Necropath (42 page)

Vaughan considered running, but there was nowhere to go. This was the end, then—the end he had expected for so long.

He turned, as ordered. There was something almost fitting in meeting his end here, beneath the impassive gaze of the Chosen One. As he stared up at her, he saw that the explosion had ripped a hole in the graphic beneath the girl’s right eye.

She seemed to be weeping tears of absolution for him.

Vaughan sensed Osborne behind him, and closed his eyes. He felt a surprisingly gentle hand on his head, and then the cool steel touch of something gripping his console.

Then he felt a sudden pain in the back of his head, a cleansing pain, and then nothing.

* * * *

REVENGE

Sukara lowered herself from the ladder and stood in the half-darkness of the narrow corridor. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She was unable to control her shaking limbs. She clutched the smooth butt of the pistol in the pocket of her jacket, wondering if she would be able to summon the courage to use it before Osborne killed Vaughan. 

The burden of responsibility upon her was almost too much.

She leaned forward, listening. From up ahead she heard the faint ticking of footsteps. She began walking. Every five metres she paused, head cocked. When she failed to hear the footsteps, her heart set up a fearful pounding. She imagined that he had stopped, concealed himself, and was waiting until she caught up with him. What then? Would he think twice about shooting her?

Then she heard the tapping of the steps again, released a breath, and continued cautiously along the dusty corridor. Not for the first time she wondered what Vaughan was doing down here.

Coming in on the flier, she had seen Vaughan leave Nazruddin’s. He had crossed the road and entered a shop, emerging minutes later. Then, Osborne had shown himself, stepping from concealment in the entrance of a café across the road. He had followed Vaughan at a distance. Sukara had frantically called to the driver to let her out, thrown a bundle of dollar notes at him, and jumped from the vehicle before it had touched down on the rank. She had dashed through the crowd, trying to keep Osborne in sight, then followed him down an alley and into a big, deserted building. From there she had tracked him by following the tiny, echoing sounds as he descended into the depths of the Station.

Now, in the distance, she made out an open trapdoor in the floor. She could no longer hear his footsteps. She approached the hinged, circular hatch cautiously, expecting him to jump out and shoot her. She crept up to the opening, peered down into an abyss of darkness. She listened. She could just make out, on the threshold of audibility, the distant sound of footsteps.

She sat on the rim of the opening and lowered herself through it. Her arms extended, supporting all her weight, she waved her legs and tried to reach the floor. Her feet encountered nothing. She wondered whether to let herself drop, wondered how far she might fall. The decision was made for her. Her wrists could no longer sustain her weight and she fell, giving a little cry of alarm.

She had fallen less than a metre, but even so she hit the deck hard and fell, rolling across the ground. She oriented herself, crouched, and peered into the gloom.

In the distance, a wedge of blue light spilled out into the blackness. As she watched, she made out the unmistakable shape of Osborne silhouetted against the light. She followed.

She judged that she had cut the distance between him and her by half when she was deafened by the ear-splitting detonation. The explosion thundered in the confined space, echoing on and on for what seemed like ages. She crouched, clamping her palms to her ears. Up ahead, beside the rectangular hatch in the bulkhead wall, Osborne was doing the same. Through the hatch, Sukara made out flying debris, heard the shrapnel pattering down in the quiet aftermath of the explosion.

Osborne approached the hatch. He stood there for a long time, peering in.

Sukara concealed herself behind a pillar and watched him. She pulled the pistol from her jacket and told herself that now was the time to use it. She should run up to him, while his attention was diverted, ram the pistol into his back, and pull the trigger. She touched the golden pendant around her neck, praying that it was working, shielding her thoughts from his mind.

She recalled the way he had held her the other night, the love he had professed he had felt for her, and the feeling his acceptance had nourished in her. How could she kill the first man who had ever loved her?

And then she was consumed by anger at his betrayal. All his words, his promises, his affection... all this had been so many lies. And he had taken her in, used and betrayed her.

Sukara moved from her place of concealment behind the pillar.

As she did so, Osborne chose that second to enter the chamber. She paused, her resolve drained by his sudden disappearance. She realised that she was trembling uncontrollably, and wondered what to do next. She knew she had to approach the source of the light, but was reluctant to let Osborne see her.

