And what, if anything, did that have to do with them letting some foundation do their relief work for them on Ananke?
He scowled and slouched lower, eyes half-focused on the steam curling up from his cup. Just like those nebulous vapors, there didn’t seem to anything he could get a solid grip on.
Maybe Sherlock Holmes could figure this mess out, but he sure couldn’t. He took a sip of his coffee, put the cup down. Drinking nothing but coffee and staying sober was supposed to have let him think more clearly. So far all it had done was send him to the head twice and make him more jittery than ever. Much more and he’d end up spending the rest of the morning alphabetizing his socks.
A glance at the clock reminded him that in just under half an hour Fist would be waking up. Which in turn reminded him that he had a whole other puzzle to deal with. One probably twice as insoluble and considerably more dangerous, a cryptogram that could put him in a crypt.
He toyed with his cup. In a way he almost had to admire the diabolical old bastard. There he was, on his way to be turned over to the authorities, so close to death that he could probably read the population number from the welcome to hell sign. So what does he do? He laughs and jokes and tries to play with my head. He drops hints that there’s something going on I should know about, and tries to draw me into playing guessing games about what he wants in trade for telling me about it. As if he—
Marchey froze, coffee cup halfway to his mouth, eyes going wide with realization.
There was something going on. MedArm was trying to force Sal out and take over the Institute. So they could restart the Bergmann program. Their own way, whatever that was.
Fist had done considerable research into the Bergmann Program. Enough to find a way around the Nightmare Effect. Which meant he had an information pipeline into it. But—
—But Sal had just told him that the Institute had been cut completely out of the process of choosing where the Bergmanns went and who they treated. Yet Fist had known precisely when and where to send Scylla to grab him. That could only mean—
—he also had a pipeline into MedArm!
Marchey sat up straighter, brow furrowing as he followed that line of reasoning.
Everything Fist did was based on information. He learned all there was to learn about something, pinpointing its strengths and weaknesses.
He proved that he knew enough about Bergmann Surgeons to subjugate me, using my own ethics against me. He hinted that he knows all about this business with the Helping Hands Foundation—which leads back to MedArm again. Which means—
The old bastard probably knows exactly what MedArm is up to. All of it. He’d as much as come right out and said so. Some of the information was sure to be locked away in those files Jon has so far been unable to crack, but the whole picture is stored away inside that tumorous reptile cage Fist has for a brain.
Some of what he’d said could be construed as an offer to hand over part of that information. To help.
But why would he want to change sides?
Allegiance. Fist had said that, hadn’t he?
But his only allegiance was to himself. He had no more loyalty than a gun or knife or bomb. Marchey remembered the old man saying that he had once worked for countries and corporations as a—what was it he called himself?
A phagewar specialist. He had been, in effect, a mercy. A freelance soldier of misfortune who would work for you if properly motivated.
What motivates me?
“Damn,” he muttered, his line of reasoning turning circular. It was like the old fairy tale about Rumplestiltskin. Guess my name. Only in this case it was Name my price.
Marchey sat back, pondering Fist’s motivations.
He has some sort of stake in all this. Botha Station figures into it. There’s something he wants. But he won’t come right out and say what it is. He has to make a game of it…
Marchey sat very still, sensing but not quite clearly seeing the shape of the puzzle piece in his hand. He thought back over all Fist had said to him, searching for a clue.
Challenge. Reward. Accomplishment. Fulfillment.
He can’t keep himself from playing deadly chess with people’s lives. Until I came along he had won the game on Ananke. He could have lived like a king, but instead had lived an almost monkish existence. Why?
Because the winnings didn’t matter to him?
Because only the game itself mattered?
Because… only the game was real?
That seemed close, but not quite right. Then it turned itself around in his mind, taking on a whole new shape and meaning.
Because he was only real—only truly alive—when he was playing?
It sounded too bizarre to be possible, but then again so was the man himself. Rather than rejecting the idea out of hand, he tried using it as a lens for examining the situation.
Several things suddenly sprang into clear focus. For instance, he’d put the old man under a sleepfield right after his fall. That should have slowed the progress of his disease to some degree. But it hadn’t. Instead, his condition had soon after turned terminal. Yet he seemed to have hit some sort of plateau since first being awakened here on the ship.
Since he started playing with me. Almost as if that fed him, gave him a reason to keep living.
Marchey’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. What was it he said?
Even love. I love life when it puts the sweet raw stuff of possibility in my hands.
