Smallworld (30 page)

“That same garden, yes. It’s not dead centre, however; merely a few kilometres down.” The Anchorite strode around the bodies, inspecting them professionally. “It’s messy work. Mind you, an attacker would have to be terribly strong to inflict such wounds with an ordinary kitchen knife.”

“How do you know it was an ordinary kitchen knife?” said Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus suspiciously. Her weapon, however, had risen slightly from the hermit’s midriff.

“I keep an inventory of all your sharp objects,” said the Anchorite. “You have nothing sharper than carving knives, of which you have five, four in the kitchen area, one in the utility room…now, as far as any surveillance is concerned, this vehicle was stood here for over half an hour without incident before the attack happened. What made our man suddenly move to the attack?”

Testament shrugged. “He was observing his target.”

“An admirable activity,” said the Anchorite, “but hardly one which fits such a frenzied assault. It was not the car he was after. Had it been, he could have taken the keys from such a flabby being as the Pastor with a mere show of the knife and driven away. This man or, ahem, woman, is driven by a need to kill, as violently as possible. For that reason, the car currently driving away is empty.”

“Empty?” Testament blinked in consternation. “But he stole it!”

The Anchorite shook his head. “He is a predator, and a predator stays with the game. If he stole the vehicle, where would he go? To the landing field, where no vessel touches down without your permission? And is he even aware the South End Spa exists? No, he is still here, and the car was set to automatic drive to confuse us. I will send eyes out in that direction and confirm that suspicion. You have been hoodwinked twice, young master Reborn-in-Jesus.” The hermit looked up at Shun-Company. “Are all your children safe indoors?”

Shun-Company nodded. “All in the Panic Cellar,” she inhaled defiantly, “apart from Beguiled, Sodom, Uncleanness and Judge-Not. Zounds and Postle are out looking for them.”

“Armed, I trust?” said the Anchorite.

“Extensively,” said Shun-Company, maintaining her grip on the laser.

“That’s what I was afraid of. Zounds and Postle are far more likely to shoot each other by accident. I will find your lost children, even if they do not,” said the Anchorite. He kicked the whitewashed wall of the dipping pen. “Have you any idea what this means?”

In Mr. Mountbanks and Pastor Mulchrone’s last few litres of blood, someone had written, on the wall: SECOND DAY, TWO TURTLE DOVES.

Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus spoke automatically. “It’s the second day of Christmas.”

“No it isn’t,” said Postle in confusion. “It’s not Christmas for fourteen days yet.”

“Arkarch Allion regarded the Gregorian Calendar as a sinful modern invention,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus. “Hence, we on Ararat use the Julian. On Earth and New Earth and New New Earth, it is Christmas and has been for two days.”

“More precisely,” said the Anchorite, “it became the second day of Christmas on Earth at almost the precise minute these two men were murdered. If you recall the song, the number of items donated by the singer’s obsessively generous true love increases by one per day. On those figures, Third Landing will be empty of life by,” he calculated silently on his fingers, “six geese a-laying. And only around thirty people would be left on Ararat come twelve lords a-leaping.”

“There was a ‘Christmas, Father’ in the list of Penitentiary escapees,” said Testament. “The Warden said so when it visited.”

Shun-Company nodded, grinding her teeth. “A paranoid schizophrenic whose original name was Casey Michael Bowker. Until the age of two, his condition was recognized by doctors, who prescribed drugs which his parents administered. At the time of the War of Liberation, a series of tactical nuclear strikes was made on the New Earth planetary transport infrastructure, cutting off the area his family lived in. There were food riots, and I believe also power riots, drug riots, and sex riots. His father and mother were killed over the twelve days of Christmas in Kilodia Zero. All three of them were raped repeatedly in front of one another. At the same time as this was happening, of course, he suffered withdrawal of his schizophrenic medication. It is not known how he survived. Following the glorious liberation from dictatorial oppression, Bowker changed his name to Father Nicholas Christmas by deed poll. He killed two hundred and thirty-four people during the period from Kilodia Zero to Kilodia One in the city of Spender’s Delight on New Earth.”

Unity spoke up sharply. “Two hundred and thirty-four is three times seventy-eight.”

Testament looked blankly at his sister. “So?”

