“Oh, sit down,” Harvey said. He put a hand on Igan’s chest, pushed. The surgeon stumbled backward onto the opposite bench.
Igan started to bounce back, his face dark, eyes glaring. Boumour restrained him, rumbled, “Serenity, friend Igan.”
Igan settled back. Slowly, a look of patience came over his features. “It’s odd,” he said, “how one’s emotions have a way of asserting themselves in spite of -”
“That will pass,” Boumour said.
Harvey found Lizbeth’s hand, clutched it, signaled, “Igan’s chest—it’s convex and hard as plasmeld. I felt it under his jacket.”
“You think he’s Cyborg?”
“He breathes normally.”
“And he has emotions. I read fear on him.”
“Yes… but…”
“We will be careful.”
Boumour said, “You should place more trust in us, Durant. Doctor Igan had deduced that our driver would not be moving cargo unless certain sounds were safe.”
“How do we know who’s moving cargo?” Harvey asked.
A look of caution fled across Boumour’s massive calm.
Harvey read it, smiled.
“Harvey!” Lizbeth said. “You don’t think the -”
“It’s our driver out there,” Harvey reassured her. “I can smell the wilderness in the air. There’s been no sound of a struggle. One doesn’t take a Cyborg without a struggle.”
“But where are we?” she asked.
“In the mountains, the wilderness,” Harvey said. “From the feel of the ride, we’re well off the main by-ways.”
Abruptly, their compartment lurched, slid sideways. The single light was extinguished. In the sudden darkness, the wall behind Harvey dropped away. He clutched Lizbeth, whirled, found himself looking out into darkness… moonlight… their driver a blocky shadow against a distant panorama of the megalopolis with its shimmering networks of light. The moon silvered the tops of trees below them and there was a sharp smell of forest duff, resinous, dank, churned up by the van and not yet settled. The wilderness lay silent as though waiting, analyzing the intrusion.
“Out,” the driver said.
The Cyborg turned. Harvey saw the features suddenly illuminated by moonlight, said, “Glisson!”
“Greetings, Durant,” Glisson said.
“Why you?” Harvey asked.
“Why not?” Glisson asked. “Get out of there now.”
Harvey said: “But my wife isn’t -”
“I know about your wife, Durant. She’s had plenty of time since the treatment. She can walk if she doesn’t exert herself.”
Igan spoke at Harvey’s ear, “She’ll be quite all right. Sit her up gently and help her down.”
“I… feel all right,” Lizbeth said. “Here.” She put an arm over Harvey’s shoulder. Together, they slid down to the ground.
Igan followed, asked, “Where are we?”
“We are someplace headed for someplace else,” Glisson said. “What is the condition of our prisoner?”
Boumour spoke from within the compartment, “He’s coming around. Help me lift him out.”
“Why’ve we stopped?” Harvey asked.
“There is steep climbing ahead,” Glisson said. “We’re dropping the load. A van isn’t built for this work.”
Boumour and Igan shouldered past them carrying Svengaard, propped him against a stump beside the track.
“Wait here while I disengage the trailer,” Glisson said. “You might be considering whether we should abandon Svengaard.”
Hearing his name, Svengaard opened his eyes, found himself staring out and down at the distant lights of the megalopolis. His jaw ached where Harvey had struck him and there was a throbbing in his head. He felt hungry, thirsty. His hands were numb beyond the bindings. A dry smell of evergreen needles filled his nostrils. He sneezed.
“Perhaps we should get rid of Svengaard,” Igan said.
“I think not,” Boumour said. “He’s a trained man, a possible ally. We’re going to need trained men.”
Svengaard looked toward the voices. They stood beside the van which was a long silvery shape behind a stubby double cab. A wrenching of metal sounded there. The trailer slid backward on its skids almost two meters before stopping against a mound of dirt.
Glisson returned, squatted beside Svengaard. “What is our decision?” asked the Cyborg. “Kill him or keep him?”
Harvey gulped, felt Lizbeth clutch his arm.
“Keep him yet awhile,” Boumour said.
“If he causes no more trouble,” Igan said.
“We could always use his parts,” Glisson said. “Or try to grow a new Svengaard and retrain it.” The Cyborg stood. “An immediate decision isn’t necessary. It is a thing to consider.”
Svengaard remained silent, frozen by the emotionless clarity of the man’s speech. A hard, brutal man, he thought. A tough man, prepared for any violence. A killer.
“Into the cab with him then,” Glisson said. “Everyone into the cab. We must get…” The Cyborg broke off, stared out toward the megalopolis.
Svengaard turned toward the strings of blue-white light glittering far away and cold. A winking golden flare had appeared amidst the lights on his left. Another blazed up beyond it—a giant’s bonfire set against the background of distant, moon-frosted mountains. More yellow flares appeared to the right. A bone-chilling rattle of sonics shook him, jarred a sympathetic metal dissonance from the van.
“What’s happening?” Lizbeth hissed.
“Quiet!” Glisson said. “Be quiet and observe.”
“Gods of life,” Lizbeth whispered, “what is it?”
“It is the death of a megalopolis,” Boumour said.
Again, sonics rattled the van.
“That hurts,” Lizbeth whimpered.
Harvey pulled her close, muttered, “Damn them!”
“Up here it hurts,” Igan said, his voice chillingly formal. “Down there it kills.”
Green fog began emerging from the wilderness some ten kilometers below them. It rolled out and down like a furious downy sea beneath the moon, engulfing everything—hills, the gem-like lights, the yellow flares.
“Did you think they would use the death fog?” Boumour asked.
“We knew they would use it,” Glisson said.
“I suppose so,” Boumour said. “Sterilize the area.”
“What is it?” Harvey demanded.
“It comes from the vents where they administered the contraceptive gas,” Boumour said. “One particle on your skin—the end of you.”
Igan moved around, stared down at Svengaard. “They are the ones who love us and care for us,” he mocked.
“What’s happening?” Svengaard asked.
“Can you not hear?” Igan asked. “Can you not see? Your friends the Optimen are sterilizing Seatac. Did you have friends there?”
“Friends?” There was a broken quality to Svengaard’s voice. He turned back to stare at the green fog. The distant lights had all been extinguished.
Again, sonics chattered through them, shook the ground, rattled the van.
“What do you think of them now?” Igan asked.
Svengaard shook his head, unable to speak. He wondered why he had no sensory fuse system to shut off this scene. He felt chained to awareness through sense organs gone abnormal beyond any previous experience… a permissive aberration. His senses were deceiving him, that was it. This was a special case of self-deception.