But that wasn’t all. Right after he’d said—
It’s put that same sweet stuff in your hands as well.
What cards am I holding? Maybe jokers and deuces, but no aces.
After a moment Marchey sat back and began to chuckle to himself. The game was still a mystery, but he was beginning to get an idea as to what his next move ought to be.
If jokers are all you hold, then that’s just what you have to play.
Marchey beamed down at his gruesome patient and passenger. One sweet warm shot of scotch was nestled in his belly and on his breath. Another had been carefully splashed onto his clothes. He could smell its tantalizing scent with every breath. The slight flare of Fist’s nostrils told him he smelled it, too.
In one hand he carried a glass, in the other a bottle.
Grinning like he had a head full of laughing gas and saying not a word, he put the glass aside and went to work.
First he racked in a second bottle next to the bottle of sterilized in the unibed’s liquids dispenser, this one filled with amber fluid. The tap of a pad filled the siptube with liquid gold. Then he clipped the tube next to the one for water, where Fist could reach it just by turning his head.
“There you go,” he said jovially as he straightened back up. “Have a snort, old man.” He retrieved his glass, held it up. “Be sociable. It’s Happy Hour, and the drinks are on me.”
Fist had watched him stone-faced and silent through the whole process. “What is it?” he rasped.
“Phoban scotch.” He shrugged. “It isn’t as good as the stuff you had stashed away on Ananke, but it beats the hell out of the recycled piss you get from the dispenser.”
Fist’s pus-colored eyes narrowed in calculation. “Why?”
“Well, you see they use real malt for one thing, and age it in genuine wood barrels shipped all the way up from Earth. That gives it a—”
“Silence,” the old man hissed. “I ask why… you have… brought it to me.”
“Sorry.” Marchey took a sip of his drink, smacked his lips. “I wanted you to help me celebrate going all the way off the wagon.”
A slow blink as that information was absorbed and processed. “Why have you decided… to become… a worthless drunk again?”
“A talent like mine is a terrible thing to waste,” he answered with a chuckle.
Fist stared up at him. “You amuse… only yourself. Or are you afraid… to tell me?”
Marchey shrugged, his grin turning into a grimace. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He jerked his chin in Fist’s direction. “You’re so goddamned smart, why don’t you tell me?”
“Everything,” Fist whispered, “is falling apart.”
Marchey hung his head. “Yeah, you’re right. Jon Halen can’t crack any of your files, and I can’t crack you. Sal Bophanza called last night. He’s on the run. MedArm is trying to take over the Institute and start making more of us. They’re up to other stuff I can’t even begin to figure out. Angel has started acting strange, it’s probably my fault, and there’s not one damn thing I can do about it.”
He blinked, took a long slug of his drink. “I can’t stand being back on the circuit, at least not sober. I’m sick of not knowing what the hell’s going on, and I’m tired of beating my head against a brick wall worrying about it.”
An expansive shrug. “So fuck it! I give up! I’ve been a drunk before. It’s not a bad life. It makes everything so much simpler and easier to take. I figure if you can’t cure the disease, you might as well medicate the symptoms.”
He pointed at the siptube. “You could use a dose yourself, old man. You’ve already got one foot in a body bag and the other on a banana peel. So why don’t you join me? Misery loves company.”
Fist ignored the offer. “You are only besieged… not defeated. Surrender is… premature. There might be… a way out… of your strait.”
Marchey chuckled and held up his glass. “Sure is. This is it.” He took another sip. “And it tastes good, too.”
“No,” the old man grated with an impatient shake of his head. “Every dark cloud… has a silver lining.”
Marchey guffawed. “Right. Let’s see. ‘It’s always darkest just before the dawn.’ ”
Fist’s eyes blazed with anger. “Don’t be… a simpleton! Pay attention… to me! Every dark cloud has… a silver lining!” He gasped for breath, winded. “That’s im… portant!”
“And all you need is love,” Marchey returned agreeably, reaching down to pat one bony cheek. “Maybe you’d rather drink alone. I know I do. Less distraction that way.” He saluted Fist with his glass, then turned to leave.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a little while,” he called over his shoulder. “You better enjoy yourself while you can, you miserable old sack of pus. Time’s running out.”
“Remember… what I said!” Fist wheezed, coming as close to a shout as his ruined lungs would allow. “Dark… cloud! Silver… lining! It’s im…portant!”