seems unavoidable, though the motive is anybody's guess. We revamped the whole
security framework, achieving what we have today. As the years went by, we
relaxed again. Eventually, so much time passed that we felt safe in allowing
ourselves to forget, piece by piece, everything but the nagging fact of the
missing clone, which for some reason no one felt quite up to erasing. I feel
our Mr. Black is involved with the whole thing.

 
          
 
"Therefore," I concluded, "I
want a man on this panel at all times, monitoring the arrival station. If we
should receive an unwelcome visitor and he is able to avoid the automatic
defenses, you must be ready to switch over to manual immediately. Also, I want
you to break out something heavier than trank guns and carry them until this
thing is settled."

 
          
 
Their faces were blank, puzzled, irritated,
going from left to right.

 
          
 
"What exactly are we supposed to do with
Mr. Black?" Winkel said.

 
          
 
"Well, I would like to have the contents
of his head intact," I told him. "But if they happen to get in the
way of a bullet, that's all right, too."

 
          
 
I moved to a panel and set my course for Wing
5.

 
          
 
"You haven't told us everything yet, have
you?" he asked.

 
          
 
"Just essentials. Time is important. You
are next in line for the nexus, though. If anything happens to me, you will
wind up knowing more than I do now. That is one of the advantages of serial
immortality."

 
          
 
"I may not want to have it all."

 
          
 
“... and you need not keep it. That is one of
the advantages of partial suicide."

 
          
 
I turned away and headed toward the door.

 
          
 
"Do you intend to bring him here for
interrogation?"

 
          
 
I paused and shook my head.

 
          
 
"My goal is a more modest one," I
said, "I just want to 1 kill the son of a bitch."

 
          
 
A minute later I was in a dark, silent place
on Wing 5.

 
          
 
I emerged cautiously, but no one seemed to be
about. Fine. I closed the black door behind me and moved away quickly.

 
          
 
Something was wrong, and it took me several
seconds to sort out my impressions.

 
          
 
It was the stillness. It was eerie, hearing
nothing beyond the echoes of my own footsteps. There were no machine sounds, no
humming, whirring background noises; even the beltways had been muted. The air
seemed much warmer than usual and hung motionless about me. The dimness was
much heavier than normal, though I could see an area of illumination, faint,
far off to my right.

 
          
 
I suppressed my curiosity as to the light
source and continued on in the direction I had chosen. That way lay the nearest
jackpole, a jet tower rooted in a wilderness of broken outlines and vanishing
into infinity. I would have to walk its spiral, I feared.

 
          
 
Was Mr. Black waiting for me somewhere between
here and there, I wondered? Possibly, knowing our use of the black doors,
knowing that I would come to Wing 5.

 
          
 
Was this a mad extreme to which he had gone in
his effort to destroy us, or was it the other way around? Was this some part of
a thing long in the planning, to which our removal was but an ancillary
provision?

 
          
 
Either way, it mattered little now. I was as
ready as possible, under the circumstances.

 
          
 
I walked on through the blackout. Had there
been a breakdown in the cellar, or was the power being diverted elsewhere to
meet some emergency?

 
          
 
And what of Glenda? What did she know? What
was her part in this thing?

 
          
 
Then I froze in my tracks and had my hand on
my gun, half-drawing it from the holster. What—?

 
          
 
A chord. Then another. Then angry, throbbing
music. Violent. Jerkily played. It was an organ, suddenly come to life in a
recess not too far to my left. Moments later, I recognized the music, strange
sounds for a place of worship and meditation: the Damnation of Faust.

 
          
 
I followed it, of course. There are
circumstances under which the anomalous should be courted. Ignorance is one of
them.

 
          
 
As I moved diagonally toward the entrance to
the area, I caught a glimpse of a weird tableau within. A somewhat disheveled
man in clerical garb was seated at the keyboard. A small candelabra gave him
light from atop the instrument, and two wine bottles kept it company.

 
          
 
I advanced, entered. He smiled at me, closed
his eyes and continued playing. As I moved nearer, he opened them again and his
smile vanished, to be replaced by a loose-jawed look of horror. His fingers
stumbled into a final discord and he slumped forward, shaking.

 
          
 
I stood there for a few moments, undecided as
to what I should do. He resolved the matter, however, by raising his head and
lowering his hands from his face. He stared at me, panting, then said,
"Don't keep me in suspense. What is the verdict?"

 
          
 
"What do you mean?" I said.

 
          
 
"Has my petition been granted?" he
asked, his eyes dropping to regard my feet, then turning toward the altar.

 
          
 
I followed his glance and saw that the altar
was in disarray, with the crucifix inverted above it.

 
          
 
I gave a small shrug. So the local preacher
had decided to switch sides. Was it worth the time it would take to find out
what had prompted it?

 
          
 
Possibly, I decided, since something recent
and traumatic was doubtless involved.

 
          
 
"Well?" he said.

 
          
 
"Who do you think I am?" I asked.

 
          
 
He smiled slyly and bowed his head.

 
          
 
"I saw where you came from," he
said. "I have been watching the black door since I made my offering. When
I saw you emerge, I played propitious music."

 
          
 
"I see. And what do you seek to gain by
this?"

 
          
 
"You have heard me, you have come. You
know what I would have."

 
          
 
"Do not try my patience!" I said.
"I want to hear you say it! Now!"

