TAMIKA DID NOT know why she was running down the hallway. But she felt an urgency like an ache behind her breastbone that made the burning in her lungs seem irrelevant. Someone shouted at her; she ignored the shout and kept running. She knew only one thing: she had to get to Willard, before it was too late.
If she could find him.
The public address system had been paging him for the last half hour, with increasing urgency; and the voice of central security, which Dax somehow was tapping and piping into her head, was talking about a stationwide search. What could Willard possibly be doing? Unless he was no longer in his right mind . . .
((He may well not be.))
(You don’t sound surprised.)
((I’ve been expecting a sudden unfolding, a catastrophic change in his inner control. I’ve been sure that they’ve been waiting to do something like this.))
(They?) Tamika raced down the hallway and, at the end, breathing heavily, looked both ways. (Which direction?)
((Try left. “They” are the unfriendly NAGs.))
(I thought you had them under control!)
((Relatively speaking, yes. I’ve been able to prevent them from controlling him. That doesn’t mean that I was controlling them. There was always the risk of their breaking free, at least until I understood their plan.))
(And now you do?) She ran quickly down the corridor, pausing at each doorway to peer inside. She received a few startled glances, but most of the rooms were empty. Most of the people were apparently at the central control stations.
((Certain processes which I was mapping in Willard before I split away from him suggest that he was programmed for murder.))
Her heart nearly stopped. (Murder—?)
The thought was interrupted by a voice in her head reporting that a robot in section 7B had declared an intrusion, then had stopped sending.
Willard. She remembered his transformation on the ship, during K-space transition—and much earlier, in her own apartment. Dax read her thought, as he said:
((His attack on you was a flaw in the programming—an aberration. But when he recognized you, he came to his senses. Tamika, you may be the only one who can stop him! Go left to the end and down a level—quickly!))
* * *
Ganz quietly left the observers’ lounge on hearing Ruskin being paged for the second time. Hir scanned the security channels on the transceiver implanted in hir ear and quickly ascertained that Ruskin had indeed disappeared. Ganz’s pulse quickened. (Jeaves-copy,) hir murmured, shifting channels on the transceiver.
(Acknowledged,) hir ship replied.
(Have you been monitoring the security channels?)
(Affirmative. Ruskin is missing. He may be undergoing an alteration, as you’ve been expecting.)
(Or he may have snapped. I must be there to determine his state. He may have to be destroyed so that I can carry out at least the remnant of his mission.)
(You do not know the timing, and I have no guidance to offer,) the Jeaves-copy cautioned.
Ganz moved with surprising speed down the corridor. (There is no help for that now. Do you have any information on his last known whereabouts?)
There was a hesitation, irritatingly long. As hir waited for Jeaves-copy to answer, Ganz consulted hir station layout map. Hir assumed that vital information was missing from it, since it was intended for unsecured observers. But it was all hir had, at the moment.
(Jeaves-copy?) hir repeated finally.
(Looking,) the computer answered, somewhat testily.
Ganz didn’t care about the computer’s emotional state. Hir paused before a door display that was flashing, NO ADMITTANCE. It was perhaps time, hir thought, to find out whether hir security-breaking utilities would perform as advertised. (I’m going into the secured area,) hir said to the Jeaves-copy.
(That might not be wise,) Jeaves-copy began.
It didn’t matter. Ganz had already begun tuning the nanoprogrammer embedded in hir forearm, testing the field that crossed the doorway to determine whether it could be compensated for by the programmer. A tiny beep, sensed in hir inner ear, advised that the programmer had completed the requested compensation. Ganz stepped forward, hand extended toward the doorway. Hir hand slipped away, repelled by thin air. Ganz scowled, and with a glance each way down the corridor, applied hir shoulder to the invisible barrier. Hir pushed carefully. Hir felt the resistance of the door only for an instant; then hir staggered as the force of hir push was deflected to the side.
Ganz cursed silently. (Jeaves-copy—)
(Acknowledged. Did you succeed?)
(No,) hir snapped. (Did you?)
The ship hesitated before answering. (A security robot has gone offline. That may be his location. And Thalia Sharaane has disappeared in the same sector.)
It was possible, then, that Ruskin was already performing his mission. But Ganz had to know.
There was a sound in the hallway. Ganz whirled. A young woman raced down the corridor toward hir. She stopped at an intersection just short of Ganz, hesitated a moment, seeming not to see Ganz, then turned to her left and raced away.
Ganz remained motionless only for an instant. Then hir leaped to follow the woman. She was the one hir had seen with Ruskin back in the Kantano system, and just a short time ago in the observers’ lounge. If anyone was going to lead hir to Ruskin, it was this woman. Hir ran quickly, silently. (Jeaves-copy, can you help with this door-code?)
(Trying. It’s difficult; it’s an n-space manipulator.)
Ganz saw the woman disappear to the right out of the corridor. (Don’t give me excuses for failure, robot. I’m following the woman. If I lose her, I could lose everything.)
The wall on Ganz’s right shimmered, and hir came to a halt. Another NO ADMITTANCE message winked at hir. Ganz thrust a hand at the doorway, and it was repelled as before. Coldly, suppressing anger, hir began trying one more time to break the code.
