Roadmarks (10 page)

Sundoc's flyer deposited him on the laboratory's roof. He entered a hatchway and dropped to the sixth floor. He was met by Cargado, chief physician-engineer of the establishment, who took him into his office and activated the wallscreen. Sundoc seated himself in a comfortable reclining chair and propped his sandaled feet on a small table. He wore shorts and a dark turtleneck. He clasped his hands behind his head and regarded the image of the man on the screen.

"All right. Tell me about him," he said.

"I have the entire file right here."

"I don't want the damned file. I want you to tell me about him."

"Of course," Cargado replied, seating himself at the desk. "His name is Archie Shellman
—
the most decorated soldier in World War III and a master of the martial arts. We found him a C and a half back. He'd been an infantryman in a special commando outfit. Lost a leg. Concussion. Major psychiatric impairment
—
"

"Like what?"

"Depression at first, followed by extreme resentment of the prosthesis. Then paranoia. Finally, manic spells. Went into physical culture in a big way. Extreme development of the upper body, presumably to compensate
—
”

"I can see that. What then?"

"He finally killed some civilians. Knocked off half a town, actually. Insanity plea. Institutionalized. Manic-depressive cycle controlled by drug therapy. Still paranoid, though. Still lifting weights
—
”

"Not bad. Better than the others you've shown me. So you liberated him and gave him the pitch?"

Cargado nodded.

"A prosthetic beyond anything he could wish for. He finally consented to having all of his limbs replaced when we assured him we could restore the originals if he wasn't happy. He was, though."

He touched a control panel and the figure on the screen moved. Dark eyes, strong jaw, heavy brows, somewhat pale . . . The man was clad only in shorts. His movements were extremely graceful as he approached a rack of weights and began a vigorous workout. He increased the tempo until he was moving at a terrific speed.

"You've made the point," Sundoc said. "Special features?"

Cargado worked a control. The gymnasium picture faded to be replaced by another.

Shellman stood quite still. After some moments, Sundoc realized that the man's skin was darkening. He watched for perhaps two minutes, until it was almost completely black.

"Chameleon effect," Cargado said. "Fine for a night attack."

"So's a little shoe polish. What else's he got?"

The picture changed again. This time it was a closeup of Shellman's hands.

Abruptly, they clenched. There followed a momentary pumping movement and they sprang open. Metal fingernails now curved outward for several inches.

"Extrudable claws. Extremely powerful. He could disembowel a man with a single swipe."

"I like that. Can he do it with his feet too?"

"Yes. Just a moment . . . "

"Forget it. He has retained all of his combat skills?"

"Of course."

More pictures. Archie Shellman, looking almost bored, tossing around karateists, boxers, wrestlers with ease and proficiency. Archie Shellman permitting himself to receive powerful blows without changing expression . . .

"Is he as big as he seems? That's the first sequence involving other people."

"Yes. A hundred kilos and tall enough to be slim. He can turn over a car, kick down a heavy door, run all day. Has almost perfect night vision. He also has attachments . . . ”

"What about his mind?"

"It's all yours. Built-in gratitude for the new body and a reinforced desire to use it in combat. We've blocked the depression, but the manic response is ready and waiting if you feel you should need it. He considers himself the toughest, meanest thing on two feet
—
”

"Perhaps he is."

"Quite likely, and he would welcome the chance to prove it and show his gratefulness at the same time."

"I wonder . . . Of all the cyborgs you've shown me, he certainly has the most class. I have some pictures of the intended victim. Would you recommend just siccing him on him, or do you think a little hate conditioning might be in order?"

"Oh, some sort of conditioning, to make it into a duty. Then he won't rest until he does it personally. You know our motto: 'We never let well enough alone.' "

"Very well. I'll give him a try, as soon as I know where to send him. We might have a winner here."

"Uh
—
none of my business, of course
—
but what is so special about the man you are sending him after?"

Sundoc shook his head as he passed Cargado the photos of Red Dorakeen.

"Damned if I really know," he said. "Someone, somewhere, just doesn't like him."

Passing a succession of heavily laden chariots, they came to a quiet section of the Road.

"Now, neither of you can pick up any more signals, can you?"

"None here."

"No."

