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Chapter 28

"Sir Bremen?" said the security robot.

The assassin turned and stared silently at the thing. What was it going to be this time? Hir'd been waiting for many hours now since arrival, and the most helpful thing that anyone had had to say was that hir identification was being processed. Being processed! There was no point in trying to break through security at this point, when hir was totally a stranger to the station. But time was fleeing! And hir had no way of knowing what Ruskin was doing, except from what little the Jeaves-copy was able to ascertain.

"Your clearance has been approved," the security robot said.

"What took so long?" Ganz asked distantly. It took hir a moment to respond to the false-name Bremen. That was a bad sign. Concentrate!

"I can only say that the clearance was made as quickly as possible," answered the robot. "Apparently there was confusion because two representatives, not one, were expected to replace the previous Tandesko observers."

"I explained about that. My coworker was taken ill at the last minute, and no other was available."

"Yes. Well, if you will allow me to attach this bracelet to your wrist, you will be permitted to move about at will through the observer areas of the station." The robot was holding up a narrow brown band.

"I see," Ganz said, extending hir left arm. The robot deftly closed the bracelet around hir wrist, explaining that should hir find it uncomfortable or wish to remove it, hir could report to any security station. However, hir must be wearing the bracelet when moving about the station.

"And what," Ganz said, "does this bracelet signify?" Hir held hir wrist up to examine it. The bracelet appeared to be made of a brown metal mesh.

"Brown," said the robot, "indicates 'foreign observer' status. You are free to move through the unrestricted areas. However, you will be prevented from entering the restricted zone. Only silver and gold wearers may enter the secure areas."

"And how do I distinguish one from the other?"

"Observe the doorway signs. In any case, you will be physically unable to pass through any doorway into a secure area." The robot added, as Ganz was about to turn away, "I will now take you on a brief tour, if you so desire."

Ganz thought for a moment. There was probably no better way to get a feel of the station's layout. And if the robot got to be a pain, well, there were ways of getting rid of pains.

 

* * *

 

Jeaves knew that it had to decide soon what action to take with regard to Ruskin. It had, fortunately, been able to get a signal through to its counterpart, so at least it had some inkling of what to expect from Ganz.

But from Ruskin? It was as hard for Jeaves to evaluate Ruskin as it was for Ruskin to evaluate himself. Clearly the man was still torn, as his friend Ali'Maksam had indicated, but he seemed much closer now to achieving a condition of stability. The question was, which point of stability would he settle on: the control of the NAGs of Broder and Gorminski, or of Jeaves's other employer, or of E'rik Daxter—or his own thoughts and feelings? And at this point, what could Jeaves do about it, even if it knew the answer? It could help Ganz kill Ruskin, or try to prevent it. But that seemed about all.

And Jeaves remembered the violent transformation that had come over Ruskin during his last emergence from K-space. That, more than anything, was the danger signal that Jeaves feared.

It was a final irony, in view of the difference of Jeaves's goals from Ganz's: that Jeaves might have to aid Ganz in destroying Ruskin, if that was the only way to keep him from going violently out of control.

 

* * *

 

Tamika was depressed, but not surprised, to find Ruskin gone when she awoke. She had little time to reflect on the fact, though; what had awakened her was the door buzzer, and when she opened the door she found herself facing a security robot, who informed her that she'd just been granted "observer" status. If she would please extend her left arm, she would be fitted with a bracelet . . .

A little later, as she followed the robot-guide into the main observers' room, she found herself studying the bracelet on her wrist. Brown. Restricted to unsecured areas. She wasn't surprised, though she found it a bit irritating. In theory, she was supposed to know nothing about the secret project in the guise of Project Starmuse. In practice, she was going to have to smile and chat with the other observers: Tandesko and Querayn (the thought stirred her to anger: she remembered the noliHuman assassin who'd tried to kill Rus'lem) and probably several others. And she'd have to wait, and hope, that Willard would find her and share in at least a little of what was happening.

Don't be too sure.

She shivered. Where had that thought come from? She had a sudden unpleasant feeling of danger, and no reason she could think of for feeling it. She thought of Rus'lem, thought longingly of last night (or this afternoon, or whenever it had been), and wondered suddenly if he might be in danger. Of course he was in danger—they all knew that—but why this sudden oppressive feeling?

You might have to help him.

Well, of course, but . . .

Where were these thoughts coming from? She had this odd sensation that thoughts were entering her head from the outside, but that was ridiculous, unless someone somewhere was projecting thoughts at her telepathically. But who could be doing that? Max?

