Resurrection

  Two of the policemen were intact. Watching the silver alien wreaking havoc on the crowds, they came back to themselves. They were policemen, this was their city, and no matter how fantastic this creature was, it was their duty to stop it and capture it, if possible. If they did not, there would be thousands of witnesses to point out their failure. “Come!” the senior of the two yelled; then they too were running, their machine guns clutched in their hands.

  Adaiz watched Enon run, and he looked wildly around, trying to make a plan, trying to figure out a way to save him. He cleared the pain of his wounds from his mind and grabbed the gun from Marcus, pushing the tall man away as he did so. Then he was running after his brother.

  Enon ducked up a new alley, only to find it thickly crowded. He shoved and shot his way through. Pruit ran into the alley after him and saw the crowds, which were now in an all-out panic, trying to disperse, trampling on the bodies of the men and women who had been killed by the Lucien’s gun. Her eyes flitted over a little boy crying and pulling at the hand of his dead mother. Near him, a young woman was staring in shock at the body of her husband.

  She jumped onto a vending stall, grabbed the bottom of an overhanging balcony, and swung herself up and out of the melee. From here, she looked across a series of haphazard balconies and roofs, following the route of the bazaar. She jumped to a new balcony, surprising two small children napping in the sun, then grabbed the roof and hoisted herself up. She was on corrugated aluminum, hot and smooth.

  Below, she saw Enon still fighting through the square even as people tried to get out of his way. Pruit’s shawl had long since fallen off, and now she ripped off her black robe, leaving only light pants and a thin blouse. She felt immediate relief from the heat, then was running again, finding her balance on the uneven roofs, jumping from one building to the next.

  For a moment, she lost sight of Enon. Then she saw him. He was climbing to the top of the buildings opposite her. She fired, using her projectile weapon. The shot went wild, ricocheting off an unlit neon sign across the alley. She dropped to one knee and fired again with steady hand. The shot missed him narrowly.

  Now Enon was atop the roof. He was running fast, his long legs carrying him in what looked like an endless series of leaps. He cleared the breaks between buildings with no effort at all. He fired back at Pruit, but he was not stopping, and the shots were off, searing the roof several yards from her.

  Pruit could see the police in the alley below, pointing up at the roof. They too fired at the Lucien, using rapid-fire weapons that made up for lack of accuracy with sheer numbers of bullets. Enon tucked his head down inside his high collar bone to protect his neck from the shots, but he could not maintain this position, for it prevented him from seeing his way.

  Then Enon was hit. Pruit saw him jerk forward, and there were two brown splotches on his upper back where he had begun to bleed. He did not stop running. She was familiar enough with Lucien anatomy to know that the sheaf of bone protecting his upper body would prevent those shots from doing much damage.

  Then she felt and heard a bullet sear the air by her own head. She turned and found that Adaiz was on the roof behind her, heading at her in a dead run. Like the Lucien, he ran in great, strong leaps. There was blood on his shoulder and side where his wounds had reopened. He seemed ignorant of this, wholly consumed in chasing her. She fired back at him, still running, and missed.

  Pruit jumped a span between two buildings and landed hard. A laser shot tore into the roof just in front of her hands—the Lucien was shooting again. Then another bullet from Adaiz, this one grazing her left arm. She leapt up and ran as two more laser shots plowed into the roof behind her.

  Adaiz knew there were only twelve shots in this gun. He had just used two. It did not matter; he would get Pruit. Something had happened to him as he chased her. He had found himself elated rather than angry. Though he was aware of the sore burning of his wounds; the pain no longer bothered him. He would get his chance to finish what they had started in Jean-Claude’s rooms, and this time, he would not be shaken by her.

  Pruit leapt to a lower building and was out of Adaiz’s sight for a moment. One of the policemen was on the roof with the Lucien now, chasing the silver being furiously. The policeman fired his gun with abandon, and Pruit saw several more bullets hit home in Enon’s back.

