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Chapter 16

 
"I have never denied that Truth has a value. The fool pays homage to it; the wise man twists it to his own advantage."
—Conrad Bland

 

Sable slept through most of the uneventful flight, waking as the plane banked steeply just prior to landing. He looked out the window as they touched ground, and discovered that rather than landing at the Tifereth airport the pilot had brought the plane down on a private strip.

Jacob Bromberg was standing at the end of the runway, and came up to greet him as he walked down a ramp that a pair of mechanics had wheeled up to the hatch door.

"Welcome to Tifereth, Mr. Sable," said Bromberg, though he seemed indisposed to extend his hand. "Did you have a pleasant flight?"

"I really couldn't say," responded Sable with a smile. "I was asleep most of the way." He looked around him at the barren plain surrounding the strip. "By the way, where are we?"

"This is My Lord Bland's private airfield, about eight miles north of the city. If you'll follow me, I'll drive you into town."

"Fine," said Sable, hefting his overnight case and falling into step behind Bromberg. The air was damp and heavy, with a stale smell to it that he couldn't immediately identify.

Bromberg led him to an open military vehicle, relatively new and highly polished, which sported some insignia Sable hadn't seen before.

"Please put your bag in the back, Mr. Sable."

Sable did as he was told, then climbed into the passenger's seat and lit a cigar, the last of the handful Veshinsky had given him a few days earlier.

"How did you catch him?" he asked after Bromberg had turned on the ignition.

"I really couldn't say, Mr. Sable," said Bromberg, taking a hard left and turning onto the main road to Tifereth. "I had nothing to do with it."

"Who is he?"

Bromberg shrugged. "I have no idea."

"Has he said anything yet?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then, at the risk of sounding impertinent, how do you know you have the right man?"

"Oh, we've got the right man, all right," said Bromberg with a smile. "My Lord Bland doesn't make mistakes."

"What does he look like under all the disguises?"

"I personally haven't seen him, Mr. Sable," replied Bromberg. "Anything I told you would be hearsay."

Sable fell silent. He puffed on his cigar, allowed the flavor of the tobacco to permeate his mouth, then blew out a thin stream of white smoke.

Bromberg obviously knew nothing at all about the assassin, and he was Bland's chief of security. That was curious in itself. And the fact that they had caught the killer so quickly and easily was even more curious. It was possible that they had the right man, of course, but the more he thought about it the more he doubted it. Well, when he got him back to Amaymon he'd hook him up to the truthtell machine and then he'd know for sure. Or possibly Wallenbach had a truthtell machine right here in Tifereth, which might save a lot of trouble and a possible suit for false arrest He made a mental note to check with Wallenbach on that before he left with the prisoner.

Tifereth began to loom large before them, and although it was midday he got the impression that the city was somehow dark and filled with lengthening shadows. Probably it was just the way he was looking at it, or the angle of the sun against some of the steepled buildings, but it was a curious sight nonetheless.

And then, as they entered the city, the stench reached his nostrils. It smelled of decaying, rotting matter, and at first he thought it was uncollected garbage, but then he saw the source: bodies, some of them newly dead, some rank and fetid, littered the streets and sidewalks, singly and in groups, naked and clothed, some lying in pools of congealing blood, some with a single bullet hole or laser burn in them.

"What the hell is going on here?" demanded Sable, stunned by the extent of the carnage.

"We had a little insurrection a few days ago," said Bromberg calmly. "My Lord Bland decided to leave the bodies on display as a warning to others who may object to the rule of law."

"A few days ago?" repeated Sable. "Some of those bodies look as if they're still warm."

"You must be mistaken, Mr. Sable," replied Bromberg.

After they had gone six blocks into the city the bodies became more numerous, and Sable could swear he saw two of them, an old man and a very young girl, still twitching.

"Stop the car!" he demanded.

"Why?" asked Bromberg.

"A couple of those people are still alive!"

"They couldn't be," said Bromberg. "The insurrection was put down almost a week ago."

"Let me out!"

"I really can't," said Bromberg, hitting the accelerator. "We're already late."

The scores of corpses became thousands as they neared the center of the city, and Sable saw that those buildings which weren't burned out or blown apart were locked and shuttered. Not a living soul walked the streets of Tifereth. Not a dog or a cat lurked in the shadows. Even the vermin seemed to have taken up residence elsewhere. The only living things in the area were the thick clouds of flies that swarmed over and around the bodies, lighting here and there, then rushing off to land on an even more decayed piece of flesh.

