All My Sins Remembered

  “Do you know what will happen if you murder me, ambassador?”

  “No if.’ After we murder you… what, they’ll send another prime operator? They’ll soon run out.”

  “They’ll quarantine this whole planet and ferret you out. You haven’t got a chance.”

  “On the contrary, we have a very good chance—the chance that you’re lying. Which is rather large, considering your circumstances. I don’t think ill of you for it, Mr. McGavin. I would do the same in your position.”

  “Why don’t you stop gloating at him and get some rope. My arm’s getting tired.”

  “Excellent idea.” Fitz-Jones went outside and returned with a long coil.

  “Finish your wine, Isaac. Come over here beside him, Kindle. If he tries anything, I don’t want you to roast me along with him.”

  Otto expanded his chest and his biceps as Fitz-Jones wound the rope around him. An old trick and not very subtle, but Fitz-Jones didn’t notice. The way he tied him up, just winding the rope around and around his body, reminded Otto that he was dealing with inexperienced amateurs, and he chastised himself again for being so careless. Why, they hadn’t even searched him, though he had to admit that he had nothing more lethal than a penknife stashed away. Still, he had his hands and feet.

  “We have several hours’ wait, Mr. McGavin. I suggest you try to sleep.” Fitz-Jones went into the kitchen and came out with Otto’s laser and a soda bottle. He walked over to Otto and chopped down with the plastic bottle. Otto tried to dodge but it hit the side of his head and the room went all blue sparks and gelatin and faded away.

  He had been awake, listening, for at least an hour when Fitz-Jones came over with a glass of water and poured it on his head.

  “Wake up, Mr. McGavin. It’s midnight, the lights are out, and we’re going for a little stroll.” Otto staggered to his feet, careful to puff out his chest and flex his muscles so the bonds appeared taut.

  “I just thought of something, Fitz. Do you have an extra pair of nightglasses?”

  “What? You didn’t bring yours?”

  “I’m not in the habit of carrying them around in broad daylight.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just take care of him alone. We aren’t going to take a light.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. After what he did to me I want the pleasure of roasting him—slowly.”

  “Sure, and stumble into a dustpit along the way. I’m not letting you use the glasses and go out with him alone. You couldn’t hit the ground with a rock, not even right-handed.”

  “Fitz, he’s unarmed and tied up. And he can’t see in the dark.”

  “Unarmed and tied up and blind, he’s more dangerous than you would be in command of a battle cruiser. That’s the end of the discussion.”

  “All right, all right. Just let me come along to finish him off. I can hang onto your belt.”

  Fitz-Jones glanced at McGavin, who was smiling in spite of his predicament. “The arrangement has a certain lack of dignity. I can see it amuses our friend. But all right. You can walk along behind me, but if he tries anything, let me handle it.”

  “Sure, Fitz.” He ostentatiously switched the laser to safety. “Even if he starts throwing fission bombs, I won’t fire until we get there. Then let me get in front of you and find him by laser-light.”

  “Let’s be on with it, then. Mr. McGavin, it will be your honor to lead us. I’ll direct you.” They went out the kitchen door into the absolute blackness of the desert.

  Otto knew he had half a kilometer in which to make his move. He figured that they would be least alert about halfway there. He counted carefully measured steps, twelve hundred to a kilometer.

  The men were silent except for occasional terse directions from Fitz-Jones. Otto counted three hundred steps, then moved slightly to his left. Under the rope, he raised his left hand to his right shoulder and his left arm popped out of the coil. His body shielded the action from Fitz-Jones. He had a firm mental picture of the man behind him, and could strike at any vital spot once he knew where any part of his body was.

  He stopped and Fitz-Jones prodded him with the laser, giving him a reference point. He brought his left hand around in a shallow chop that sent the laser spinning, and before it hit the ground he delivered a savage, killing kick to the groin with enough force to knock both men down.

  He heard the laser skitter away and ran after it as the two men fell. But on the third step he skidded on loose gravel, lost his balance, and, falling, went into a shoulder roll—but his shoulder never hit the ground.