“Sir—may I ask what you are doing?” A young man was approaching from behind hir, looking suspicious. The young man spoke into a small communications device, speaking too softly for Ganz to hear.
Straightening, Ganz smoothed hir blouse, blurred hir appearance by gentle stages, enough to confuse, not enough to draw attention to the process. “Sir, I fear that I have lost my way. I was certain that this was the way I had passed before, but—” Ganz gestured at the half-reflective doorway in exasperation. “As you can see—”
“Yes,” the young man said. “It says, No Admittance. You are not permitted to go that way. You are wearing a brown bracelet, sir. You must stay in the observers’ areas.
“Yes, yes,” Ganz murmured. “I have only just arrived on the station. Perhaps you could direct me—” Hir waved hir hand in apparent befuddlement.
The young man’s expression was wary. Ganz judged that hir story was not believed. That was too bad; but perhaps not entirely. The young man was wearing a bracelet of iridescent silver. That could be useful.
“Sir, I think you’d better come with me to the security station,” the man said.
“Oh, but is that wholly necessary?” Ganz asked, extending a hand, palm up, toward the man. A tiny puff of vapor jetted toward the man’s face from an orifice in Ganz’s middle finger.
“I’m afraid—” The man choked in midphrase and fell to the floor, clutching his throat. He trembled for a moment, then was still.
Ganz wasted no time. Bending over the body, hir flicked out a cauterizing molecular knife blade, sliced the man’s hand off cleanly at the wrist, and removed the security bracelet. As hir straightened, hir focused mentally for an instant, then directed another puff of vapor at the body and stepped away quickly.
The corpse lasted as such for perhaps four seconds. Consumed as though by the air itself, it collapsed inward and turned to a fine mist. Then the mist became transparent and disappeared, vanishing into the air—and into the floor—as carbon dioxide, water, ammonia, and a thin soup of other elements. Ganz sniffed the faint pungency in the air, noted with satisfaction that no trace of the young man remained, and turned hir attention to the bracelet. Its latching mechanism was not evident. Undoubtedly Ganz could solve its puzzle later, but right now hir had more important things to worry about.
Using the molecular blade, Ganz neatly removed hir own bracelet. Holding the other in hir left hand, hir turned back to the doorway and stepped through.
* * *
Counting . . . one hundred thirty-two . . . one hundred thirty-three . . .
The numbers rolled through the mind of the thing that had been Ruskin, as he kept Thalia Sharaane pinned to the wall, laser-finger at her forehead.
“Damn you!” she whispered. “If you’re going to kill me, why don’t you just do it?”
He scowled. Kill her? Indeed, he would . . . as soon as he had finished counting. One hundred thirty-four . . . one hundred thirty-five . . .
Must kill her!
((Must . . . count . . .))
Yes . . . he had to finish counting first . . .
Sharaane struggled futilely. She was weakening; he was pressing her hard to the wall, and she was having trouble breathing. “Bastard!” she gasped. “Who—in hell—are you?”
His mind seemed to stop.
Hell?
Hell was where she and her like belonged. And that was where he would send her, as soon as the count reached—
His vision darkened, and his head roared with pain.
((Stop . . . it . . .))
Must kill her, must kill—MUST—
((Not . . . until . . .))
. . . hundred—what—until WHAT?
((You—MUST—COUNT—))
There was a vise tightening in his throat. Darkness growing in his mind. Vision blurring. Buzzing in his head, louder with each passing second . . . he was aware of the woman kicking, striking at him with her fists, but it was no more than the struggling of an insect.
Insect.
The thought repelled him, almost made him drop her. But his purpose burned through the haze, steadying him again. This woman is the head of scientific control. Only she can guide the process accurately from here. I must destroy her to take control of the gateway formation. I must . . .
He placed his razor-sharp nails against her face and felt the urge to slice deep, through flesh and bone. Three beads of blood appeared on her cheek.
Must . . .
His throat constricted sharply, and the thought began to escape him. He struggled to recapture it, but the pain blocked him. His fingernails pulled back a few millimeters. What . . . was I . . . thinking?
((You must . . . put her down . . . while you COUNT!))
No! he wanted to scream. Who are you? Who are you? What are you?
((I am—))
The voice in his head was choked off; his eyes widened; his head snapped up and back. The woman in his grasp peered at him with almost as much astonishment as fear, dark eyes impossibly large. “Thalia—” his voice said, and it was more a gargle than a vocalization. What was he saying? And what was that sound behind him?
He slammed the woman against the wall, let her go, and whirled. The door was dissolving. That was impossible; he had smashed the controls. But it wasn’t opening; it was simply disintegrating in a cloud of smoke and dust. Standing in the doorway, passing her hand around the edge of the door frame, was a slim dark-haired woman, familiar looking, with golden cat eyes. As he stared at her in bewilderment, he was aware of the other woman, Dr. Sharaane, slumping to the floor behind him. This new intruder must be destroyed. He started to move toward her, but was halted by a sharp command: “Wait!”