No, not Max.

Who, then? She blinked. Wait a minute . . .

((Don't be afraid.))

Don't be afraid? She clenched her hands into fists as the room seemed to blur around her.

((You needn't—you mustn't fear—))

There it was, clear as a bell in her head. Who are you? she wanted to scream, but didn't dare. She exhaled and peered around the room. Don't be afraid, said the spider to the fly. Yes. And wasn't that what the angel had said to the Virgin Mary as he scared the living bejesus out of her?

She detected a trace of humor as she heard, in her mind:

((I assure you I am no angel . . .))

"This way, please, Ms. Jones," the security robot interrupted, blinking patiently at her. Startled, she looked to see what it was gesturing toward: the front center of the room, where several human and humanoid individuals were clustered around a series of consoles. Above the consoles, a large screen showed a wide-angle satellite shot of the sun. "This," said the robot, "is the information area, where you can monitor scientific observations and, if you like, address additional questions to the host cogitative system. You are free to use these consoles at any time."

"Thank you," Tamika murmured. She wanted to listen to the robot, but that voice in her head . . .

((It's okay, I'll still be here. Learn what you must.))

Stunned, she followed the robot as it led her toward a refreshment counter. She listened with only half an ear; it made sense to learn her way around the station, but really, she had no intention of pretending to be a scientific observer.

((Mark well what you can. You never know what may be useful. But never mind the science. It's all phony, anyway.))

She blinked, tensing.

((You may not always be confined in this place. But notice those who are here.))

She didn't know why; but she glanced around. There was something familiar about one of the individuals near the front consoles. A heavyset humanoid, Tandesko. She couldn't remember seeing it before; and yet she felt she had. "Is that what you mean?" she murmured—and caught herself, realizing that she was addressing a voice in her head.

((Perhaps . . .))

What was it the voice had said about not always being confined here? And what was this voice talking in her head?

((Soon—please. Would you mind taking a seat in the back just for a moment?))

Numbly, she obeyed, realizing that the security robot had just thanked her and handed her a small plastic square with lighted diagrams flickering through it: a pocket map of the station. The robot was gone. She sank into a chair, taking a deep breath, and closed her eyes, hoping that she would not faint, that it would all somehow make sense. She shivered again, feeling the sense of danger return. (Now will you tell me who you are and what you want?)

((Of course. We're already acquainted, in a way. My name is Dax, and I'm here to help—))

(What—?) Her blood ran cold. Dax? But how? Her eyes flickered open; the room seemed to be spinning; she clamped her eyes shut again. (What are you doing in me?)

((I migrated from Willard while you were in intimate contact . . .))

(You mean—when we were—you mean in his—) Her heart thumped with indignation. The instant she was aware of it, it steadied.

((I regret the invasion of your privacy, but I perceived an overriding need. You may have to do more here.))

(More of what?) If she had cried it aloud, her voice would have cracked.

((Look at your bracelet.))

She looked—and realized that a band of warmth surrounded her wrist. The brown bracelet that the security robot had placed around her wrist was glimmering, slowly turning iridescent and gold.

((I am altering its molecular structure to resemble that of Willard's. You will soon be able to enter the secure areas.))

She stared dumbly at the bracelet.

((It is possible that Willard may be in danger. And you may be the only one who can help . . .))

 

* * *

 

Ruskin stood with Thalia and Snyder and went over the numbers with them one more time. "You're sure now?" Thalia asked. She was dressed in a black-and-gold jumpsuit; her eye movements and hand movements were quick, decisive.

"As sure as humanly possible." As Ruskin said it, he felt a rushing in his ears, as all of his doubts came swarming back—doubts not about the computations but about what he was doing. Was he playing into the hands of the unfriendly NAGs? Was he a fool to help the Auricle scientists whose Breakstar project he had once walked away from?

My Breakstar project, he reminded himself. He had the opportunity now to exercise some of the control that had once been denied him. A memory flickered through his mind: of rage, years ago, when his recommendations had been run roughshod over. But he had come back; he had planned to do this work, before his mind had been turned upside down by the NAGs. Whatever his doubts, it was now or never. The star was going to be broken and remade in a new image, regardless of his actions; his hope, if he had one, was to direct the gateway along the most promising possible path, to make the star's death as meaningful as possible.

Death? Was that term relevant to an inanimate thing, even such a thing of cosmic power as a supergiant star?

"Are you all right, Willard?" Thalia asked, her eyes large with concern.

"What?" he murmured. "Yes—yes, of course I am."

"You look tired."

