Marchey leaned closer. “What do you mean?” he demanded again, knowing that he was taking the bait even as he did so.
The only answer he received was an inscrutable half smile.
Marchey would have worried about himself if he hadn’t wanted a drink after his little dance in the dragon’s jaws.
But he sipped rather than gulped, brows knit and his face pensive as he tried to get a fix on the situation.
Fist was toying with him.
But why? Was he being led into the initial passages of an elaborate labyrinth constructed for the simple reason that Fist was unable to resist turning people into rats in a maze, and he was the only rat within reach? Or could it be the beginning of a payback for spoiling his fun on Ananke?
Although he couldn’t say why, he had a feeling that Fist’s agenda was more complex than mere revenge, that his objectives were clear and simple even if his methods of reaching them were not. But was it possible to see them through all the smoke and mirrors?
What motivates me?
The old bastard had known that this Helping Hands Foundation was bringing relief to Ananke, and thought it was funny—or wanted him to think he did. But which? And why?
There was no way to tell. Fist’s every word was calculated, his every expression the manipulation of a mask. Any resemblance to humanity was artifice. The one time he had let his true self show had exposed something Marchey hoped to never see again. The conscienceless egopathy and remorseless brilliance and sheer malignant force of personality that burned inside him put him so far outside the human norm that he might as well be alien.
Fist wasn’t giving anything away, that was for sure. Anything he offered was bound to be tainted—a free lunch where the sandwiches were buttered with arsenic. The smartest, safest course of action was to lock the clinic door, remotely reset the unibed to keep the old man under until they reached Botha Station, and do his best to put the matter out of his mind.
Another sip. A reminder that forgetfulness came in a tasty and convenient liquid form.
He just couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Fist was holding himself in check. Manipulating him to be sure, but gently compared to the cruel and ruthless way he’d crushed Marchey’s resistance on Ananke. He wanted to start a game. There was something he wanted at stake. He’d as much as offered up everything he’d stolen from the Kindred as incentive to play.
Another sip of his drink. Here was one sure answer. A few more of these and everything else would stop mattering.
He made himself put the glass down, still half-full. Maybe this would be a good time to call Sal Bophanza back at the Bergmann Institute. He dealt with MedArm on a day-to-day basis, and might just know something about this Helping Hands Foundation.
He had last spoken to the Institute’s director over two weeks before, only hours after he’d saved Fist from Scylla. Seeing the look on Sal’s face when he told him of the simple solution to the Nightmare Effect had been one of the high points of his life.
Who would have guessed that a man raised in the Lunar African enclave Mandela would know a Rebel yell or an Irish jig? Sal had let out the first and given an energetic performance of the second.
It had taken Sal a while to calm down. Once he had, Marchey had gone on to explain the situation on Ananke and request immediate relief. Then he had told Sal that he needed to stay on for a while. Sal had promised to do what he could.
When orders to leave Ananke and proceed to Botha Station had come in a few days later, he had hated himself for the sense of relief he felt. Yet at the same time he’d been angered by not at least being allowed to stay on until help arrived. Anger and a sense of duty had won out. He’d called Sal to ask for permission to at least stay until then—although by then it was more out of a sense of duty than desire to stay.
Much to his surprise, his call had been routed straight to MedArm. The unsmiling woman with the Chinese face and Phoban accent he found himself talking to had asked him to state his business. He’d begun to hem and haw out his request. She had interrupted him sharply, stating that the case had been reviewed, and the six days he was being given were more than generous.
When he had tried to argue, she coldly informed him that those six days could be cut to four, or two, or even none, and broken the connection, not even giving him a chance to ask why he was talking to her instead of Sal.
This time his call at least went to Sal’s office. He recognized the big real-wood desk and the meter-long crossed silver arms emblem on the wall behind it.
But the man sitting at Sal’s desk and staring back at him was not his old friend. This man was white, and had the hard-mouthed, expressionless face and ramrod-straight posture of someone whose life was devoted to giving—and unquestioningly taking—orders. If the severe, tightly fitting black onepiece he wore wasn’t a uniform, it might as well have been.
“Schnaubel here.” He glanced at Marchey’s silver arms, his posture subtly shifting from rigid attention to the impatience of someone forced to deal with a annoying underling. “State your business.”
“I’d like to speak to Sal Bophanza if I could, please.”
The answer was immediate and unequivocal. “You cannot. Dr. Bophanza is not presently available—” The pale blue eyes of the man on the screen flicked to one side. His hands were out of sight, but a slight movement of his shoulders told Marchey he was accessing. “—Dr. Marchey.” I know who and what you are, his face said with thinly veiled contempt.
“Can you, um, tell me how I can reach him?” Sal was always available. The Bergmann Program was his life. His devotion to keeping the Institute going and to those who had become the first and only Bergmann Surgeons was total. He had never married, and lived in a suite just off his office. Those rare times he left the Institute he carried a full commlink with him so he could be instantly available to those who might be no more than a friendly voice away from suicide.
This didn’t look good. Not good at all.
“I am sorry,” the man behind the desk said, his tone belying his words. “I am in charge here. Please state your business. Dr. Marchey.”
Marchey made himself smile, even though he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. “No business, really. I just called to, ah, shoot the shit with Sal. Can you at least tell me when he’ll be available?”
“Oh, I’m certain well have Dr. Bophanza back soon,” Schnaubel replied, the superior, completely humorless smile that appeared on his face making Marchey suddenly very afraid for his old friend. “Is there anything else?” Are you done wasting my valuable time?
“No,” Marchey said in the most offhand tone he could muster, “I don’t believe there is. Thanks.” He reached out and broke the connection.
“Well,” he told the blank screen, sitting back and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That certainly put my mind at ease.”
But it hadn’t. Nor did the rest of his drink.
Late that very same night he was dragged from a restless sleep by an insistent, earsplitting beeping.
After a few sleep-fuddled moments to get his bearings, he realized that the sound was coming from the commboard. He crawled out of bed and shuffled over to it, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
Squinting at the array of multicolored pads, he finally figured out that a comm mode he’d never used before had become active. He scratched his bald pate, unsure what he was supposed to do, then hit the ? pad because it seemed to sum up the situation perfectly.