 
          
 
His eyes widened and he threw himself
prostrate before me.

 
          
 
"I meant no offense!" he said.
"I seek only to please you!"

 
          
 
"What prompts this sudden appreciation of
that which is most fitting and proper?"

 
          
 
"When it happened, and people began to
come to me, with stories, of the terror ... I held services. People kept
coming. Finally, I was granted a glimpse. Before the power failed. Before the
evacuation order. I saw that we had been forsaken. I knew then that we had been
given over to destruction, and I thought, 'Make to yourselves friends of the
mammon of unrighteousness; that, when ye fail, they may receive you into
everlasting habitations.'"

 
          
 
"Why do you feel you have been
forsaken?"

 
          
 
"For our presumption, our resentments,
our secret desires—"

 
          
 
"I mean, what happened?"

 
          
 
He raised his head, looked up at me.

 
          
 
"You mean the explosions and all?"

 
          
 
"Yes. And get up off the floor."

 
          
 
He scrambled to his feet and backed away. When
he came up against the bench, I nodded and said, "Sit down."

 
          
 
He did, and, "The explosions, just a few
hours ago," he said, "when they tore through the wall, they showed
us—the stars ... Oh God!" He looked comically startled, then added,
"Fm sorry."

 
          
 
"Which level?"

 
          
 
"Living Room," he said, glancing at
his bottle atop the organ.

 
          
 
I sighed. Good. That was down four, whereas
the Library was only two levels below me. All the way through the wall ... It
must have been quite an explosive, that.

 
          
 
"What happened after the
explosions?" I said.

 
          
 
"There was a rush to get away," he
said. "Then when everybody realized what had happened, there was a rush to
go and look out." He licked his lips, looked at the bottle again.
"Then another rush to get away," he finished.

 
          
 
"Go ahead and drink some," I said.

 
          
 
He seized the bottle, put it to his lips and
threw his head back. I watched his Adam's apple do pushups off his collar.

 
          
 
Wing 5. At least, he had picked a fairly
congenial planet for his catastrophe—the atmosphere was breathable, though
somewhat irritating, and the temperature was bearable at night.

 
          
 
"And you went and looked?" I asked.
He lowered the bottle, nodded and began to cough. Then, after a few moments, he
pointed at the altar.

 
          
 
"I saw eternity," he said. *The sky
just goes on and on forever. And I saw the lights in the heavens. I smelled the
fumes of the Pit. People were screaming and fainting. Others were pushing
forward. Some were running. Some went out into it, I think, and were lost. They
herded us back finally, and off that level. They may have sealed it off by now.
Many people came to the Chapel. There were services going on all over. I held
three myself. I felt stranger and stranger all the while. I knew that it was
Judgment Day. I knew that we were all unworthy. It is the end. The House is
falling and the heavens have been opened. Man is insignificant, worthless. I
knew that when I looked on eternity." He paused to take another drink,
then continued, "After my last service, I knew that I could not go on. I
could not go on praying for deliverance from that which I knew we deserved.
Better to embrace it, I decided. So I came to this section which was not in
use. All of the others are over that way." He gestured in the direction of
the illumination—candles, doubtless. "Here I did what I thought most
fitting," he concluded. "Take me, master," and he hiccupped.

 
          
 
"I am not he whom you have
summoned," I said, and I turned to go.

 
          
 
"No!" I heard him cry; and I heard
the bottle fall, and I heard him curse and scramble after it. Then, "I saw
where you came from!" he shrieked. "You came through the black
door!"

 
          
 
"You are mistaken," I said.

 
          
 
"No! I know what I saw! Who are
you?"

 
          
 
His plight must have moved me a little further
up the philosophical alley than I had realized, for I actually considered his
question for a moment and answered it honestly.

 
          
 
"I don't really know," I said, and I
kept moving. 125

 
          
 
"Liar!" he called out. "Father
of Lies!"

 
          
 
Then he began to weep.

 
          
 
"So this is Hell ..." I heard him
saying as I departed.

 
          
 
I moved away quickly, thinking about the
reactions of others. I wondered whether he could be typical. I thought not. I
hoped not. He was an aberrant, that was all. His ] was not the direction in
which we had been steering them.

 
          
 
I walked at a brisk clip, paralleling the
still beltway that led off toward the jackpole. Small knots of figures moved along
it, passing in both directions through the gloom. What light there was came
from those appliances and signs equipped with their own power units, from
candlelit sections of the Chapel, luminous trouble-plates and hand-beams borne
by the pedestrians. And during the next five or ten minutes, I passed two slow
processions where everyone bore a lighted candle. I saw no one who was not I
part of some group.

 
          
 
I thought again of the power loss. This sort
of emergency would hardly call for an action that would require most of the
electrical output, even for one level. No. There had to have been a bit of
simultaneous mischief in the Cellar. Which indicated a time bomb rather than teamwork,
as Black had always impressed me as playing a completely solitary hand. The
timing, of everything, was very important. The attack on the family, the hole
in the wall, the loss of power. I could feel the pattern there, although I
could not understand it. It was quite possible that I never would. I would
probably have to kill him before he could tell me. And the alternative made no
provision for our enlightenment either. Pity. All that planning, timing,
coordination—with success entailing the destruction of the only ones capable of
appreciating your work. Kind of sad, any way you looked at it, whatever
happened.