"Good. Now I can settle down to the business of keeping alive on more of a long-range basis
—
one of the reasons I was coming to see you, Mondy."

"The old arm isn't what it used to be, but I'll be glad to help."

"It's your advice that I'm really after. You're still the greatest mayhem computer I know about. Now, you know me and you know something of the situation
—
and I can get you more data if you need it. The first thing I want is your opinion as to the course of action I should take."

"You are more than welcome to return with me to my place. I will be glad to give you sanctuary for as long as you wish, and teach you to make pots."

"Thank you. But I can't see my enjoying that on a permanent basis. I require a little more variety."

"This hostel on the Byzantine cutoff
—
How is it that you know of it?"

Red chuckled.

"I did quite a bit of trading along that route. Made out pretty well on it. But
—
Well, I like it. Manuel I is emperor there. He's usually off fighting somewhere, but he found time to build a really lovely place, a palace called the Blachernae, on the seashore right out at the end of the Golden Horn. An amazing piece of architecture, covered with gold and jewels, shining even at night. Does some fine entertaining there, and I got invited a few times as a high-class merchant. And Constantinople itself is really at its height. Literature and scholarship are flourishing. It's as if, for a little while, the Renaissance were trying to get started here. The climate is clement, the women lovely, the
—
"

"In other words, you're fond of the place?"

"I guess that's what I was trying to say."

"Well, if you don't want to make pots with me, why not get yourself a villa there? You'd have your variety, in a place you're truly fond of . . . "

Red was silent for a time. He searched out a match and relit his cigar.

Then, "It's a nice dream," he said, "and I could do it for a few years. Then I'd get restless and I'd be back on the Road again. I know it."

"Because of whatever it is you're looking for?" Flowers said.

"Yes . . . I suppose so. But I've thought about it a lot . . . Even if there were nothing special I were seeking, even then . . . I'd just get restless."

He puffed on the cigar.

"Then I'd get back on the Road and my problem would still be there, waiting for me," he finished.

"That turnoff is coming up now."

"Yeah, thanks, I see it"

He cut down and across onto this tributary of the Road. He passed a variety of vehicles and was passed himself as he sped along.

"That closes one option," Mondamay said.

"What?"

"You can't just quit and hide, because you can't stay hidden. The time interval spent off the Road
—
even if it is a long one
—
would mean nothing once you return to it."

"So your retirement from the Road should only be for purposes of planning or arming."

"Again, true."

"Or you can return to the Road, go about your business, stay alert, and hope to win out in all the ensuing assaults
—
”

"I might just do that."

“—bearing in mind that every one of them is going to be managed by a professional in this line of work, and that your enemy can afford to hire uniquely talented individuals from virtually anywhere."

"The thought had passed through my mind. Nevertheless . . . "

"Or you could choose your own battleground. Select some comfortable, well-fortified spot, let it be known that you are there, and let them come after you."

"There's the motel now," Red announced as a large stone structure several stories in height, topped with cupolas, glittering in the dayglow, came into view on the left. The sign in front said SPIRO'S.

He passed the establishment. A little farther ahead, there was a cloverleaf. He spun about it, emerged on the proper side of the road, headed back. The sky faded, brightened, faded, faded, as he slowed and turned off toward the building. It was a cool, dark night when he entered the lot and parked. Somewhere a cricket was singing.

He removed Flowers from her compartment and got out of the car. He fetched his backpack from the rear. Mondamay climbed out and joined him.

"Red?" Mondamay said as they headed toward the front doors.

"Yes?"

"Get two rooms, will you?"

"Okay. How come?"

"One for Flowers and myself. We just want to be alone
—
together."

"Oh. Sure. I'll take care of it."

They entered the flagstoned lobby, where he left Flowers with Mondamay and headed for the registration office. He was in it for several minutes. "Sorry we couldn't be on the same floor," he said as they moved toward the stairs. "You are below the third balcony, though. I'm above it. Come on up to my room for a while. I want to continue our discussion."

"This was our intention also."

They went round and round, the stairs creaking beneath Mondomay's tread.

Dreaming roadmaps and gold, the great dragons of Bel'kwinith drift and twist on the breezes of morning, when they were not dreaming in their caves. Timeless collaborators with destiny, they move their wills across the landscape of dream and desire . . .