He shook his head, and without thinking, found himself asking, "What was it you told me about the Querayn scientists? About them believing that the sun could be a living, conscious being?" He felt a touch of dizziness as he asked it; he didn't even know why it had come to mind.

Her eyebrows went up. "What? Are you feeling guilty?" She shrugged. "They have no proof, but we can't prove them wrong, either. Don't tell me you're going to start in with that now!"

He gaped at her. In the instant of an eyeblink, he felt Dax—or perhaps the terrakells—stirring in his brain. An image blazed against the window of his mind: Willard Ruskin asking a gathering of scientists whether they shouldn't be cautious, whether there might not be unforeseen consequences of their actions—never mind that he himself was the chief architect of their plan. He'd had no omniscient visions, and certainly no thought of living stars; but it seemed such a godlike thing to do, blowing up a star. And who knew what effect a stargate might have on other star systems, or even on space-time itself, by stretching across the galaxy?

"Willard, what's wrong?"

"What?" He blinked his eyes wide open again. Thalia was gazing at him worriedly. "Nothing . . . nothing." Scowling, he peered over Snyder's shoulder at the console. "I was just thinking it through one last time." He pointed to a progression of lights on the screen. "Is that the satellite launch sequence?"

Snyder nodded. "Final deployment starts in just over an hour." He looked up at them both, and his tired face crested with a smile. "Thought we'd never make it this far, didn't you?" He lowered his eyes back to his work, his fingers moving on the console. "I know I wondered."

Ruskin stepped back and gazed at Thalia. Her face was absorbed in concentration. He felt his fists tightening involuntarily as they both watched Snyder communicating with subordinates in other labs, shepherding the final timing coordinates into the station's cogitative network, for loading into the satellites. Barring an unexpected change, Ruskin realized, the die was being cast.

His eyes wandered over the various displays, and he noted the input from a remote location: Room Zeta. Wondering what it was, he bent to take a closer look at its readings, which seemed to focus on inner core measurements. Thalia noticed what he was doing and remarked, "If you really wanted to get the best possible mapping, that would be the place to do it from. Of course, you might be vaporized." In response to his raised eyebrows, she said, "It's a remote station, deep in the sun. It's the ideal location for mapping the gateway formation—since we don't know what data transmission from the satellites is going to be like at the time of maximum activity. We actually did consider putting someone in there to do real-time fine-tuning at the end. But it's just too dangerous. We aren't sure that our escape system can pull the room out when it blows."

"Why do you call it a room?" Ruskin asked in puzzlement.

"It's really just an extension of this station, connected by a K-space peninsula. For practical purposes, though, it's a separate station, since we're prepared to cut it loose when we pull out of four-space." Thalia's eyes narrowed, as though she were a little surprised that she had to explain this.

Ruskin thought about it for a minute. "What if you had a volunteer?"

Her eyes were intent, expressionless. "Why? Were you thinking of volunteering?"

He shrugged, gave a little smile. "Not really." The dizziness was returning. He felt flushed. His mind filled with an image of chains of molecules, folding and unfolding, point meeting point, instructions and meanings emerging from an astonishing, bewildering array. Was that Dax, trying to understand what he was thinking, what he was doing?

The image faded. He was aware of his hands knotting into fists again. "Well, actually—I might," he heard himself saying. "After all, what's the point of all this, if we're going to be afraid at the end? So much has been invested—isn't it worth risking, say, one life, to make sure that you get the best possible data? Especially if there are controls on the station that would let someone really ride it at the end, fine-tune it down to the wire?" (Dax, what the hell am I talking about?)

"And probably be destroyed with it?" Thalia asked.

"Well, so maybe the volunteer will go up—but maybe he wouldn't—and even if he did, there's still the possibility of making a difference at the end—maybe between success and failure. The gateway would be a permanent living memorial." He grinned, and it felt like someone else's grin, not his own at all.

Molecules twisting into place with blinding speed, linkages ratcheting into place . . .

((Willard—get the hell out of here!))

He stiffened. What—?

((Now!))

Thalia was glaring at him. "Forget it, Willard. I'm vetoing the idea, and we don't have the time now to argue the point."

"But—"

"If you wanted to make a case for it, you could have come on board months ago, like everyone else." Her lips tightened into thin lines, her eyes hardened. "And now, dear friend, would you please get your fanny down to the mapping console and start getting ready to do the rest of your job?"

He opened his mouth to protest, felt a rush of unreasonable fury, heard Dax pleading to him:

((Willard, for God's sake! Move it before I lose control!))