“Seventy-eight is twelve times twelve-plus-one, over two,” explained Unity meekly. “He killed all the way up to his twelve-day limit, three old-school years running.”

Shun-Company toyed with the safety catch on her weapon. “The local Public Safety officers found it difficult to catch him, as each attack was planned meticulously. His killings were predictable in that they always occurred on the same twelve days every year; otherwise, they followed no pattern whatsoever. They also only happened once a terrestrial year, making them difficult to investigate. Eventually, Christmas was caught by the efforts of one Rajinder Rai, Safety Officer First Class, who was killed in the process of capture.”

“How do
you
know all this?” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus.

“I sent a Request For Information in to the sub-datastack on Celadon,” said Shun-Company. “I apologize for the expense, husband, but I like to know what threats might affect my family.” She glared meaningfully at the Anchorite. “Of the other escapees, I am informed Mr. Voight is accounted for—”

The Anchorite bowed curtly. “If he were not so, we would not be speaking now.”

“—which leaves only Carneiro Pave, who possesses an interstellar master’s licence, first class, on sixteen different categories of military and civilian vessel—”

The Anchorite’s face had drained of colour. “Carneiro Pave? Pardon me, dear madam; did you say
Carneiro
Pave?”

“Just so. I would submit that the courier vessel that escaped so daringly from the South End Field could only have been flown by an exceptional military pilot. Mr. Christmas, meanwhile, holds no astronavigation licence in
any
class—”

“Yelena Carneiro,” murmured the Anchorite. “I did not bother to check the names of the escapees, only their charge sheets and danger assessments. What a fool! Of course, it could only have been Yelena. All this time, she was here! Warmed by the same sun as I!”

“I do apologize,” said Shun-Company, “for suspecting your servant.”

“I am afraid I still do not know the precise whereabouts of my servant,” said the Anchorite regretfully.

“What is its make and model?” said Mr. Suau.

“It has many common components with both the Instar Clever Hands 303a AutoValet and the Stalin Seven Heavy Assault Combot,” said the Anchorite cagily.

“I am not familiar with any such model,” said Mr. Suau, “though I am qualified to maintain the Stalin Six. In the event of total systems failure, the transponder should return a clear code zero response to all requests. If you are receiving nothing at all, that means the transponder is not functioning, which means that either the entire unit has been destroyed—which is unlikely, given that we would have felt the blast wave of any weapon capable of such a thing—or that the transponder has been deliberately disabled.”

“Beguiled,” said Testament with feeling.

“Not necessarily,” insisted Shun-Company. “Christmas could have disabled it.”

“Uh, unfortunately, I did instruct young Beguiled on the ins and outs of transponder maintenance only a few days ago,” admitted Mr. Suau. “I was repairing one of the old Adams in the repair shop up at the Spa, and she, uh, began asking questions. I figured it would do no harm to let her know how criminals frigged a system, given that there is no crime here.”

“There is now,” said Unity.

“There are few things that worry me more than a Stalin Six walking around my home town,” mused Mr. Suau, “though the thought that that Stalin Six was controlled by a nineteen-year-old girl would be one of them.” He thought a moment longer. “Does it have the rotating ten-calibre variable munition cannon?”

“No.”

“The over-horizon semi-autonomous antivehicular drone mine?”

“The OHSAADM? No. It got in the way of the vacuum cleaner attachment.”

“The Brilliant Javelin area-effect pulse laser system?”

The Anchorite shook his head. Mr. Suau relaxed visibly.

Beside the corpse lay a black carryall, its lock popped open by the shock of the fall. Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus bent to pick it up.

“NO, DON’T—” shouted Mr. Suau and the Anchorite simultaneously. Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus’ hand froze a millimetre from the case.

“This is a case left as if by accident by a fiendishly cunning multiple murderer,” said the Anchorite. “Such things are not to be touched lightly.”

Mr. Suau brought out a pocket robocontroller. “Allow me. Let us attempt to pick up a control signal…I believe you have a domestic drain clearance pigbot on the site somewhere…aha!”

“We do?” The Reborn-in-Jesuses looked at one another in bemusement.

“They come with all modern prefabricated hab units…nowadays, even out here, you’re never more than ten metres from a robot.”

Not more than ten metres away, a drain cover popped open, and an ordure-covered appliance swarmed out on multiple metal legs, crossed the Main Street under Mr. Suau’s control, and scuttled up to the case, extruding telescopic feelers.