  Enon stumbled. As he lost his balance, he turned and fired at the policeman. The man collapsed, his leg hit. Enon fired again, and as he did, Pruit dropped to her knee and sighted on him. His head was up; his neck was exposed. She thumbed the trigger and shot. Enon’s arms went to his throat, and she heard a scream issue from him, sibilant and awful.

  Adaiz turned his head just in time to see his brother fall. Enon tottered for a moment, almost as though he were under control. Then his body collapsed in a twisting motion. He landed at the edge of the roof and toppled over, falling down into the alley below.

  Confusion reigned in the alley. There were two dozen dead in the street. Children were crying. Men were pulling the bodies of loved ones away. A few unlucky victims were crawling about numbly, clutching laser wounds that would soon kill them. Most people were huddled at the sides of the alley and in shops. There were sirens everywhere, closing in on the bazaar.

  Pruit turned to see Adaiz staring in shock at the dead Lucien. She fired at him, but he caught her motion from the corner of his eye and dropped to the roof in a move that must have been agony on his damaged shoulder. She ran toward him, and Adaiz fired from his prone position. She leapt to the side, and they could both hear the shot whining away across the roof.

  Adaiz fired again, but the gun was empty. He rolled to the edge of the roof and dropped off. He landed on a balcony and quickly swung his feet out and over its edge and dropped down into the alley.

  There were still scores of people here, crouched in doorways, staring at the corpse of the Enon, which was already fading to a dull gray, with brown smears of blood drying in the heat.

  Adaiz hit the ground and ducked under the cover of the balcony. The wound in his side was bleeding, and he was nearly doubled over. Another shot from Pruit hit the cobblestones underfoot.

  Pruit leapt down onto the balcony. Her eyes swept the alley and the buildings across from her. The final remaining policeman was knelt over the Lucien’s body, studying it for any signs of life.

  She saw Adaiz dart across the alley and into a dark doorway. He was unarmed, Pruit realized. He would be looking for a weapon. She dropped over the balcony and landed in a crouch in the alley. People were huddled in a shop behind her, staring at her with frightened eyes. Pruit turned from them, her eyes on the doorway where Adaiz had disappeared. She walked toward it, gun and knife at ready.

  Adaiz slipped into the doorway and passed blindly down a hallway. It was walled by sheets of cheap particleboard that let in streams of sunlight. He could see her through openings between the boards. She was walking toward him.

  Mentally, he neutralized the pain in his side. He stumbled over the bodies of three beggars who lay half-asleep in this stuffy hall, ignorant of the battle outside. He passed them and found another doorway back into the alley. Just outside were the policeman and the body of his brother, lying in the street. Enon was dead, that much was obvious, but Adaiz could not grieve yet. He looked at Pruit and discovered he still felt the battle elation. She was there, he was here, and his path was clear.

  He judged the distance and saw her face turned to the first doorway where he had disappeared. He put his legs in motion, bolting from the passageway and back into the sunlight. There was the policeman, leaning over Enon. The man had two guns. The large one was gripped in his hands. The smaller one, the handgun, was in a holster at his side.

  Pruit saw Adaiz as he emerged back into the alley. She turned, and their eyes met, and as they did, Adaiz felt himself vaulted into the awareness of the egani-tah. He could feel himself, he could feel the alley, he could feel her.

  As Pruit looked at him, she nearly lost her balance
in a sensation of broadening awareness. She could not find herself. She was moving even while she was still. She was bigger than a single location.

  And then she knew. She was not only herself. She was him as well. He had encompassed her. They were looking across at each other, and she could see both sides, and she had two minds. Suddenly, there were thoughts, and they were pouring into her and out of her. She could not control it. He had created the connection, and she could only experience it.

  I will kill him now.

  I will kill her now.

  She has killed my dear brother. I am alone to finish this mission. And I will finish it, and I will bring the prize of that technology home. And in a few years, the Plaguers will be no more.

  He will sacrifice me and sacrifice my race.

  And then their minds were fully joined, and there was only one other thought, which they shared equally: You will never leave here alive.

