House of the Sun (35 page)

For what? What had been the use, tell me that? All the pain, all the heartache . .. for what? Frag it, I might as well have just left her attached to that pus-yellow umbilicus in the Fort Lewis hive. Might as well have left the astral parasites—the Wasp spirits—in her aura. It had all been for nothing, I could see that in my sister's glassy eyes. The one thing I thought I'd done right in my life . . . now
that
had turned into drek, too. Ah, what the hell anyway? Might as
well stay consistent,
neh!
At least I can be proud of
that
.

My sister's body was standing before me. a smile on its face. Something looked out from those familiar eyes, those eyes that had always seemed able to see wonder and beauty where I'd only seen pain and threat. Something . . . Was Theresa in there anymore? Was there any of my sister left in that shell of a body? Or was she gone forever?

It was almost as if Theresa—or the thing that now wore her body—could read my thoughts. "I'm here, Derek," she said softly.
"I'm
here. I
am
Theresa, but I'm more as well."

"Why
?" My voice was a husky whisper, the sound of a torture victim.

She smiled. It was my sister's smile, Theresa's smile. It hurt so much I wished I could die right then and there. "Why?" she echoed. She glanced away, her brow wrinkling in the way it always did when she was thinking hard. "It would take me a million words to explain," she said slowly, "or just one."

"One?"

"Love
," my sister said firmly. "That's the only answer, the core answer. The heart of everything."

I shook my head. I wanted to scream, I wanted to run. I wanted to grab her and shake her. But all I did was say softly, "I don't understand, Theresa."

"It's simple, Derek, really," she said, her voice kindly and gentle. The tone of voice made me think she really wanted me to understand, but could I trust something like tone and body language?

"Do you know what it's like to be loved?" she went on. "Of course."

She raised a brow ironically.
"Do
you? Really? Loved unreservedly and unconditionally? For
yourself
—for what you
are,
not for what you do? Knowing that nothing—
nothing
!—can ever change that, can ever lose you that love?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"I didn't think so," she went on sadly. "Mom loved us ... but only if we behaved. Dad loved us ... but only if we excelled. Isn't that the way it was, Derek?" She took my hand. I wanted to shake free of her touch, but I couldn't bring myself to move. "If we were 'good' children—if we lived our lives the way they thought we should live them—we were loved. If we weren't, they withheld their love."

"They always loved us, Theresa." I
had
to say it even though I wasn't totally convinced it was true.

"Maybe," she said with a slight inclination of her head. "Maybe they did. But they withheld the
expression
of that love, didn't they? And for a child, that's all that matters. Maybe for an adult, too."

"
I
always loved you, Theresa . . ."

My sister squeezed my hand. "I know you did, Derek. In your own way—to the extent of your abilities—you loved me. And I'll always thank you for that, and love
you
in turn.

"But ... it's not enough, not when you've experienced something more."

She fixed me with her unblinking gaze. "I know you love me, Derek," she went on urgently, "but I could never
feel
your love. Not directly. You
can't
feel love. No matter what all the romance stories and trideos and songs say—you can't feel it. When people say they 'feel' love, what they're talking about is something inside themselves, isn't it? They
infer
the love of another, or of others. They take in what people say to them, how they act and what they do, and from that they
infer
that those other people love them. And from that
inference
comes the feeling that people call 'being loved.'

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Derek? It's important that you understand. The feeling we label 'being loved' is totally independent of whether you
are
loved or not. Don't you see? If someone actually does love you but you don't know it—you don't make the correct inference—then you don't
feel
that love. If someone doesn't love you, but you infer incorrectly that they do, then you
do
feel it. See? You're not feeling love at all, you're only responding to some state internal to yourself, to some conclusion you're making about the outside world.

'That's all I ever felt," she went on softly, "that's all anyone ever feels. I never knew anything else could exist."

"Until ..." I whispered.

My sister nodded. "Until I felt the love of the Hive Queen," she said simply.

I couldn't hold her gaze. Frag, I couldn't stand any of this—to face someone who looked and sounded and felt . .. and Christ, even
smelled
like my sister, and listen to her spouting
this
... I wanted to pull my hand away, but I didn't have the fragging guts.

She squeezed my hand again, almost hard enough to hurt. "Listen to me, Derek," she said,
"please
."

"Why?" I demanded. "Why the frag should I? So you can convince me, too? So your ... your
Hive
Queen
can suck out my soul, too?"

She didn't flinch at the venom in my voice, didn't look angry. Instead she looked sad. "That's not what we do," she said.

I cringed at that terrible word.
We
.

She saw it, but pressed on. "We don't convert by force—by fire or by the sword. That's the way human religions are traditionally spread, but this isn't a religion, Derek. People come to this way of life because it's what they choose, it's what they
want,
deep down in their core."

"Bulldrek," I snarled, suddenly angry. "I found you in a fragging coma, with a fragging
umbilical
cord stuck into you, Theresa. That doesn't sound like a fragging choice to me." My anger left her untouched, and when I saw that, the rage just seemed to bleed away, leaving me cold and empty. She shrugged slightly. "I really don't remember much about what led up to it, Derek," she admitted. "But I
do
remember what I felt when I belonged."

"Remember
how!
You were in a coma."

She shrugged again. "I don't know how I remember, I only know I do."

"You never talked about it. With me, with the doctors, with the therapists ..."

"I know. Maybe part of me didn't want to talk about it—to remember it, or maybe to admit it. But the memories were there, Derek, they still are. I couldn't access them all the time. Mainly they came out in dreams—dreams where I'd wake up crying my eyes out because I was so lonely and empty.