“Please step back,” said Mr. Suau.

Everybody dutifully took one step back.

“I doubt this precaution is necessary,” said the Anchorite. “Our man is, after all, driven to kill a precise number of people per day. He should therefore avoid killing
more
than that number per day, and should therefore lie dormant for the next twenty-four hours, at which point he will attempt to slaughter three more people, one for every French Hen. But it pays to take no chances.”

“Precisely,” said Mr. Suau. He operated a control, and the drainbot lightly charged the carryall with one of its snailhorn antennae. Like a window-dresser’s hand grenade, the suitcase righted itself and expanded in a flurry of velvetoid and crystallique into a glittering commercial display larger than a grown man.

“Bric-a-brac,” commented the Anchorite disdainfully. “A tramp salesman. Personality analogues and such.”

“Some of which,” said Mr. Suau, “have been recently sold, or stolen. There are gaps in the display. Someone took an analogue redactor off this man. Does your unit have a controller jack?”

“Holy spirit up the Mother Mary’s sainted vagina,” breathed the Anchorite in shock. “Sorry,” he said, observing Mr. and Mrs. Reborn-in-Jesus’s mortified stares. “What else is missing?” he asked.

Mr. Suau checked the price labels. “A number of analogue blanks,” he said, “plus four novelty personalities including Salome, Delilah, Paris Hilton…”

“He recorded his own personality,” said the Anchorite firmly. “He’s taken control of the unit.”

“It takes several hours to download a personality,” said Mr. Suau. “I doubt he’s had time.”

“In which case, the machine is currently running on one of the pre-recorded analogues, and will be until Christmas has had time to record himself,” said the Anchorite. “He has a choice of four personalities, all of which were on this one recording.” He took the memory module from Mr. Suau. “You have an analogue recorder, I believe. We might profitably interrogate all four personalities to obtain a clue as to where the unit might be headed. I have my own surveillance drones, but they are seldom deployed in the immediate vicinity of the robot, as the robot itself possesses a pair of eyes.”

Mr. Suau trawled around inside the sales display. “I believe I may have found something even more useful. An extrapolated rendering of the personality of one Safety Officer Rajinder Rai.”

“If any man can catch him,” said Mr. Reborn-in-Jesus, “it ought to be the man who, uh, caught him. We have another reader in the house; I will take the recording there.”

The Anchorite nodded. “And if your lady wife does not shoot me in the next ten seconds, I will direct my remote eyes to find Mr. Christmas and my lost robot.”

Grudgingly, Shun-Company at last raised the weapon. All three Reborn-in-Jesus ribcages standing round the village square sagged visibly with the release of prolonged tension.

“I will do likewise,” said Mr. Suau.

“We must all move in twos from now on,” said the Anchorite. “And armed. Do not shoot at anything that moves, however; it might be one of your dearest relatives. Instead, move slowly and with sufficient caution not to need to react quickly. Unity, go with your father. Testament, accompany Mr. Suau.”

“Am I to accompany you?” said Shun-Company sardonically.

“I am full enough of surprises,” said the hermit, “to travel alone.”

Mr. Trapp dozed happy in his sleeping bag. The sarcophagus was cool and roomy. Mucked out by the Anchorite’s faceless ancillary, its marble walls were clean and smooth as the insides of the thighs of a virgin girl. The crypt was the size of many churches. There was room for him to run, turn cartwheels, and play ball. He had been loaned a ball, at his request, by Day-of-Creation, and the simple pleasure of throwing it and watching it travel a whole twenty metres before bouncing back to him was far, far better than sex.

He was aware that he badly needed to adjust to life outside the Penitentiary.

There was a chemical toilet in the corner of his new, larger prison, and food appeared daily on the flat whited sepulchre of Alessandra and Marlon Raffaele (Beloved Mother and Father to Beguiled-of-the-Serpent, Blessed Martyrs of the New Jerusalem), left there by unseen metal hands. The Reborn-in-Jesuses looked likely to keep their word, and he had been promised that the boy Magus’s starship—purchased with Mr. Trapp’s own money, after all—would arrive directly to take him to whatever world he wished. He hoped fervently that it would arrive before the Penitentiary came to the conclusion it had been psychoanalyzed with malice aforethought.