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Chapter 24

 
"One need not hate what one kills."
—Conrad Bland

"One need not hate what one kills."
—Jericho

 

Bland led Sable and his bodyguard to the main auditorium, picking up another five guards along the way. There were somewhat fewer bodies than the first time Sable had been there, which implied that despite his many protestations to the contrary, Bland had been too preoccupied with the assassin's progress during the past few days to pay much attention to this most terrible of rooms.

"How many of the troops within the church grounds have communications units?" Bland asked.

"About a dozen, sir," responded one of the guards.

"Good. Get a radio in here and set up a command post. I want to keep in constant touch with them—and woe betide any officer who doesn't respond immediately when I try to establish contact with him."

The soldier saluted, sent out for a radio, and got to work cordoning off a section of the room.

Sable looked around him, and reflected ironically that proximity to Bland had changed his viewpoint more than he had expected. The carnage within the room, the skinless bodies, the corpses and near-corpses suspended from the rafters on meathooks, all filled him with moral outrage—but the numbing sense of shock was gone, the urge to vomit was minimal, the need to escape from the room was prompted solely by self-preservation. The wholesale nature of Bland's brand of torture and slaughter had deadened something deep within him, and he resented that almost as much as he resented the mindless brutality and suffering that surrounded him. Possibly it was his capacity to empathize that was gone, possibly it was something else—but whatever it was, he hoped that he hadn't lost it forever. Always supposing, he added with a wry mental footnote, that he came out of this mess alive, a prospect which seemed less and less likely as time wore on.

Bland had appropriated two more handguns from his guards and was checking them over carefully, making sure they were loaded and in proper working order. Finally satisfied, he tucked them into his pockets and began pacing around the room, kicking any writhing bodies that happened to be in his path.

Finally he turned to Sable.

"Who is he, Mr. Sable?"

"I don't know," replied Sable with a shrug.

"He must have a name, a face, an identity," persisted Bland.

"I don't know his name, and he's used up more faces and identities than you've got corpses in this room."

"How can he still be alive?" said Bland, his voice shrill and whining again. "Why haven't we captured or killed him yet?"

He walked over to the command post, which had just been activated, and began checking with his officers by radio. No one had seen any trace of the assassin; the church was still secure.

"Do you want us to send some men outside to see if he's been taken yet, sir?" asked one of the officers.

"Yes," said Bland, then quickly changed his mind. "No! No one leaves the church until he's dead!" He began pacing furiously, ranting into the microphone. "If I find that anyone has left his post, I'll make what goes on in this room seem like a picnic! I cannot and will not tolerate disloyalty! Satan help anyone who goes over to the other side, for I certainly will not!"

"The other side?" replied the officer, his voice crackling with static as it came over the radio. "I understood that it was just one man."

"Shut up!" screamed Bland. "Count your men! Count them right now! I want to know they're all where they're supposed to be!"

"But—"

"Count them!" shrieked Bland.

There was a brief silence on the radio, then the voice spoke again: "They're all here and in position, sir."

"Good!" snapped Bland. Then his eyes narrowed. "What's the password?"

"Password?" repeated the voice. "This network was just established within the last five minutes. No one has given us a password."

"Who are you?" demanded Bland.

"Marcus Cooper, sir."

Bland grunted and turned off the radio.

"You see, Mr. Sable?" he said, suddenly smiling again. "Still secure. Your assassin has gotten as close as he's going to get I am not a man who is noted for my compassion, but I must confess to feeling sorry for him. It was a noble effort, and one he can well be proud of during the few short minutes of life that remain to him."

Suddenly oblivious to the situation that had so captured his attention for the past half hour, he began wandering through the room, admiring his handiwork. Even in their dismal condition his victims recognized him, and tried to draw back as he walked among them. He continued his tour, smiling at the living and the dead, giving them affectionate pats on backs and shoulders much as a proud general might do to the members of a crack unit.

Sable merely stared at him, finding his behavior more fascinating and terrifying than anything that had yet been done to the poor souls in the room.

Then, suddenly, came the sound of gunfire again.

Bland raced to the radio and picked up the microphone.

"What's going on out there?" he yelled.

"He's somewhere on the church grounds, sir!" said Marcus Cooper's voice. "He's disguised as one of our soldiers, and we've got so many men out here that it's impossible to spot him!"

