Walking the rows tonight he had felt a restlessness in his limbs—a restlessness which had reminded him of that night, four years before, when he had been appointed the T’ang’s General. Then he had felt like this, that same impatience, like a poison in the blood, that same dark feeling that all of this waiting was a barrier, a wall, surrounding him, preventing him from simply being. He shivered. Yes, and that same urge to be doing something—to be riding hard or breaking necks— had come on him again; that selfsame urge that once before had thrust him headlong into folly, almost destroying him.
Ebert stared at the wheatcake a moment, not recognizing it; then, with a shudder, he threw it down and stood. On the bench nearby the other men had stopped talking and were watching him. Then Ebert kicked the bulb away; a dark trail of ch’a snaked across the clean white floor. In the silent stillness Ebert looked about him, at the curious faces of the men, the surprised face of the ch’a woman. He was about to turn away, to fetch something to clean up the mess he had made, when he grew conscious of shadows in the doorway.
He turned. Three men were standing in the entrance to the work-point. Big men, their pale red pressure suits tight over their broad chests. He recognized them at once. They were the three from the bar. The three who had wanted to shake down Shen Li. Beneath the mask Ebert smiled. It had not taken them long to find him.
“Latimer?” The biggest of them came forward two paces, squinting in the glare of the overhead lights. In one hand he held a metal rod—a lever arm from one of the maintenance machines, Ebert realized—his fingers gripped tightly about the handle. “Latimer? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” Ebert answered, feeling suddenly focused, hyperalert, the old,
familiar kick of adrenaline pumping through his system. “What do you
want?”
Bates gave an ugly laugh. “What do you think?”
Behind him the two others squared up.
“I think you made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Bates shook his head. “I don’t think so, creep. It was you made the mistake, sticking your nose in where it wasn’t wanted.” Ebert was silent. Without thinking he had gone into a fighting crouch. His breath hissed gently through his nostrils as he prepared himself, calming himself, controlling that inner fire, flexing and un-flexing his hands. Bates narrowed his eyes, then, half turning to his fellows, signaled to them. “Clear them out. All of them. All except him. Him I want.” The two men did as they were told, skirting round Ebert to herd the others out. There was a faint murmuring, but no one argued. In a moment they were gone, the gate to the workpoint pulled across on its runners. And still Ebert faced Bates across the center of the floor. “I warned you,” Bates said, more relaxed now that he was alone with Ebert.
“You can’t say I didn’t warn you. But now you’re going to have to pay. Because I can’t have my authority undermined. You know what I’m saying? I can’t have creeps like you getting in the way all the time. Do you understand that?”
Ebert laughed. A cold, clear laugh. “You talk too much. Did you know that, Bates? Like an old woman. A toothless, gutless old hag.” Bates’s face seemed to convulse and change color. He changed his grip on the rod, taking a step toward Ebert. “Why, you faceless fucking creep ...” “You want to see my face, then, Bates? Well, come on then, big man, come and take the mask off. Come and try.”
The hesitation was telling. Bates wasn’t sure. He had fired himself up for this, but now that he was facing Ebert, he wasn’t quite so sure. But Ebert was. He wanted this. Needed it.
“What’s the matter, Bates? Scared, are we? Scared of a freak like me?” That did it. With a bellow Bates threw himself at Ebert, aiming a blow at his head. But as the rod came down, Ebert caught Bates’s wrist and twisted it, sending the rod spinning, clattering, across the floor, then followed up with his knee, bringing it up sharply into Bates’s stomach. Bates went down, groaning. As he did, Ebert stepped back and kicked, his heel connecting with the big man’s jaw, forcing it back with a loud, resounding crack.
Dead. He was dead. Even before the back of his head hit the floor. Ebert looked across. The two men were staring at him, unable to take in what they’d seen.
“And you?” Ebert said, beginning to walk toward them. But they had already gone. The gate rattled in its runners. Ebert went to the doorway and watched as they scuttled away down the dimly lit row, moving between the broad track and the walkway, then raced off to the right to avoid two Security guards who were making their way slowly toward the scene.
The others were crowding the doorway now, looking in, trying to make out what had happened. Ebert pushed through them and stood there, just outside, waiting for the guards. As they came up to him, he lifted his hands, offering them to be bound.
“1 killed a man,” he said simply. “He’s in there. Bates is his name. I broke his neck.”
The young guards eyes widened, then he jerked his head around, looking to his lieutenant for instructions.
“Bind him,” the lieutenant said, eyeing Ebert strangely, then edged around him to look into the room. “You’re sure he’s dead?” Then, when Ebert made no answer: “Look, what’s been going on here?” But Ebert wasn’t listening. “Culver,” he said. “Take me to Culver. I need to talk to him.”
there was a banging at the door, the sound of fists thudding against the outer lock. Ikuro sat up, frightened, looking about him at the darkness, as if for a way out. But these were not the tunnels of home. Here there was no escaping.
Shit, he thought, they’ve found me. And if they’ve found me, they won’t let a simple thing like an air lock get in their way. So what then? Could he fight them? Was there something here he could fight them with? The canister, perhaps. Or a knife. Was there a knife? He hadn’t looked, but maybe there was. He stood, calming himself, then went out to the galley, searching the drawers for something, anything, he could use as a weapon.
The banging came again. “Ikuro!” came a voice, faint through the double layer. “Ikuro, let me in!”
Ikuro ... He laughed with relief. It was his brother, Kano. “Kano?” he said, as his elder brother stepped through the inner lock a moment later. “How did you find me?”
Kano laughed, his big, well-padded body filling the tiny space beside the door. “I used my nose. I sniffed you out, little brother. I followed your scent down shafts and corridors until I found you here.” “You did?”
Kano laughed again, a warm, hearty belly-laugh that shook his body. “No. It cost me a few^uan, tracing your movements these past twenty-four hours, but it wasn’t that hard. You leave a lot of earth behind you when you move, neh, Ikuro-san?”
Ikuro looked down, concerned and a little shamefaced. If Kano had managed to find him, it would not have been long before Bates and his friends would have found him—before his earlier fears had become a reality. “Was it really that easy?”
Kano grew more serious. “No. Let’s just say that I have ways of making men tell me what I want to know, especially when my little brother is missing, possibly in trouble. Now, tell me, what have you been doing, my little tunnel-worm? What holes have you been crawling into?” Ikuro laughed. If Kano had found him, then Kano already knew what trouble he’d been getting into. But that was not what Kano meant. Kano wanted him to admit to it; to confess that he’d been foolish and to apologize. But for once he felt that he had nothing to apologize for. “I did nothing wrong, elder brother. I merely had a drink, that’s all. And my friend, Latimer, he helped me. He stood up for me when it mattered. Like a brother. Like family.”
“Ahh . . .” Kano rubbed at his double chin, then moved past Ikuro, looking about him at the tiny apartment. “And this is how he lives, eh, your friend? I was told he wears a mask. Was that an accident?” Ikuro looked down, remembering what Ebert had said, and determined to keep his friend’s secret. “Yes,” he answered. “He is a poor man. A sweeper at the HoloGen complex. All I know is that he’s an honest man. A good man.” “And a killer too,” Kano said, turning to face Ikuro again. He nodded, seeing the disbelief in Ikuro’s face. “Oh, yes. It happened just after two this morning, so rumor has it. A man named Bates. He kicked him to death, it seems. Broke his neck.”