"I'd travel," she went on gently. "I'd go to a new place, a new city. I'd look at the people, and they'd all be lonely and empty, too. Some of them knew it; most of them couldn't let themselves think about it. They were all alone, all of them
alone
. And the memories came back more often, and they kept getting stronger. And the sadness wouldn't go away."

"So you went back to them." In my own ears, my voice sounded like a cold wind blowing through a graveyard.

"Not at first," she corrected.

"Why not, if living your own life was so terrible?"

"Because of you, Derek," she told me. "Because I was afraid you wouldn't understand, you wouldn't approve."

I
don't
understand
or
approve,
is what I didn't say to her. I just nodded wordlessly.

"And then I remembered something you told me," she went on, "and I made my decision."

That shocked me. "Something
I
told you?"

"Of course. You told me once that I should live my life with the end always in mind. Remember, Derek? You suggested it as a kind of decision-making tool. That I should imagine I was at the end of my life and looking back. Would there be regrets? Would I lie on my deathbed, praying for one chance to go back and do something—experience something,
have
something—I'd decided against at the time? Do you remember that, Dirk?"

Well, of course I remembered that, now she parroted it back to me. Another one of those facile oversimplifications that I seem able to dredge up on the spur of the moment. Okay, maybe it wasn't
totally
facile oversimplification. Maybe I believed it sometimes. When I was sitting at my 'puter, trying to bash out a few more lines of code and I knew there was a gorgeous sunset outside over the skyline of Cheyenne, for example. Which would I remember when I was on my deathbed, I'd ask myself: a soul-touching sunset or another dozen lines of code? If nothing else, it was a convenient excuse to slack off, couched in the trappings of "wisdom."

"I thought about what you said," Theresa was continuing. "I thought about dying. And I thought about dying without feeling that love, that belonging, ever again. I couldn't face that."

"So you went back to them," I repeated.

"They came to me, actually," she corrected. "In Denver. It was as if they knew I was there, and they knew that I needed them. They came to me, and they offered to love me, and need me."

"And
possess
you," I almost spat, "and steal your goddamn fragging
sou!l
"

My sister looked at me sadly. It was a ... a
complex
sadness, that's the only way I could describe it: regret, alloyed with understanding, and something that could almost be compassion. I hated the expression in her eyes. I
feared
it.

"That's not how it is, Derek." Her voice was as gentle as a breeze stirring the leaves of an elm tree. "I am
me
. I'll always be me. But I'm more as well. I
am
the Hive Queen. I
am
the other members of the Hive. And they are me.

"In a sense I'll never die. As long as one member of the hive remains,
I
remain. Some of my memory—some of who I am—will continue to live. Forever, maybe. There's no loss, Derek, none. It's a
gain
. I'm Theresa, just as I always was . . . but
more
so."

Now I did pull my hand back, and I did cover my face. "No," I said. That's all, just, "No." I couldn't bring myself to say what I was thinking—that she
had
lost something. Her humanity, if nothing else. And with it, she'd lost the ability to
know
that something was lost.

Someone touched my arm, gently. Not Theresa; I knew her touch. I took my hands from my eyes.

It was the gray-faced man, the insect shaman. I flinched back from him as though his hand had been a white-hot iron bar, searing my flesh. I stared at him, at his glassy eyes, at the face that had once belonged to a human. I thought I'd hated before in my life. I was wrong. I think I smiled as I reached for the Manhunter stuffed down the waistband of my trousers.

The pistol was clear. My thumb flicked off the safety as I brought the big gun up. On came the laser, and I tracked it onto the shaman's right eye. The ruby light gleamed from the watery-looking cornea. I took up the slack on the trigger, then squeezed it.

And stopped, just short of the break-point. The shaman hadn't reacted in any way. He just watched me. Frag, his pupil didn't even seem to have contracted under the laser's light.

Suddenly, I became aware of the tableau around me. The three bodyguards all had their nasty little SMGs out. Kono and the one they called Lupo held dead aim on the shaman. Pohaku's weapon panned back and forth between me and the shaman, as if he didn't know what the frag to do. The woman, Akaku'akanene, was staring at me with those bright, birdlike eyes of hers. I think she understood what I was feeling—I
think
it was understanding in those eyes. But there was determination there as well. Deep down, in the base of my brain, I had the unshakable conviction that if I'd actually tried to fire my pistol into the Insect shaman's head, I wouldn't have been able to do it. The final member of the tableau was Theresa. In her eyes was something that, in another, I'd have had to call genuine sadness.

"Chill, people," I said quietly. I put up my gun and safed it. Just to spare myself from temptation, I turned and scaled the big hunk of metal onto the bed. Then I turned back to the gray-faced insect shaman. "Well?" I said quietly. "Speak your piece."

The small man nodded. "You find yourself in an interesting situation, Mr. Montgomery," he began. His voice was as gray, as nondescript—as empty—as his face. "Through no choice of your own, you've been drawn into important events.

"These events have been developing for some time," he continued quietly. "The beginning of the pattern was woven"—his lips twisted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and that contained no human amusement—"well, the weaving began long before you were born, as a matter of fact. Now, circumstance has conveyed you into the middle of affairs, and the weaving of the pattern has changed because of it."

I looked at him, and I shook my head. "I haven't got a fragging clue what you're talking about, chummer," I said flatly.

"It's self-evident, isn't it?" the shaman asked rhetorically. "You have been woven into the pattern, Mr. Montgomery. You are now
part
of the tapestry of events, not just an observer. There are those who can sense this about you." And now he shot a sidelong glance at Akaku'akanene. "The weaving of the pattern is almost complete."