"Kill them all!" ordered Bland.

"But sir—"

"You heard me," repeated Bland, calmer now. "Kill every last soldier."

"But sir, I can't just—"

There was another sound of gunfire, and the radio went dead.

Bland tried his eleven other communications officers; only seven responded, and there was obvious confusion and chaos everywhere. He ordered each of them to open fire on any thing that was alive and moving.

"Sir," said one of Bland's bodyguards, "I'm sure it's only a matter of minutes until they kill him. However, just to be on the safe side, perhaps we should move to the chapel or one of the smaller rooms. They would be much easier to defend."

"No," said Bland firmly.

"But—"

"I like it here," said Bland, giving a fond pat to the buttocks of a dead man who was suspended from the ceiling a few feet away. "I feel at home here. Here is where I shall remain."

"I can appreciate that, sir, but—"

Bland pulled a pistol out of his pocket and killed the guard with a single shot.

"Does anyone else care to dispute my orders?" he inquired mildly.

Nobody did, and he turned to Sable.

"Well, it may cost me my army to get him, Mr. Sable," he said, "but I've lost armies before. I shall soon raise another."

"If you live long enough," said Sable meaningfully.

"First him, then you!" snapped Bland.

"You're not going to stop him!" said Sable with a triumphant smile. "He's within a hundred yards of you right now!"

"And he'll get no closer!" yelled Bland.

"He's probably gotten closer just since we've been speaking," said Sable. "How does it feel, to know that your death is inexorably approaching and there is nothing you can do to stop it?"

"An excellent question, Mr. Sable," said Bland, fingering his pistol lovingly. "Consider it carefully, and then give me your answer."

"Isn't it ironic," continued Sable, still smiling viciously, "that Conrad Bland, supposedly the greatest killer of them all, will be brought down neither by age or disease nor revolution, but by an even greater killer?"

"Be quiet," said Bland ominously.

"I think it's proper and fitting that you should die in this room, where you have killed so many others."

"My patience is not endless, Mr. Sable," said Bland, raising the pistol and pointing it at his chest "I think I would stop speaking right now if I were you."

Sable closed his mouth and glared at Bland defiantly.

Bland smiled back at him for a moment, then went back to his radio. This time only three officers replied.

Suddenly Bland turned almost white.

"The doors!" he screamed. "Why are the doors not locked?"

The five guards raced to the dozen doors that led to the auditorium and began bolting them, as a number of soldiers raced past in the corridor, guns drawn. As the last door was locked, another burst of gunfire rang out no more than sixty feet away.

"I told you he would not reach this room, Mr. Sable," said Bland.

"You told me he wouldn't reach Kether and Hod and Binah," Sable pointed out with a contemptuous laugh.

"Blights upon the map," scoffed Bland. "I would have destroyed them anyway."

"I know," said Sable.

Bland returned to the radio. "Did you get him?" he demanded.

"We're not sure, sir," said a hoarse voice. "There are so many dead bodies out here it's going to take hours to sort them out, but if he was in any of the corridors in the last couple of minutes he'd be among them."

"Well, that's that!" said Bland, smiling and rubbing his delicate hands together.

Sable said nothing.

"What's the matter, Mr. Sable?" gloated Bland. "Have you no congratulations for my heroic forces, no plaudits for their leader? Surely you are more generous than that!"

"If you're so sure he's dead, open the doors and dismiss your guards," replied Sable.

"All in good time," said Bland. "But before I do, I have some other business to conclude, as you may recall." He paused, waiting for a reaction from Sable, but there was no change in the detective's expression. "I offer you one last chance to amuse me, Mr. Sable. Surely your life is precious enough for you to make the effort. Say something that strikes my fancy, and possibly I may let you live until tomorrow."

"I'm not at my wittiest during bloodbaths."

"A little cynicism, a modicum of defiance, a soupçon of wit," said Bland with a small chuckle. "I'm going to give you an eighty on that one, Mr. Sable. Passing, but just barely."

"Thank you," said Sable caustically.

"Think nothing of it," replied Bland. "Think, rather, of your next witticism."