  He hit the dustpit with a faint pop and was floating through a nightmarish world of viscous powder. He fought to hold his breath as the dust crawled into his nostrils. Then his knees bumped against the rock floor of the pit. Fighting panic, he stood and pushed his free arm straight up. He couldn’t tell whether his hand cleared the surface of the pit. Lungs burning, he tried to walk back the way he had fallen, then realized that his sense of direction had vanished. He tried to walk in a straight line, any direction was all right, the pit couldn’t be more than a few meters in diameter; if it were bigger they would use it for their dumping place; but it was impossible to walk and he drifted to his knees and crawled slowly until his Head pressed against the stony wall of the pit and he dragged himself upright and painfully started to pull the heavy Crowell-body up handhold foothold right arm free biceps bruising against plastiflesh eyes on fire itching have to sneeze cool breeze on hand find edge pull up freedom.

  Otto put his chin on the edge of the pit, exhaled in a quick hiss and sucked in air, started to sneeze, and bit his tongue hard. Kindle was screaming.

  “I can’t see! You broke them, Goddamnit!” Fitz-Jones was moaning, little animal whimpering sounds. Suddenly the red glare of a laser flooded the scene. Kindle was fanning it around, using it as a searchlight. That was stupid; if anyone was awake back at the Company, they’d see it. Not likely they would come out and investigate, though.

  Fitz-Jones, who shouldn’t even have been alive, was actually standing, staggering, doubled over with pain. The edge of the beam caressed him and one leg burst into flame. He whirled around twice and disappeared. Another dustpit.

  The light flickered off. “McGavin? I hope you saw that! You’re hiding out there somewhere, I know it! But I can wait, I can wait—when it gets light, you’re a dead man!”

  McGavin cautiously pulled himself out of the dustpit. He unwound the rope that was still wrapped loosely around his body. After investigating the ground around the pit by touch, he had to admit that Fitz-Jones’s laser must have fallen in. He wasn’t going after it.

  There was a large outcropping of rock about thirty meters away; he had seen it by laser-light. Slowly, silently he crawled in that direction, groping in front of him, patting the ground with his palm. Several times his hand found the warm talcum-powder softness of a dustpit; he detoured around. Finally he got to the outcropping and sat behind a large boulder.

  He took stock. One vibroknife, two hands, two feet, and lots of rocks. One coil of rope. He had the alternatives of garrotting Kindle, cutting him to pieces, or simply breaking every bone in his body. All of them very effective against an unarmed man. But suicide against a laser.

  He was tired, more tired than he could remember having been in all of his strenuous life. He rattled the pillbox softly. One Gravitol left, have to save it, take it just before dawn.

  He formulated and discarded half a dozen plans. Might as well have just taken a deep breath in the dustpit. So tired.

  Footsteps—Kindle wouldn’t be insane enough to walk up in the dark… no, too confident; it was a Bruuchian. He walked right up and sat down, not a meter away. Otto could hear his breathing.

  McGavin whispered in the informal mode, “Do I know you/ friend who comes in the night?”

  “Crowell-who-jests/ I am Pornuuran/ of the family Tuurlg./ You do not know me/ though I know you./ You are a friend of my brother/ Kindle-who-leads.” The Bruuchian also whispered.

  “K
indle-who-leads/ is in your family?”

  “Yes/ the priests gave the family Tuurlg/ the honor-tradition of adopting/ the highest humans/ Kindle-who-leads and/ before him/ Malatesta-the-highest.”

  “Brother-of-my-friend Pornuuran/ could you lead me/ from this place/ before the desert is light?”

  The Bruuchian laughed, an almost silent belch. “Crowell-who-jests/ you are indeed the merriest human./ My brothers and I/ came to observe/ the human stillness ritual./ Of course we cannot interfere.

  “The priests/ saw the red light in the desert/ and sent us here for instruction/ perhaps to help/ carry the still one.”

  “Where are your older brothers?”

  “Crowell-who-jests/ my oldest and youngest brothers/ stand near their brother/ Kindle-who-leads./ He also asked us to/ lead him in darkness/ to lead him to you/ but we would not disobey/ the priests’ order.”

