Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

No matter what. Forcing information out of Jenny by torture? Surely even Pearl Lazenby would not try that. But her fanatical followers . . . Humanity must be cleansed of sin, even if it means scraping to the bone.

“Jenny—”

“Are you going to have dessert?” Jenny turned toward the serving line, as though she wanted to see what might be available. “I don’t usually; but today I think I will.”

When there is nothing to be said, the best thing to say is nothing. Celine reached across the table and took Jenny’s hands in hers. “Eleven o’clock. Not before.”

The next problem was Wilmer. One reason Celine was so fond of him was his openness, which led to his inability to either hold grudges or keep secrets. Normally she liked that, but today she didn’t dare to tell him anything. The four of them ate a late dinner in an atmosphere that Celine found totally artificial. She and Jenny prattled trivia, spouting any nonsense that came into their heads. Wilmer pretended to be listening and occasionally he nodded politely; Celine knew that he was busy inside his head.

And Reza took no notice of anyone. He was smiling and looking off into the distance. Something wonderful was happening there, and he was watching it.

They were back in their living quarters by nine-thirty. Pearl Lazenby, in spite of her welcoming words, had not taken away the guard. It was the same youngster as on the first night. He had learned from experience and had brought a sleeping bag.

Celine went inside and came back with a pillow. “Here. This ought to make you a bit more comfortable. Good night. We’ll see you in the morning.”

He smiled his thanks. She didn’t like that. What she was doing was deceitful, to someone who was hardly more than a child. She tried to justify her action to herself with the thought that if the guard were sound asleep at midnight, she would not need to knock him unconscious. The other half of her brain, giving her an argument as usual, pointed out that the guard’s punishment by his superiors would be much less if he were knocked unconscious.

As she went back inside, Jenny caught her eye and shook her head.

No good. Reza doesn’t seem interested.

Making love would have been a preferred answer. Celine was not particularly inquisitive, but they had been together many months on the Schiaparelli. Living space there was very tight and privacy almost nonexistent. She knew that Reza tended to fall asleep quickly and deeply after he and Jenny had made love.

Celine went across to Wilmer and took him by the hand. To Jenny and Reza she said, “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

As they moved into the bedroom she could sense Wilmer’s surprise. They had given each other none of the usual signals during dinner, and they were a couple to whom foreplay was very important.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked as soon as they were alone.

Celine peeped out of the almost-closed door, confirming that Jenny and Reza were following their example and heading through into their own bedroom.

She sat down on one of the cots. “I’m fine. But we have to talk.”

He flopped down next to her, with a what-did-I-do-now look on his face.

“It’s nothing you did or I did,” Celine went on, “but in a couple of hours, the two of us have to escape to the surface and make a run for it. Shh!”

His sudden turn had made the cot creak and its head bang against the wall. “Jenny—”

“Whisper!”

“What about Jenny and Reza?” Wilmer didn’t have a whisper, but he did lower his voice.

“They won’t be going with us. Shut up now, and I’ll explain.”

He listened in silence for the next few minutes, interrupting only once to say, “Break it with what?”

“A piece from one of the cots, assuming we can get it off. That won’t be easy, because we’ll have to work quietly.”

He nodded. As she continued with her explanation about the problem with Reza’s conversion, and Jenny’s solution to that, he moved over to the other cot and stooped beside it. Three minutes later he came back to sit beside her. He had a smug look on his face. In one hand he held the solid I-bar leg of the cot. His satisfaction disappeared when Celine said, “Wrap a piece of sheet around it. You may have to hit the guard on the head with it.”

“But he’s just a kid. He hasn’t done anything to us.”

“Then you’d better hope he’s sound asleep when we leave. If not, we have to knock him out.”

“Can’t we just tie him up and gag him?”

“Not quietly. Suppose Reza hears and comes out to see what’s happening? Be quiet now.” Celine listened closely for a minute. “Good. Jenny did it after all.”

“Did what?”

“Never mind. Lie there and rest. We’ll need all our energy in another hour or two. Sleep if you can.”

Advice easy to give and impossible to follow. Celine lay on the cot, rehearsed their coming actions, listened for the end of the rhythmic sounds from the next room, and watched the clock. It was quarter past eleven when she nudged Wilmer — he had fallen asleep almost at once — and sat up. She switched off the light in the room.

“Celine.” Wilmer spoke softly, his head close to hers.

“What now?”

“We have to bop him. If we don’t, they’ll never forgive him for going to sleep.”

“I know. I thought of that, too. Can you do it?”

“I hope so.” He gripped the cloth-wrapped iron tightly as Celine tiptoed to the door and eased it open. The young guard was sound asleep just outside, his head on Celine’s pillow. With his fair skin and unlined face he looked about ten years old. Wilmer raised the cudgel, and stood frozen. He shook his head.

Celine took the club from him. “It’s worse for him if you don’t,” she said, and swung hard to the right side of the defenseless head. The young face went slack.

Celine looked down in horror. She forced herself to whisper, “Get a sheet. We don’t know how long he’ll be unconscious. We have to tie and gag him.”

And hope to God I haven’t killed him. While Wilmer was back in the bedroom she made a quick inspection. The head above the right ear was swollen. She could feel no depression beneath it. The skin was unbroken, and he seemed to be breathing normally. She eased him from the sleeping bag.

After he was bound and gagged she had to make another decision. Should they leave him outside, where anyone in the corridor could find him? Or drag him inside, where his absence from his post might be noticed?

Right decision or wrong decision, it was a leader’s job to make it. With Wilmer’s help she worked the bound youngster back into the sleeping bag, pulled it high on his face to hide the gag, and pushed him up against the closed door to their rooms. If anyone walked by, the lad was sleeping but everything was normal. If Reza opened the door, he would see that the rooms were still being guarded.

“Come on. Bring the club, but take the cloth off it.” She was carrying their provisions, all the food that she and Jenny had been able to smuggle out of the cafeteria without anyone noticing. Wilmer had a blanket. It was pathetically little for an escape into the unknown.

“What about his gun?” Wilmer was bending over the guard’s body.

“No. If we have to shoot, we’ve lost. We’ll never get away if they’re following us so close.”

She started off through the dimly lit tunnels, torn between haste and caution. For once, the rigid rules of the Legion of Argos were an advantage. There were hours to work, hours to eat — and hours to sleep. The corridors were deserted.

The elevator took forever to arrive. When it finally came, the clanking of chains and groan of its cables seemed loud enough to alert anybody near. Celine hustled Wilmer aboard, hit the button beside the top icon of a book, and waited in agony until the door closed and the car began its slow ascent. The light was off and she did not know how to switch it on. They rose forever, in total darkness.