Rowan caused the dinosaur to lunge forward, but the black demon – moving with incredible speed – swung a razored hand at its throat. And connected. The movement was carried out so naturally, with such a co-ordinated and perfect simulation of reality, that Rowan was momentarily convinced, and – in being convinced – yielded control of his own image. There was a huge fountaining of dark blood and the dinosaur fell sideways, its head almost torn off. Rowan automatically dissolved the writhing creature into nothingness, while he fought to regain control of his own terror. Caught unawares, he had still been involved with the dinosaur when it was killed, and now a part of his subconscious knew what it was like to be ripped asunder by organic knives. Unbidden, in spite of all his efforts to prevent it, a lethal fear began to seep through him.
The demon shook knotted arms above its head in silent triumph, and a seemingly-tiny Grumman performed the same gestures, like a puppet gyrating at the feet of its master.
Rowan forced himself to rally. His exo-brain was on fire, pulsing with agony, but he took command of it, and – perhaps reacting against the demon’s associations with evil – put up a giant knight in full medieval armour. The warrior was equipped with a two-handed sword which he swung against the demon in a glittering sweep, but the blow never landed. The demon was too fast, too ferocious. Again Rowan was convinced, and again he yielded control. The bright armour was slashed open like foil, the blood spurted, and another part of Rowan died.
After that he tried a two-headed python which was torn apart even as it materialized around the demon’s neck. And a bat-winged creature which Grumman’s demon dismembered with contemptuous ease.
Each time, Rowan was unable to disengage quickly enough, and the resulting neural punishment brought him to his knees. His exo-brain was a blob of white-hot metal searing through his skull. He clasped the top of his head with both hands and rocked backwards and forwards, peering through slitted eyes. The crowd, sensing that the crisis point had been reached, ceased to make any sound.
It’s time to step down, Rowan told himself. You don’t have to die again. Just step down off the base, and it will all be over, and you can have a rest. His involuntary swaying movements grew more violent as his body, unconcerned with matters of pride or prestige, fought against the dictates of his intellect.
“Go ahead, old man – fall over.” Grumman’s gloating whisper reached him across stellar distances. “This is the time to do it. Just fall over.”
Rowan stared at him uncomprehendingly. Everybody expected him to do the same thing. Jane. Sammy. Grumman. They all wanted him to fall over. In a way it seemed a good idea not to fight any longer, and yet…
Rowan brought his eyes to a focus on the opposite base, and made an astonishing discovery. Grumman was concentrating his attention on Rowan, indulging a personal enmity, instead of monitoring the image which loomed above him. Rowan glanced upwards and saw that the edges of the huge demon had softened slightly, that some of the oppressive detail had been allowed to blur. He waited for a full second while, from the depths of his memory, he summoned up an old friend – one who had settled many issues for him in the past.
Valerius was a professional soldier, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran who had served with three different legions in Syria, Gaul and Britain. He had withstood rain, snow and desert heat with equal stoicism, and he had slain the varied enemies of Rome with impartial efficiency, regardless of whether they wore silks or skins, regardless of which gods those enemies believed to be giving them protection. He was a stolid, unimaginative man – as plain, functional and uncompromising as the short sword he carried – and in all his years of service he had never encountered a creature which could survive having an iron blade driven through its guts. And, as Valerius saw things, this meant that no such creature existed.
Rowan – knowing by heart every detail, every rivet and thong of the legionary’s equipment and armour – snapped him into existence in micro-seconds. He was much smaller than the demon, a sign that Rowan’s strength was nearly spent, but his sword was sharp, and he struck with economical swiftness. The blade went deep into the demon’s protruding belly, and pus-like fluids gouted. Rowan heard Grumman grunt with pain and surprise, and he guessed at once that the younger man had never experienced neuro-shock before.
This is what it’s like, he thought savagely, directing on to the demon a flurry of hacking blows which transmitted their fury to its creator, convulsing him with sympathetic shock. Grumman turned his eyes upward, guiding the black demon as it made a snapping rush, but Valerius – his body protected by the long Roman shield – struck at the face with almost clinical exactitude.
Grumman whimpered and fell backward from his base. His demon vanished as he struck the floor.
The fight had ended.
In spite of his exhaustion, Rowan kept Valerius in existence long enough for him to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd with upraised sword, and then gradually dissolved him out. They shouldn’t have written us off, he told the fading warrior. They should never write a man off.
It was late, and the stadium had emptied, before Rowan broke free of the local sports reporters. He had spent some time trying to find Sammy Kling, and finally had had to go to the promoter’s office alone and collect the winner’s purse, a cheque for five hundred monits. Puzzled by Sammy’s absence, Rowan waited on the front steps of the building for a few minutes, nodding as the box-office staff bade him goodnight and the stadium was sectionally plunged into blackness. He debated calling a taxi, then decided that walking back to the hotel would ease the dull pounding in his head. The after-taste of victory was less pleasant than it had seemed in memory.
He lit a cigarette and walked north on a shadowed street.
The car drew in beside him with feline swiftness, its sleek haunches speckled with rain, and four men got out of it. They closed on Rowan without speaking. Sensing their purpose, he ducked his head and tried to run, but two of them hit him at the same time, with what felt like mailed fists, and he went down. Within seconds he had been dragged into an alley, and there followed a nightmarish period during which he was systematically kicked from neck to groin. Eventually the blood-red explosions of pain seemed to diminish and he realized, with gratitude, that he was escaping into unconsciousness.
“That’s enough,” a voice said from somewhere above him. “He’s got to know what’s happening.”
The assault on his body ceased, and the dim figures redeployed. In the faint light from the street one of them appeared to be holding an ordinary garden spade. Rowan became aware of an even greater threat than that of simply being bludgeoned, and he tried to fight against it.
“Hold his head steady.” The dark figure moved over him, foreshortening like Grumman’s demon, and his head was clamped in place on the wet concrete.
“No,” Rowan pleaded. “No!”
“Yes, Rowan,” the voice told him. “And don’t say you weren’t warned.”
The spade drove downwards across his skull, shearing through skin and extraneous brain tissue alike. And, in that ultimate pang of agony, Rowan was born into the world of normal men.
Perhaps two hours elapsed before he found the strength to get to his feet and resume walking back to the hotel. The streets seemed unusually quiet, but he was unable to decide if the impression was a genuine one or something subjective, stemming from the newly-found silence within his head. Occasional cars ghosted by without stopping, their occupants undisturbed by the sight of a drunk staggering homewards with a bloodied handkerchief pressed to his scalp.