  Thank God for that, Otto thought. He briefly considered using the native as a shield, but that would be pretty low. And ineffective; the native was too small.

  With a start Otto realized that he could see a vague outline of the native silhouetted against the lighter rock. He took out the pillbox and swallowed his last Gravitol. Instantly the tiredness washed away.

  He peered over the side of the boulder. He couldn’t yet see Kindle, but it would only be a matter of minutes; dawn came swiftly here. Then Kindle could walk up at his leisure.

  Suddenly McGavin had a plan… it was outrageously simple, and rather risky. But it might work—and he had little choice.

  Otto gathered an armload of rocks and set out across the plain, moving as quickly as he could with safety. By the time his hand found a dustpit, there was enough light that he could see it disappear into the powder. He felt around and determined where the edge was, then set down the rocks and his vibroknife and lowered himself into the warm pool, fighting the urge to scramble out immediately.

  He arranged the rocks around the flat edge in such a way that his head would be hidden from view when he was immersed up to his chin.

  The blade of the knife only slid out halfway when he touched the button on the side. He checked with his finger-nail, and it wasn’t vibrating. The dust must have fouled the mechanism. Well, it still had a point and an edge.

  He could hear Kindle moving—about twenty meters away, he estimated. Still couldn’t see the man, but he chucked a rock in his direction.

  The laser glared in answer. It roasted the boulder he had been using as a shield; he could hear the rock crackle and smelled a sharp tang of ozone and nitrogen dioxide.

  “Getting warm back there, McGavin? I know where you are—I heard my little friend go up there. Might as well just step out and save yourself the wait.” He gave the rock another short burn.

  Now he could just make out Kindle. There were three Bruuchians walking with him. He was stepping very cautiously, watching the ground. Otto immersed himself up to his nose.

  “This is it, McGavin. Now you’re a dead man.” Otto looked over the edge and saw Kindle’s back some five meters away. If the knife were working, he could throw it for an easy kill. But two inches of plain steel required closer action.

  He picked up the knife and quietly pulled himself out of the pit. He ran softly toward Kindle, who was shouting at the rock, laser at eye level. Almost too easy.

  Then one of the Bruuchians jerked his head around, seeing Crowell. Kindle caught the movement and turned. Otto dove for his knees, to tackle him. The beam brushed Otto and his shoulder and half his face burst into flame, then snuffed out immediately as he piled into Kindle and both men went down heavily. Otto pinned his gun-arm to the ground and the ravening beam spent itself uselessly on the big rock while Otto plunged the knife again and again into Kindle’s back, even in a white fury of pain and hate instinctively going for the vulnerable kidneys. The shock reactivated the knife; the rest of the blade hummed out and then it slipped with equal fluidity through flesh and bone and organs. Kindle arched his back and was still.

  Otto got to his knees and saw that Kindle still held the laser in a spastic grip, doing a fair job of melting the rock. He couldn’t pry the pistol from Kindle’s fist, and he stopped trying as wave after wave of intense pain throbbed through his body and he remembered his training.

  Still crouched over Kindle’s body, he closed his eyes and repeated over and over the mnemonic that, from his hypno-training, isolated the pain and squeezed it into a smaller and smaller space. When it was a tiny pinprick as hot as the interior of a star, he pushed it just a millimeter outside of his skin and held it there. Very carefully he sat down and slowly released for use those parts of his mind that weren’t occupied with keeping the pain outside.

  He touched his face with the back of his hand and when he withdrew it, long filaments of melted plastiflesh still clung to it. He noted that his other hand was still dripping with gore, with Kindle’s life, and he felt absolutely nothing, triumph or remorse.

  The material of his shirt had vaporized, and the plastiflesh over his shoulder had melted completely away. The real flesh ran from angry pink to deep blistered red to a black charred mass the size of his hand. A trickle of blood oozed from the well-done area, and Otto dispassionately decided it wasn’t enough blood loss to justify bandaging the wound.

  The two younger Bruuchians came out from behind the rock and stood over Kindle. The older one limped out and rattled off something in the informal mode, too fast for Otto to translate.