Sable sighed and glanced around the room, struck by the utter insanity of trying to amuse a madman in the middle of a madhouse—and suddenly he had the feeling that something was different. He couldn't immediately put his finger on it, but there was something. . . .

And then he knew.

Where there should have been five uniformed soldiers guarding the bolted doors to the corridors, there were six. He lowered his eyes and turned his head away, not wanting Bland to see him staring. But Bland was wandering among his beloved bodies again, stroking dead and dying limbs, offering cheerful chatter to men and women who were beyond hearing anything ever again, and Sable dared another quick look.

Three . . . four . . . five . . . six!

Yes, he was right: the man was here, now, in this room!

But why didn't the others know he was among them? Couldn't they count?

Finally he understood. The six men were stationed all around the room, guarding the various doors, and none of them could see all five of the others. Only he and Bland, standing in the middle of the auditorium, were in position to count all six guards, and Bland was too obsessed with his victims to notice.

Then what was the assassin waiting for? Why didn't he pull out his weapon and shoot Bland down like the mad dog that he was?

And then he remembered: This was no impassioned revolutionary, no mythic avenger out to eradicate a monster from the face of the planet This was a hired killer—an even more efficient killer than Bland—who had absolutely no intention of sacrificing his life for anyone or anything. There were five other armed men in the room besides Bland; he wouldn't make a move until he had dispatched them or somehow negated their effectiveness.

Bland continued walking and talking, and the tension within Sable grew so great that he felt he would have to scream to give it an outlet before it tore him apart But somehow he managed to maintain an outward appearance of calm, and after a few minutes Bland approached him again.

"I have heard no more shots, Mr. Sable," noted Bland. "The man is dead. There's no question of it any longer."

"If you say so," replied Sable, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

"I do. And now we come to a problem of somewhat lesser import, but one which we must address anyway: What are we to do with you, Mr. Sable?"

And, for the first time all evening, Sable was scared. When the assassin was just a shadowy figure working his way through the city, when there was absolutely no hope of rescue, he had been resigned to his own death. But to come this close to remaining alive, only to die mere minutes ahead of Bland—he felt more than terrified; he felt cheated. Yet he knew that the assassin wouldn't lift a finger to help him. His job, after all, was killing people, not saving them.

"Well, Mr. Sable," said Bland, his face aglow with anticipation, "I am waiting. Surely you have some opinion on the matter, some input you wish to offer?"

Sable glared at him, his knees weak, his hands starting to tremble, but said nothing.

"Guard!" shouted Bland, and all six men turned to him. "I have the feeling that Mr. Sable is just a trifle warm. Two of you come over and strip off his clothing while I give some serious thought as to how we may take his mind off his present discomfort."

Two of the guards began approaching Sable, who looked desperately beyond them at the other four. Now! he wanted to scream. Now, while you're all within each other's field of vision! Now, before they start counting! The four guards remained motionless for the longest twenty seconds of Sable's life. Then one of them, who had been holding his handgun casually as he leaned against a door with his arms crossed, turned ever so slightly, and an instant later the grim silence of the auditorium was broken by three quick explosions. The three other guards who had remained at their posts crumpled to the floor.

The two remaining guards, who had almost reached Sable, were dead before they could turn around to determine the source of the gunshots.

"Don't touch it, Mr. Bland!" said Jericho coldly as Bland's hand inched down toward his pocket.

"Who are you?" demanded Bland.

"Stand aside, Mr. Sable," said Jericho.

Sable backed away, almost tripping over a dead guard in the process.

Bland's eyes narrowed. "All right," he said, his voice suddenly cool and unperturbed. "Someone has hired you to kill me. Whatever they gave you, I'll give you more not to."

"What have you got that I could possibly want?" replied Jericho.

"Half my kingdom," said Bland, making a grand gesture with his arm.

"What use have I for twenty-eight lifeless planets?"

"Money, then," said Bland. "More money than you ever dreamed existed! Dollars, rubles, yen, credits, pounds—name your currency. A million, a billion, even a trillion; it makes no difference to me. Think of what a billion credits can buy! Think of the power that accrues to the possessor of a trillion yen! Name your price!"

Kill him! Sable wanted to scream. Don't listen to him! Do what you came here to do! But he didn't dare make a sound or a gesture that might take the assassin's attention from Bland, and so he stood motionless and silent, waiting with a dull certainty for Bland to find the chink in the killer's armor.