(What the hell are you talking about?)

((Just go!))

Thalia's expression showed no compromise. "I'll be down there in a few minutes, myself. I have to check in on the com-link center first." She turned away, as though in dismissal.

With a shrug that belied the unreasoning rage that was building in his chest, he obeyed and left the room.

 

* * *

 

The rage and dizziness overcame him in the corridor, and he staggered against the wall, fumbling for a doorway. His face was hot, flushed. What was going on? He rubbed hard at his eyes. They felt numb; his vision was shimmering in and out of focus. (Dax, for God's sake, help me!)

Dax's answer sounded weak:

((I . . . can't . . .))

(What's wrong, Dax?) He was feverish; he was starting to shake. He pushed his way through a doorway. Where was he? It looked like a lounge. Hard to be sure; his eyes were going mad; he saw no one else in the room. Dax, you've got to tell me what's happening!)

((I . . . Willard . . . losing it . . .))

"Wait! Dax!" he croaked aloud. "You can't just leave me like this!"

((. . . hope you can control it . . . !))

Dax was gone, or was lost in a roil of wind in the center of his brain: molecules blowing away, connections disintegrating, order disappearing into chaos. He felt himself falling . . . falling into a fire, into the center of the sun . . . but the sun was closing in upon him, turning to darkness.

And in the heat and darkness, everything blurred . . .

 

* * *

 

He sat a long time in a world of mist and darkness.

He sat in a world of rage, of coldly vengeful calculation.

He knew what he had to do.

This world, this project, this station was a thing of evil. In the hands of the enemy, it was an abomination, a weapon to establish dominion over not just a tiny fraction of the galaxy, but all the galaxy, all life, all freedom. An enemy of freedom, was what it was. An enemy of the true people.

He could destroy it. But far better to take its helm and turn it to the cause of righteousness. Turn the weapon of the enemy against its own creator. He focused clearly and distinctly on that goal and looked within himself to see if he was ready, if he was coiled. His fingertips gleamed; he examined the razorlike claws that emerged from the last three fingers, and the tiny laser that glinted at the tip of his index finger. He smiled.

(Don't . . . don't . . .) A tiny echo in the back of his mind, the voice of doubt.

Crush doubt. What must be done will be done.

Who will be first? The one who knows most how to complete this project the way the hated Auricles would have it completed. The head of astrophysics . . .

The sequence was already started, but it was not too late to alter the outcome, if the brains of the operation could be removed . . .

There was a sound outside in the corridor. He came to full alert. Rising slowly, silently, he crept to the doorway and flattened himself at its edge so that he could peer out into the hallway. Voices—and one of them, female, he recognized:

"Damn it, security, haven't you found anything on him? He's been gone for over an hour—and we need him on the console. We need him now."

A faintly metallic, robotic voice answered: a full-station search had been initiated, but Ruskin seemed to have disabled the auto-locator on his bracelet, and it could take time to find him, especially if he did not want to be found.

Ruskin? The originator of this hated enterprise? He would have made an excellent target, if he had not already been destroyed—and remade—into something much, much better.

The female voice spoke again, and sounded terribly distressed, and angry. Good. Anger. How much better that he strike against the enemy angry.

Thalia Sharaane and a security robot came abreast of the doorway and turned to look in. "Security," Sharaane said, speaking through the robot to a central control station, we're checking the lounge on—"

He reacted instantly, grabbing her arm and jerking her in through the door. The robot spun quickly to defend her, a floodlight blazing from it, illuminating the room and almost blinding him.

Almost. The robot was no match for him. His own eyes adapted to the bright light instantly, and the needlebeam that lanced from his finger destroyed the lamp and pierced the robot's shell and flashed through its neuronal network, stunning if not incapacitating it. His right foot flew straight out and caught the thing in its top section, crushing it at the impact point and sending it flying back out the door. Sharaane struggled to pull away from him. He scarcely noticed. He punched the door control to seal the room, then smashed the control.

"What the hell are you doing?" she screamed. "Who are you?" She brought her right hand around in a fist and hit his jaw.

He smiled and released her as he swung his right hand and knocked her across the room. "I am the one sent to kill you," he said, picking her up and pinning her against the wall. She struggled futilely. His smile widened. "I am here to destroy all of the enemies of freedom. And you are the greatest of them, with the possible exception of Ruskin. But you have already done what we needed of you." He placed his fingertip in the middle of her forehead.

And began counting to himself, as her struggling turned to screaming curses, then to gasps, and finally to wracking sobs.

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