  Pruit raised her gun. Adaiz grabbed the policeman from behind and jerked the handgun from its holster. In the same motion, he pushed the man aside, and he and Pruit were facing each other.

  Pruit fired. Adaiz fired. Both of them and each of them were aware of their hands on the triggers and the final pressure. The guns discharged.

  Adaiz felt Pruit’s thumb press her trigger, he saw the trajectory of her aim, and he was already twisting aside.

  Pruit felt Adaiz’s index finger pull back on the trigger of the handgun. Through his eyes, she saw the gun and where it pointed, she saw her own face down the barrel, and she was already dropping to the ground, out of the bullet’s path.

  And then, as they each hit the ground, the egani-tah was broken, and Pruit and Adaiz were separate again.

  The policeman jumped at Adaiz, swinging the barrel of his machine gun around. In a moment, Adaiz was embroiled in another fight for his life and had no attention left for her.

  Eddie was there, and he was pulling Pruit to her feet.

  “Eddie? Eddie?” She was not sure where she was or who she was.

  “There are police everywhere!” he hissed, grabbing her around the waist and sweeping her up over his shoulder. His words did not really reach her. She was aware of a feeling of dread and sadness.

  Eddie started to run. The sirens had lessened, but there were several hundred police pouring into the bazaar. He had spent the last minutes misdirecting them, but he could see them entering the alley at both ends now. He ducked into a shop, pushing past the people within who sat on the floor, anxiously waiting for help to arrive.

  Pruit came back to herself somewhat. “I can run,” she said.

  He dropped her down onto her feet, and together, they found their way out of the shop and into the tight alleyway behind. There were shouts as police converged on the body of the Lucien.

  Eddie and Pruit walked several dozen yards, then found another walkway secreted behind buildings, leading away from the commotion.

  “We killed him,” Pruit whispered.

  “The Lucien?”

  “Enon-Amet,” she said, the name forming itself on her tongue as though she had spoken it all her life. He had a personality, and she knew that personality. He had strengths and weaknesses, and a sense of honor, and a desire for enlightenment, and she was aware of these. “We killed him…”

  “Pruit, we didn’t have a choice.”

  She knew this to be true as well. There was no choice. “I know…” she said. “I only wish…” What did she wish? She thought of the potential of Enon-Amet, a steadfast and meticulous mission leader, a loving brother, a man to be admired. Gone now. She put a hand to her head and whispered, “Blessed Life, what’s happened to me?”

  CHAPTER 44

  The chapel was built of clapboard, painted bright white. It stood atop an outcropping of rock, with the Mediterranean gently breaking below. It was west of Alexandria, perched near the border between the fertile land of the Nile Delta and the wasteland of desert that stretched thousands of miles across the top of Africa.

  The chapel was the first thing Jean-Claude had seen of Egypt. He had caught sight of it near dawn as the cargo ship that had brought him from France sailed along the the African coastline on the final leg before reaching port in Alexandria. The chapel had stood out against the twilight sky, peaceful and out of place, surrounded by wild grass. He had watched it from the deck for several minutes, a young boy leaning out over the ship’s railing as the sun came up.

  Jean-Claude had now found his way back to that spot, in hopes of reclaiming something of that fifteen-year-old boy who had still had a scrap of dignity.

  Inside the chapel, Jean-Claude knelt before a small stone statue of Mary. He lit five candles for her and bent his head forward. He had made a full confession to the priest that morning. If the man had been surprised at the depth of Jean-Claude’s sin, he had never let on, and for that, Jean-Claude was grateful. Now, with his mind at peace, it was time to dedicate himself to what lay ahead.

  Heavenly Father, he prayed, reveling in the clean heart that allowed him to speak freely to God again. Father, I am reborn. The priest has forgiven me, and I feel the debt of that forgiveness. Please give me the strength to care nothing for my own life. There is only one life that matters any longer, and I will find him…

  Jean-Claude’s hand closed around the gold cross at his neck. He could feel God with him, and instead of shame, there was pride.