"I did name a price," said Jericho softly. "And it has been paid. That's why I'm here."

"We're alike, you and I," said Bland, visibly struggling to retain his composure. "We kill things. We revel in death, we grow drunk through destruction. Join me, become my general—no, my partner, my equal partner—and I'll give you such opportunities to kill and slaughter as you never imagined existed!"

"I take no pleasure in killing," said Jericho.

"Women, then!" cried Bland. "Women of every color, every persuasion, every talent, yours for the asking!"

Jericho allowed a smile to cross his lips. "On this world, Mr. Bland? I'm afraid that's not much of an offer."

"Then," said Bland, a look of triumph on his face, "if I can't make you rich, or powerful, or passionate, I will make you me."

Jericho cocked an eyebrow, but made no reply.

"There are no photographs or holograms of me on record anywhere, no fingerprints or retinagrams. Except for my followers in Tifereth, no one in the entire galaxy who has ever seen me is now alive. Let me live and we will trade our identities, our very essences. Think of it! Let me escape, let me leave and never return, and you can remain here and become Conrad Bland!"

Sable stared, tense and unblinking, at the assassin. For the first time he thought he detected some interest, a willingness to weigh the possibilities, a slight wavering of purpose.

"An interesting offer," said Jericho at last. "In fact, your only interesting offer. But every profession has its code of honor; mine requires me to fulfill a contract once I've accepted a commission."

"You can't do this to me!" shrieked Bland, his voice a screechy falsetto. "I'm Conrad Bland!"

Jericho pointed his pistol at Bland and casually took aim.

"No!" roared Bland. "You can't do this! My work is just beginning! I must destroy Walpurgis, and then Earth and Deluros and—" Bland's hand darted toward his pocket as he ranted.

Jericho fired his weapon, and Conrad Bland's head was splattered all over the room.

"Thank God!" said Sable softly.

"I thought you didn't believe in God, Mr. Sable," said Jericho, putting his weapon back into its holster and walking over to inspect Bland's corpse.

"Thank God and thank Satan," said Sable, "but mostly, thank you."

"It's not necessary," said Jericho. "I'm being well paid for this."

"I thought I was a dead man," said Sable, realizing that he sounded silly but unable to stop talking.

"Not a chance," said Jericho with a smile. "I was never going to let you die."

"I don't understand," said Sable.

"You're going to get me out of this cesspool."

"How?" asked Sable, confused.

"I haven't the slightest idea," admitted Jericho. "But I've been told on excellent authority that you would be my ticket out of here."

"Who told you?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to reveal that just now." Jericho turned Bland's corpse over with a foot. "Damn!"

"What's the matter?" asked Sable, again feeling foolish at being unable to keep from asking questions, but so busy luxuriating in the simple fact of still being alive that he didn't care how he appeared to Jericho.

"His clothes are all bloodstained."

"So?"

"So I can't masquerade as Bland to help get us out." Jericho sighed. "It wouldn't work anyway. I haven't got my kit any longer, and his hair's the wrong color. I'm afraid it's up to you, Mr. Sable."

"I don't know what to do," said Sable, silently berating himself for sounding so stupid.

"Then you'd better start thinking of something quick," said Jericho. "We're not going to be alone too much longer."

"How many men are out there?"

"A few thousand less than there were before," said Jericho grimly. "But enough."

"You killed that many?"

"I killed very few," said Jericho with an amused smile. "Mostly, they killed each other. And now, while you're busy considering our position, there's one more thing I must do."

He walked over to one of the dead guards, the one who had accompanied Bland and Sable from the chapel, and removed a laser weapon from his belt Then he began walking through the room, methodically firing a beam into each of the broken and twisted bodies. When he returned a few minutes later, he and Sable were the only living entities in the auditorium.

"I can understand why you wanted to put them out of their misery," Sable said harshly. "But not all of them were beyond saving."

"I know that."

"What do you mean?" demanded Sable, a sudden chill creeping up his spine.

"We will be much safer without witnesses, Mr. Sable," said Jericho. "Especially those who are not beyond saving."

Suddenly Sable began to wonder if he hadn't been better off with Conrad Bland.

 

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