She had stepped forward; it was her voice that had startled him. There was something about her that was terribly familiar—
“Rus’lem!” she snapped.
Again he halted in midstride, his head cocked sharply. He hadn’t even been aware that he was moving. Rus’lem. A name? It seemed to coil about his head like a wisp of vapor. Whose name? What did it matter? He crouched to spring.
“RUS’LEM, REMEMBER!”
He froze. He . . . could not move. He was infuriated. Bewildered. The words caught at him, enfolded and bound him, like a net of vapor and smoke. He could not move, could not speak.
His face turned to fire.
((You must stop . . .))
Stop—? Who—?
((. . . now. You must stop—NOW!))
He stared dumbly at the woman and thought, this woman is interfering. I must—
What?
“What have you done, Rus’lem?” she cried. “What have you done? Damn it, come back to me!”
As he gazed stupidly at her, his vision turned to a darkening swirl, and she blurred before his eyes; and everything blurred . . . he was burning up from the inside out. . . .
* * *
Tamika stared in shock at the two figures crumpled on the floor in front of her. The monster that had controlled Willard’s body was disappearing; the massive swarthy brow and cheekbones were receding, and Willard’s face, the face she loved, the figure of the man she loved, were returning. But the other person, the woman he’d been attacking . . .
“Jesus Christ—no!” She hastened past him to examine the woman. It was Thalia Sharaane, the head of the project, the woman Rus’lem had introduced her to—his former lover. Dear God, why had he been trying to kill her? What did the NAGs want? “I’ve got to get help,” she whispered under her breath.
((No, you mustn’t—))
(I’ve got to. She may die.)
((Could you explain this?))
(No, but—)
((Then let me help her. If she’s still alive . . . stretch her out, quickly. And place your hands on her face—over her eyes.))
Uncomprehendingly, Tamika did as she was told. She straightened Sharaane out on the floor, then laid her palms over the woman’s eyes. She felt a tingling in her hands. A flush came to her own face.
((I must do this very fast . . .))
Then she understood. As Dax had produced NAGs on her palms capable of turning the locked door to dust, so now it was sending an army of cell-repair machines across her skin and into Sharaane’s body the fastest way possible, through the tear ducts of her eyes. Tamika’s hands were growing very warm.
The woman gasped. Tamika drew her hands away. Sharaane blinked her eyes open and seemed to focus on her. “What are you doing?” Sharaane whispered.
“Don’t try to talk,” Tamika said, rising. She turned to look at Willard. She would not have believed that it was him, if she had not seen the transformation before—if this rough-hewn killer were not now, as she watched, turning back into the man she loved. She knelt beside him, placing a hand on his face. He was burning with fever. He groaned at her touch. “You’ll be all right,” she said. “Rus’lem, you’ll be all right.” Even as she said it, she disbelieved it. How could he ever be, when at any time he could . . .
((Keep your hand there a moment longer, please—thank you—yes, that is good.))
(What are you doing?)
((Communicating. Yes. Control has been reestablished.))
(Are you sure?) Tamika stroked Ruskin’s face gently, feeling that perhaps by touching him, she could reestablish the reality of who he was, what he was. His skin temperature was dropping. His face looked far more like his own now, but was still a bit puffy. Details were being filled in, remade and smoothed over.
Within her, Dax answered with calm certainty:
((Yes. And we know now what else he was programmed to do.))
* * *
There seemed to be voices all around him as he awakened. Telling him to remember . . . remember what . . . ? Looking down on him was . . . Tamika. The memory of what had happened came to him like a hot flame. “It was you,” he whispered. “How did you do it? How did you know?” And before she could reply, he had the answers in his own mind, from Dax.
((I’m sorry, Willard. It had to be done.))
(You told me that you wouldn’t cross over into her; you told me she was safe from the NAGs . . . ) His inner words died away. Dax had lied to him. But under the circumstances, how could he be angry?
“Rus’lem, don’t—”
Tamika’s words were too late. He was already sitting up. He touched her face, and smiled sadly. The smile fell away as he turned to look at Thalia.
She was lying quietly, breathing slowly. Her eyes were open, but she seemed unaware of his presence.
Tamika stirred. “Dax—” she began. He looked at her questioningly. “Dax crossed from me into her,” Tamika said finally. “He may have saved her life. I think . . . I think he’s preventing her from recognizing you now.”
((Correct. Willard, it’s time to move. The project is entering its final phase, and if you hope to do anything about it, you don’t dare let security find you here.))
Ruskin took a deep breath. (I don’t even know what it is I want to do.)
((I can help you with that. But you’ve got to get away from here. Find Ali’Maksam. Move, Willard.))
Ruskin reached out and touched Thalia’s face. She was alive; she was breathing; she did not know that it was he who had tried to kill her. He let out a long breath and rose quickly to his feet. “Stay with her,” he said to Tamika.
She looked agonized. “But I can’t leave you—”
“Please. You’ve helped me already. I need you to help me again.” He cradled her cheeks gently, peered into her puzzled eyes. “I’ll be all right. I love you, Twig.” Then he hurried out into the corridor, past the damaged security robot. Voices were approaching from around the corner to the right. He darted silently in the other direction.