  “Nate?” Jean-Claude prodded the dirty blanket that lay huddled in front of Jean-Claude’s old Cairo tenement building. Nate’s sleeping face was just visible beneath the blanket, his cheek pressed into the sidewalk. It was nearly evening. The sun had gone behind buildings to the west, and the street was in shadow. Jean-Claude had set out from Alexandria that morning and made the long bus trip back to Cairo.

  A low moan issued from Nate’s mouth.

  “Nate?” He prodded again.

  Nate heaved upward in a scramble of limbs, and his eyes came open. “What? What?” His face was bloodless.

  Jean-Claude squatted down, bringing their faces level. “It is Jean-Claude.”

  “Jean-Claude…” He said the name like he was grasping desperately at something that might slip away.

  “Yes. What’s happened to you?”

  Nate twisted in a convulsion of uncoordinated pain. He began to laugh. “Nothing, nothing…I was shot! In the bazaar. Stray bullet…”

  Jean-Claude reached out for Nate’s jacket, filthy now, and pulled the lapel aside. On the blue shirt beneath was blood, much of it dried and black, but there was a fresh rivulet still dripping out of him. He had been shot in the chest near his left shoulder.

  “I’ll take you to hospital.” He moved to get hold of him.

  “Why?” Nate asked, his head falling back, his arms feebly trying to push Jean-Claude away. He convulsed again. “They don’t have what I need.”

  “He withheld your antidote?”

  Nate laughed again, a high gleeful sound that seemed disconnected from his body. His right hand scrambled for something under the blanket and brought up a hypodermic syringe. “I have my own antidote.”

  His head fell back. Jean-Claude examined the syringe. Heroin. He had injected himself with heroin to kill the pain of his missing drug. Nate convulsed, and Jean-Claude saw that the heroin muted the convulsions slightly, but not much.

  “I have plenty more,” Nate said. “Enough to let me die.”

  “He left you here?”

  “He has Marcus now! I’m so stupid; I explained everything to Marcus.” The words came in a robotic rush, falling over each other. “I wanted him to take pity on me; I did everything he wanted. More. I made it perfect. I made myself disposable.” The laugh came out of him again, mixed up in coughing as his body cramped and contracted.

  “I’ll get you to hospital,” Jean-Claude said, reaching for him.

  Nate pulled himself away. His shoulder was bleeding more heavily. “Don’t you dare!” His words were more coherent now. “I want to die here. Now. It’s…my choice.”
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  Jean-Claude looked at Nate’s face. The man couldn’t have been older than thirty, but he looked closer to sixty. Without the Mechanic’s antidote or the magic of Pruit’s skin, Nate’s body would slowly convulse itself into death. If Nate chose to let this happen without a fight, Jean-Claude supposed that was his right. He would not override the man’s last action of free will. Nate had asked Jean-Claude to kill him once, and he had refused. Now he could not.

  “All right,” he said quietly.

  Nate nodded and clutched at his bleeding shoulder. He started to laugh, but it changed into tears, and he reached for his other syringe, the one that was still full.

  “Where did he go?” Jean-Claude asked, pulling back the blanket and locating the hypodermic. He carefully tapped out the bubbles, thinking how pointless that action was in the present circumstances. He took hold of Nate’s right arm. There was a belt around his biceps acting as a tourniquet. It was Nate’s belt, once of nice leather used to hold up his dress pants, now cracked and ragged. Jean-Claude tightened it around his arm and sank the needle into the brachial artery.

  Nate lay back as the drug entered his veins. This would be the last dose, he hoped. This would end it.

  “Where did he go?” Jean-Claude asked again.

  “Montreux,” Nate whispered. The name was like something out of another life. He had been there once, with his parents, when he was a teenager. He remembered rain and sun, and the lake and mountains. They had stopped in Chillon to visit the famous castle. He had been impatient with the lines of tourists. Had that really been him? “Montreux. In Switzerland.”

  “I will find him. I will do something worse to him than this.” As he looked at Nate, however, Jean-Claude was not sure that anything could be worse.