Curval stepped forward, catching Lever's eye. "And my meeting with the boy? Is that still on?"
Lever shook his head. "Not now. Later perhaps. When things are better known. Right now it might prove . . . counterproductive, let's say. Ward has ridden this one. He's survived. Right now he has friends, supporting him, buoying him up. But that won't last. Besides, there's nowhere for him to go now. No one to turn to after this. We have only to isolate him once more. To harry him, like dogs at his heels, until he tires and falls. And then . . ." Lever smiled, broadly, savagely, like some wild thing scenting victory. "And then we'll have him." ,
SOUCEK STOOD THERE over the cot, rocking it gently, cooing to the now-sleeping child. Across from him, Lehmann was tidying the room. The woman lay face down on the bed, as if asleep, the single stiletto wound to the back of the neck hidden beneath her long black hair.
Lehmann had explained nothing, simply told him to come. As on the last occasion, when they had gone outside, Lehmann had taken him into the service shafts, this time climbing the pipes fifty, maybe a hundred levels, until Soucek had begun to wonder whether they were going up to the roof itself. But then Lehmann had turned off, following the map in his head, finding his footing easily, confidently. They had come out thirty ch'i from here, in a maintenance corridor. There Lehmann had handed him a uniform from his pack, then put one on himself. The orange of deck maintenance. ID in hand, he had come directly to this door, as if he'd done it several times before, and knocked. There had been the sound of a baby crying, a woman's spoken query, and then they were inside, Lehmann talking to the woman, reassuring her. A moment later she was dead.
Soucek had watched as Lehmann turned the woman over. He had taken a thin sheet of printout from his pocket—a sheet with her picture on it—and checked it against her. Then, satisfied, he had lifted her and placed her facedown on the bed. When the baby began to cry halfheartedly, Lehmann had turned, looking directly at Soucek, and made a rocking gesture.
What are we doing here? Soucek wondered, looking about him. It was a normal Mid-Level apartment, modestly furnished. And the woman. She was simply a wife, a mother. So what the fuck was Lehmann up to? What did he want here?
His answer came a moment later. There were footsteps outside in the corridor, then a brisk knocking and a cheerful call.
"Sweetheart! It's me! I'm home!"
Lehmann signaled for Soucek to go out into the kitchen, then went across. Moving to one side of the door, he pressed the lock. As it hissed back and the man came into the room, Lehmann moved between him and the door, his knife drawn.
He was a tall, almost cadaverously thin man, with dark, short-cut hair and of roughly the same height and build as Lehmann.
"Becky?" he asked, confused, seeing the woman on the bed, apparently asleep. Then, understanding that someone else must have operated the door lock, he jerked around.
Soucek, watching from the kitchen, saw, in the mirror on the far side of the room, the look of horror in the man's face; saw Lehmann glance at a second paper. Then, letting the paper fall from his hand,
he leaned in toward the man, as if embracing him. A moment later, the man fell back, the smallest sound of surprise escaping his lips.
As Lehmann knelt over the body, Soucek stepped out into the room again.
"Who is he?"
"There," Lehmann said, concentrating on what he was doing. "The paper on the floor."
Soucek went across and picked it up. It was a printout giving brief personal details of the man. Thomas Henty. Hung Moo. Married. One child. Age thirty. A technician. Soucek turned back, looking across, then grimaced. Lehmann was using a narrow scalpel now, and was carefully cutting the man's eyes from his head. As Soucek watched, he severed the optical nerve and gently dropped the eyeball into a special tubelike carrier he had taken from his pack. There was the faintest hiss as the soft eye slid into the cold compartment, then the lid clicked over. Moments later the other eye joined its companion in the narrow box.
Eyes. He was stealing the man's eyes.
"What about the child?"
Lehmann leaned back, looking across at Soucek. "Forget the child. He's dead. They're all dead now." And, as if in explanation, Lehmann took a small device from his pack—an incendiary—and, setting the timer for sixty seconds, placed it between the two corpses on the bed.
"Quick now," he said, going across to the door. "We've another call to make and only forty minutes to get there."
But Soucek paused at the door, looking back into the room. The sight of the dead couple on the bed and the soft snuffling of the sleeping child tore unexpectedly at his feelings. For the briefest moment, he stood there, as if paralyzed, wondering what special torments the demons of hell would have in store for him when his life above the Yellow Springs was done. Then, with a tiny shudder, he turned away, following Lehmann out into the corridor.
THAT NIGHT the dream came once again.
Again, as once before, she stood alone upon that tilted, shattered land, trapped beneath a low, impenetrable sky of steel. It was dark, an oppressive, elemental darkness lit now and then by sudden flashes of light. All about her the storm raged violently, growling and shrieking at her with a voice of primal evil. Before, she had felt only fear; a gut-wrenching fear that had rooted her to the spot. This time, however, it was not fear she felt but excitement.
Excitement, and a sense of expectation.
Beneath her the tower slowly climbed the slope, its wooden, spi-derish limbs folding and stretching inexorably, its dark mouth grunting and wheezing as it came on. With each searing flash of light she saw it gain on her, its shattered, glasslike eyes glittering malevolently, its jagged, toothless maw crammed with splintered bone.
Closer it came, and closer yet, and as its foul breath rolled up the hill toward her, she cried out, her voice high and clear above the noise of the storm. There was a moment's silence, a moment's utter stillness, and then, as once before, the earth between her and the tower cracked and split.
She shivered, watching, knowing what would come. Knowing and yet fearful in case, this time, it would be different.
Slowly, like a shadow forming from the dark mouth of the earth, he emerged: a stooped little creature with short, strong limbs and eyes that burned like coals. Turning, he looked at her, his wet, dark skin glowing with an inner light.
She smiled, greeting him, recognizing him for the first time. It was Kim.
For a moment he was still, watching her, his dark yet fiery eyes seeming to pierce her to the bone. And then, slowly, his lips parted in a smile, like a pocket opening in the blackness of his face, light—a brilliant, burning light—spilling out, falling like molten gold from the mouth of a furnace.
He smiled, and then, with an agility that surprised her, he spun about, facing the tower, his arms held up before him, as if to ward it off.
"Avodya!" he said clearly. "Avodya!"
Slowly the tower heaved itself up, creaking beneath its own bloated weight, a furious whispering and muttering coming from within its hideous maw. Then, with a rush, it came up the slope at him, its cracked eyes glinting, its thin legs straining, a low moan rising to a screech as it ran.
"Avodya!"
On it came and on, rushing at him through the half-dark. On, like some vast, unstoppable machine, until, with a fearsome cry, it threw itself at him.
And as it fell, the darkness seemed to explode. Where the small, dark creature stood was now a web of brilliant, coruscating light that pulsed between the fingers of his outstretched arms.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the tower fell, tumbling, shrieking, into the fierce, pure fire of the web. And where it touched it sparked and vanished, flickering into nothingness.