"Patris," said the younger one, "you have said that if a certain event occurs, I may enter his cave to remove the hoard that awaits him there and add it to my own."

The older one opened one eye. Minutes passed.

Then, "I have said that," Patris acknowledged.

More minutes passed.

Finally, "You say nothing more, Chantris," the older one stated. "Has it occurred?"

"No, not yet . . . "

"Then why do you trouble me?"

"Because I feel that it may soon come to pass."

"Feel?"

"It seems likely."

"Likelies and their uns have seldom concerned us here. I know your desire, and I say that you may not yet have his hoard."

"Yes," said Chantris, showing many of her teeth.

"Yes," Patris repeated in their sibilant tongue, and he opened his other eye. "And you have just spoken one word too many. You know my will and you seek to toy with it." He raised his head. The other drew back. "Do you challenge me?"

"No," said Chantris.

" . . . And by that you say 'not yet.' "

"I would not be so foolish as to choose this time and this spot."

"Good sense. Though I doubt it will save you in the end. Face the north wind and depart."

"I was about to anyway, Lord Patris. And I bid you remember we need no Road. Farewell!"

"Hold, Chantris! If you go to damage these chains you have seen, if you go to harm this one in his other form, then you may have chosen your time and your place!"

But the other had already departed, to seek and stop one who would return to the wind but knew it not wholly, yet.

Patris revolved his eyes. Times and places moved behind them. He found the channel of his desire and adjusted the fine tuning.

Red sat on his bed, Mondamay on the floor. Flowers on the table between them. Cigar smoke twisted about the room. Red raised an ornate goblet from the table and sipped a dark wine.

"All right. Where were we?" he asked, unlacing his boots and dropping them beside the bed.

"You had said that you did not want to come home with me and make pots," Mondamay stated.

"That's true."

" . . . And you agreed that it would be difficult for you to leave the Road and stay in hiding indefinitely."

"Yes."

"You also conceded that remaining on the Road and going about your business could be hazardous."

"Right."

"Then the only course of action I can see is for you to go on the offensive. Get Chadwick before he gets you."

"Hmm." Red closed his eyes. "That would be an interesting variation," he said. "But he's pretty far from here, and it would certainly not be easy . . . "

"Where is he now?"

"The last I knew, he'd put down pretty firm roots in C Twenty-seven. He is a very wealthy and powerful man."

"But you could find him?"

"Yes."

"How well do you know his time and place?" Mondamay asked.

"I lived there for over a year."

"Then your best course of action seems obvious: go after him."

"I suppose you are right."

Red suddenly put down his goblet, rose to his feet and began pacing rapidly.

"You suppose! What else is there left to do?"

"Yes, yes!" Red replied, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it onto the bed. "Listen, we'll have to finish talking about it tomorrow."

He unbuckled his belt, stepped out of his trousers, threw them next to the shirt. He resumed pacing.

"Red!" Flowers said sharply. "Are you having one of your spells?"

"I don't know. I feel a little peculiar, that's all. Possibly. I think you'd better go now. We'll talk more in the morning."

"I think we'd better stay," Flowers answered. "I'd like to know what happens, and perhaps
—
”

"No! I mean it! I'll talk to you later! Leave me!"

"All right. As you say. Let's go, Mondy."

Mondamay rose and removed Flowers from the table.

"Is there anything at all that I can do, that I can get you?" he asked.

"No."

"Good night, then."

"Good night."

He departed. As he moved down the stairs, Mondamay asked Flowers, "What is it? I've known him for some time, but I never knew of any illness
—
any spells . . . What's he got?"

"I have no idea. He does not get them often, but when he does, he always manages to be alone. I believe he has recurrent bouts of insanity
—
some sort of manic thing."

"How so?

"You will know what I mean if you get a look at his room in the morning. He is going to have a big bill here. He'll tear that place apart."

"Hasn't he ever seen a physician about it?"

"Not that I know of."

"There must be some very good ones in the high Cs."

"Indeed. But he won't see one. He'll be all right in the morning, though
—
a little tired, perhaps, and there may even be a personality change. But he'll be all right."

"What sort of personality change?"

"Hard to say. You'll see."

"Here's our room. You sure you want to try this?"

"I'll tell you inside."