Then she heard the sound of conversation from within the chamber. She tried to make out the words, but all she could hear was the low rumble of male voices. Steeling herself, she crept across the deck to the hatch, and stopped.

The first thing she saw as she stared through the opening was the massive graphic of a girl, then a tumble of benches. It looked like a church, a church that had been bombed. Over everything she noticed a film of some oily substance, chunks of what looked like pale meat, shards of what might have been the chitinous casing of some great creature.

And then she saw Osborne and Vaughan.

They stood beneath the pix of the girl, facing each other. Vaughan was obviously injured, his clothing ripped and bloody. The appearance of the two men could not have been any more different: Osborne sophisticated in his long black coat, smug and confident, Vaughan defeated, the expression on his face that of a condemned man.

As Sukara watched, frozen, Vaughan turned his back to Osborne, as if acceding with all his soul to the
coup de grâce.

Quickly, before she could act, Osborne stepped up to Vaughan. He lifted something, applied it to the base of Vaughan’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

Vaughan dropped, felled like a slaughtered ox.

As Sukara watched, Osborne knelt, reached out, and placed a hand on Vaughan’s head. Then he pulled, hard, and something erupted with a gout of blood from the back of the dead man’s skull.

Sukara screamed, rushed at Osborne. Still crouching, he turned, his expression changing from one of satisfaction to surprise. Staring up at her, he gathered himself. He saw the pendant hanging around her neck and smiled.

Sukara held the pistol in both hands, determined that she would not miss.

“Su—you don’t understand. Let me explain.”

The pain in her was too much—and his words served only to strengthen her determination.

The first shot ripped through his shoulder, sending him spinning backwards across the floor. He fetched up on his back, staring up at her with such a look of injury and pain on his handsome face that she could only fire again, to wipe it out.

The second shot hit him in the stomach, opening a hole the size of her fist. His expression
became one of agony. He raised the weapon he had used to kill Vaughan, aimed at her... then he looked at the gun and—a strange reaction that she came to understand only later—laughed. He threw it aside.

He smiled at her, that old, lopsided smile that had melted her heart just a day ago.

Sukara fired again, and again, closing her eyes with each shot and with each shot screaming out loud in pain.

The pistol jammed, or she had used up all the bullets. She opened her eyes. Many of her shots had missed, but enough had hit the target.

Osborne lay on his back, his arm held out, stilled now, in what might have been a futile gesture of entreaty.

Sukara dropped the pistol. In a daze she moved across the deck to Vaughan. He lay face down, a gaping hole in the base of his skull. She made out a bloody mess of wires and miniaturised machinery hanging from the wound like some excised organ.

Sukara knelt beside him, weeping for Vaughan and for herself, and reached out to touch his body.

* * * *

SUNLIGHT

Silence absolute...

He tried to scan, but nothing came. He tried to send out a probe, but all around him was silence. He sensed it as a vast and endless plain, white with frost. In his confusion he thought he was on Verkerk’s World again, north of Vanderlaan where he had first experienced the blessed balm of mind-silence. He relaxed, revelled in the calm and placid medium of the ineffable quiet that surrounded him: no mind-hum, no background noise at all. Just silence.

Then he recalled what had happened in the lair of the Vaith, the confrontation with the alien creature, and then with Osborne. He had faced the fact of his death with equanimity, with a certain sense that it was fitting he should go like this. He had had no complaints. He was quite prepared to die.

And yet he was alive.

Time passed. He thought perhaps that days had elapsed, but he was unable to tell. He phased in and out of consciousness. He was aware of people around him, doctors, nurses. They seemed distant, slowed down and blurred, as if viewed through some aqueous medium. He felt as if he were viewing the world through fathoms of ocean. At one point he was aware of a face staring down at him, a brown face, staring down at him in silence.

And then, all of a sudden, he awoke and knew that the days of semi-consciousness were over, that he would date his recovery from this morning. He was in a spartan hospital room, lying in bed, monitors attached to his body. Sunlight streamed through the open window.

The face was there again, staring at him.

“Jeff, don’t be alarmed.”

Patel. What was his first name? The ‘port telepath, anyway, who had worked alternate shifts with Vaughan.