"Some insurrection!" snorted Sable, feeling the need to break the deathly silence.

"Indeed it was, Mr. Sable," replied Bromberg.

"How many of your own forces were killed?"

"None."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

"We're a very efficient unit, Mr. Sable," said Bromberg.

"So I see," replied Sable. "What I don't see is a single weapon on any of the corpses."

"We've confiscated them," said Bromberg with a smile. "No sense leaving them around for more revolutionaries."

"Very incisive reasoning."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now if you're all through bullshitting, why don't you tell me what's really happening here?"

"I just told you, Mr. Sable."

"Forget it," said Sable. "I'll talk to Bland."

That would be best, sir," said Bromberg.

They drove for another two miles, the carnage around them unchanging, then pulled into a parking lot in the basement of a hotel.

"Bland lives here?" asked Sable as the vehicle screeched to a halt.

"No," said Bromberg. "But he's in conference at the moment. He's arranged for you to have a suite of rooms. You'll be sent for shortly."

"Why don't I just wait outside his conference room?" said Sable uneasily.

"I do not question My Lord Bland's orders," said Bromberg, getting out of the vehicle and taking the overnight bag in his hand. Sable followed him, a glass door slid back, and they walked to a lift. It let them off on the top floor—the thirteenth—and Bromberg led him to a door at the end of the hall. He punched out the combination, the door opened inward, and Bromberg and Sable entered a truly luxurious penthouse suite. There was an enormous and expensively furnished sitting room, complete with fireplace and well-stocked bar, that had a view of the central city. To the right was another, smaller sitting room, to the left a bedroom with a pneumatic mattress that could have accommodated ten people, and beyond that a marble bathroom with a sauna.

"The accommodations are satisfactory?" asked Bromberg.

"They're fine. How long will I be here?"

"Not very. My Lord Bland will send for you shortly. In the meantime, enjoy your stay in Tifereth. I can guarantee that you won't be disturbed. You're the hotel's only tenant"

"What happened to the others?"

"Oh, that's a long story, Mr. Sable," said Bromberg. "Perhaps we'll discuss it over dinner."

"I was rather hoping to leave town before then," said Sable.

"Then some other time, perhaps."

"By the way, I don't happen to see a vidphone anywhere around here. Is there one?"

"Whom do you wish to communicate with?"

"I want to call my wife and tell her I've arrived safely."

"It's been taken care of."

"And I want to speak to Caspar Wallenbach."

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," said Bromberg. "He died last night."

"How?"

"Heart attack, I believe," said Bromberg. "And now, if you've no further questions. . ."

"I've got plenty of them," said Sable.

"Then I suggest you ask My Lord Bland," said Bromberg with a smile. He walked to the door, punched the combination, and left.

Sable walked over to the door, tried it, and wasn't surprised to discover that it wouldn't open without a combination. He then checked the huge picture windows in the sitting room. There was no way to open them, and he didn't see any sense shattering them and trying to climb down over the sheer side of a thirteen-story building.

He began inspecting the suite more closely, feeling very much like a caged animal. There were no religious artifacts of any kind, no reading material, no video or radio sets. All the closets were empty, the cabinets and dresser drawers were barren, even the chest above the vanity in the bathroom was vacant.

He checked the bar, found a corkscrew, and spent the next twenty minutes futilely trying to pry open the door to the outer corridor. He toyed with breaking a bottle and keeping a sliver of glass for a weapon should he need it, but rejected the notion: he was more likely to inadvertently slash himself with a concealed piece of jagged glass than do injury to anyone else.

So, instead of breaking a bottle of liquor, he opened one and poured himself a drink. He downed it in a single swallow, tried the door again without much hope, then stripped off his clothes and took a shower. While he was drying himself off Bromberg entered the suite, found him in the midst of getting dressed, and announced that Bland had sent for him.

"So I'm really going to get to see him?"

"Of course."

"I was beginning to feel like a prisoner."

"These are security precautions, nothing more. There are certain elements still at large that unfortunately make Tifereth less safe than we desire."

"Did the same elements give Wallenbach his heart attack?" asked Sable caustically.

"I really couldn't say."

"I know," said Sable. "You were elsewhere at the time and you don't know anything about it"

"Right" Bromberg grinned. "Are you ready?"

"Should I leave my bag here or take it along?" asked Sable.