  They picked up Kindle’s stiff body and balanced it on their shoulders to carry it away like a log. Suddenly it dawned on Otto that Kindle wasn’t really dead; the oldest and youngest had passed him into stillness while his knife was doing its work. ‘He looked at the rictus of pain on the man’s face and remembered Waldo’s evidence.

  The man was not dead, but he was dying. And he would die slowly for hundreds of years. Otto smiled.

  Dr. Norman and two stretcher-bearers picked their way across the desert and got to Crowell just before noon. Thirty years of medical practice couldn’t have prepared the doctor for the sight of a critically injured man sitting in front of a pool of dried and putrifying blood and gore, half his face a burned and running ruin, and the other half smiling beatifically.

  REDUNDANCY

  CHECK: AGE 39

  Biographical check, please, go:

  I was born Otto Jules McGavin on 24 Avril AC 198 Skip to age 18, please, go:

  The only thing I went to university for was to get out into space, I didn’t have any talent for science or mathematics so took courses that would qualify me for offplanet Confederación service

  Skip to age 33, please, go:

  Took six months of PO to recover from the Bruuch assignment, they segued me from Isaac Crowell persona to Heart-is-sacred-to-Manson, minister plenipotentiary on Earth from Charlie’s World, infiltrating assassination ring from the top Skip to age 35, please, go:

  New arm didn’t take, had to go back into the hospital for two months, have it amputated and regrown, then pushed papers most of the year, then went to Sammler as Eduardo Muenchen, supposedly a professional gambler who actually coordinated espionage group from Jardin (Article Seven violation, economic interference), TBII liasion set me up for identity spill, had to shoot my way out, O God, nine people dead, six of them innocent

  The new arm worked all right? Please, go:

  Worked better than the old one, my God, the look on the little girl’s face

  Skip to age 37, please, go:

  They tried to use her as a shield, she kept looking at me while she died

  Skip to age 37, please, go:

  She never even looked at her wound, O God, guts spilling out, just kept staring at me while I tried to get the door

  I said skip to age 37, please, go:

  Right action is abstaining from killing, stealing, and

  Cashew, battery.

  right livelihood is earning a living

  Rouge.

  is earning a living in a way not harmful to an
y living thing.

  Right effort

  Pulpy.

  is to avoid evil thoughts and overcome them.

  Now sleep.

  EPISODE:

  The Only War We’ve Got

  A uniformed aide opened the door of the TBII Personality Overlay section and stood aside as Otto McGavin crept out. He shuffled painfully, leaning on a weathered stick, the rustling of noisome rags an unpleasant counterpoint to his adenoidal panting. His nose looked—was—freshly broken, and his face and arms were covered with running sores. The aide managed without touching him to guide him through a door marked BRIEFNG AND DEBRIEFING—J. ELLIS, PH.D.

  Inisde the office, the aide parked him on a straight-backed chair facing a nervous young man who sat in a government-gray chair behind a government-gray desk. The aide left quickly, once he was sure that his charge wasn’t going to fall out of the chair.

  “C-cashew,” the young government man stuttered. “Battery. Rouge. P-pulpy.”

  A light glimmered behind the rheum in Otto’s eyes and he levered himself out of the chair, staggered, and almost fell. “What…” He touched his face, winced, and stared at the sticky dampness on his fingers. He dropped back into the chair.

  “Now this time, this time it’s gone too far.” He plucked at the rags and a fragment came away between his fingers. “Exactly who am I supposed to be this time… the Ancient Mariner? The Wandering Jew? Or just a garden-variety leper?”

  “Now, Colonel McGavin, I assure you, uh…”

  “Assure me and be damned! This is three times in a row—three times I’ve been some weak old cob. Somebody in Planning must want my ass dead!”

  “No, no, not at all…that’s not it at all.” He shuffled some papers at his desk, not looking at Otto. “You have a good, uh, extremely good record of success… under severe PO handicap, especially—”

  “So think of how much better I could do if you clowns would let me be a normal human being for a change!” He grasped his raggy left arm, almost able to encircle bicep and triceps with one bony hand. “ ‘PO handicap.’ If you’d kept me under for another week, you’d have handicapped me into the grave.”