"Oh, I think you might as well take it with you. After all, if you're fogged in, you can always bring it back here, can't you?"

Sable grunted, picked up the bag, and followed Bromberg to the lift. When they reached the basement parking lot he was once again very conscious of the stench of death, but he made no comment and quickly took his seat.

They drove for just under a mile, passing row upon row of armed guards during the final few blocks, and stopped before the gates of a large building, which Sable took to be a Church of Baal from which all sectarian symbols had been removed. Bromberg uttered a password, a guard opened the gate, and they proceeded up a long driveway, stopping at a covered portico.

"Here we are," said Bromberg, getting out of the vehicle. "Let me carry your bag."

"Fine," replied Sable, following the Security Chief to the entrance. They walked through two huge wooden doors, both of which had scenes of depravity and degradation carved into them by the hand of a strange but masterful artist who obviously had a morbid fascination with his subject matter. A moment later they found themselves in an enormous lobby with polished red floors and walls, and armed guards posted every five feet Bromberg nodded to one of them, who immediately left his post, walked down a long corridor, and returned a few minutes later. He made a slight gesture, and Bromberg took Sable by the arm.

"He'll see you now," he whispered, leading Sable down the corridor. When they reached the end of it they came to a heavy iron door, and Sable knew Bland must be behind it He and Bromberg waited for a team of men to laboriously pull it open. Then they entered the room together.

Sable had to fight back the urge to vomit on the spot The smell of decaying flesh was superseded by the pungent odor of blood, the salty, sickly scent of gallon upon gallon of blood.

Men and women, all nude, hung from the rafters that crisscrossed the huge domed ceiling, some held in place by meathooks, some tied by the thumbs, the toes, the genitals. Others were crucified to the walls. Still more cluttered the floor. Some were dead; most were alive but in no condition to move or even to scream in agony.

Sable stared dumbly at the scene before him. Slowly he became aware of an insistent tugging on his arm, and he finally let Bromberg lead him past the dying and the dead, toward the center of the auditorium. He felt as if he were sleepwalking, as if this had to be a nightmare. Then a woman, her face and body no longer covered by skin, reached out and grabbed at his leg, and he realized that this was really happening, that the hideous scenes on the doors of the church now had a counterpart in life.

At the far end of the auditorium, sitting on a plain wooden chair, was a small, slender, golden-haired man, clad immaculately in white. As Sable forced himself to approach him, he saw that the man's face was cherubic and unblemished, his fingers lean and delicate, his hair carefully groomed, his features almost feminine.

"Mr. Sable," he said in a high-pitched voice when Sable was within fifteen feet of him. "How nice of you to come."

"You're Conrad Bland?" said Sable, fighting the urge to run from the auditorium and never look back.

"In the flesh!" said Bland with a smile.

"What's going on here?" Sable asked weakly.

"Nothing that need concern you," said Bland. "But I am delighted to see you. I was very much wondering what you'd look like."

Sable looked dully around him. "What sort of butchery is this?"

"The sort I like," said Bland easily. "In time you may come to enjoy it yourself. You have figured out, of course, that we have not captured your assassin?"

"Of course," repeated Sable without inflection. "Why did you send for me?"

"Curiosity," said Bland with a laugh. "I wanted to see what kind of man would try to extradite a butcher from a slaughterhouse."

"I didn't know . . ." said Sable, his voice trailing off again, trying to keep his attention focused on Bland but unable to stop himself from looking at the quivering meat around him. "Nobody knew . . ."

"They will know, never fear," said Bland. "Without exception, they will all know."

"What happens to me now?"

"Why, you will remain in Tifereth as my honored guest," said Bland. "You fascinate me, Mr. Sable. You really do."

"Why?"

"Because you are the first man, other than my mercenaries, who ever felt compelled to protect or prolong my existence."

"It was my duty," said Sable dully.

"So much the better. You are a man of honor, a man of duty and decency. In short, you are the Enemy. You are the embodiment of what I must destroy. I must study you well, Mr. Sable. Indeed I must"

"Suppose I don't want to stay here?" asked Sable, once again forcing his eyes away from the horror that surrounded him and focusing on Bland's face.

"Suppose away." Bland laughed. "You will remain here as my guest nonetheless."

"For how long?"

"Until you cease to amuse me."

"And then what?"

"I should think, Mr. Sable, that the answer to that would be obvious," said Bland.

 

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