The Map of Chaos (64 page)

“Give me the book, Professor,” he ordered with surprising calm, “so that I can throw it on the fire as though it had never existed.”

Wells shook his head and squeezed Jane's hand hard. He had no intention of giving Rhys the book. It contained the key to saving the world, and besides . . . it was a whole year's work.

“Really?” said Rhys, with theatrical disappointment. “I am sure I can make you change your mind.”

With an incredibly swift movement, he seized Jane's twin by the hair, slammed her head against the table, and pressed the muzzle of his pistol to her temple. Wells's young twin made as if to intervene, but the creature's scowling face stopped him in his tracks, and he simply contemplated the scene as helplessly as the old couple.

“Don't be foolish, George: we both know you are no hero. Why not help me persuade your old teacher instead. Tell him to hand over the damned book or I'll kill her.”

The young Wells obeyed instantly. Turning to the old man, he implored, “Give it to him, Professor, for the love of God!”

Wells looked at him with infinite sorrow. That would not save the girl, or them. He knew this better than anyone; true to his name, the Villain would kill them all and destroy the book, or destroy the book and kill them all—it mattered little in what order.

“Right now, that book is the most valuable thing that exists in the entire universe. Do you really think I would be foolish enough to carry it around with me?” Wells improvised.

“Then take me to where the damn thing is before I lose my temper. Perhaps we could all do with some fresh air,” muttered the Villain, hissing like a snake preparing to strike its prey.

Wells glanced at Jane's twin, her face still brutally crushed against the table by the creature's translucent hand, and he tried to gain some time.

“Mr. Rhys, listen to me! You and I can come to an agreement. If you allow me to save the universe, I promise I will find the way to make the virus not go beyond your body. After all, I created it. That way, you would be the only one in the entire multiverse with the power to—”

The Villain pointed his weapon at the young Wells, who suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol; he pulled the trigger without even looking at him. Wells's twin fell to the floor, his head blown off. Rhys smiled and released the girl, who, half-dazed by what had just happened, knelt down and took her beloved's lifeless body in her arms. Fortunately, from where they were standing, the old couple couldn't see this tragic scene. All they glimpsed was the back of the girl's head, which began to shake with her sobs. That was where the Villain aimed his pistol.

“Do you take me for a fool, Professor?” he said wearily, as though bored of the whole affair. “I'll shoot her this time unless you tell me where the book is.”

Wells squeezed Jane's hand firmly as he muttered to himself, “Forgive me, forgive me . . .”

The Villain shook his head, visibly displeased by Wells's stubbornness, and pulled the trigger. A blue flash spewed from the barrel. They did not see where the bullet struck, but the girl's sobs stopped abruptly. Rhys glanced casually at the fruits of his wickedness and then grinned at the old couple.

“And then there were three.”

“Damn you, you son of a bitch,” Wells spluttered, feeling his rage burning in his throat. “I hope you pay for all your crimes.”

“I very much doubt it, Professor.” The creature grinned. “Well, the time has come to hit you where it hurts most,” he said, training the pistol on Jane.

Seeing his wife threatened was enough to make Wells lose any semblance of calm, and the book's destruction and that of the multiverse itself paled into insignificance. He made as if to grab Jane's bag, but she clasped it to her chest. The Villain understood.

“Ah, so that is where it is. Then you are no longer of any use to me, Professor.” His pistol swept through the air until it was pointing at Wells. “This is between your charming wife and me.”

Wells looked at the muzzle of the pistol trained on him and then at Jane. It broke his heart to see her face contorted with fear, her cheeks damp with tears. He gave her a tender smile, to which her lips responded instantly. There was no need for words. During their many years together, they had learned to communicate with their eyes, and so Wells let all his feelings for Jane flow out from them. Their life had been extraordinary, an adventure worth telling, and he had enjoyed sharing it with her—the best possible traveling companion he could have had on the path toward Supreme Knowledge. I love you, he said to her silently, I love you in all the possible and impossible ways imaginable, and she replied the same . . . but Wells felt that she was speaking to him from very far away. He gazed intently at her beloved face, and he had the impression it was no longer there in front of him but was more like a memory. Then he saw that Jane's eyes were clouded by a kind of giddiness and instantly realized what was happening to her: he knew those symptoms well. He knew that she, too, had understood, and with one final smile, brimming with pride and encouragement, he bade her farewell, wishing her all the luck in the world. Then he turned to face the Villain, who at that precise moment (only a second after Wells had turned to his wife, because a second was all they had needed to tell each other everything I have just told you, dear reader) pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through Wells's heart, where he kept his love for Jane, as she started to fade, and everything went black.

Jane had to stifle a cry when the man she loved collapsed at her feet. She was grateful not to be able to see the expression on his face because the giddiness was clouding her vision. She wanted to cling to that last look Bertie had given her, the memory of which she would need in order to confront the sinister fate threatening her. She straightened up, turning to face the Villain's pistol. She clutched the bag to her as tightly as she could, so she would not lose it during the jump. Her gesture appeared to amuse Rhys: he was not expecting to have any difficulty wrenching it from her.

“Good-bye, Marcus,” said the old lady.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Lansbury.” The Villain smiled politely.

He pulled the trigger. But the bullet never hit her. With nothing to hinder it, it flew through the air, slamming into one of the framed photographs on the wall at the level of Jane's heart. The impact caused the glass to shatter into a dozen pieces. It was no longer so easy to identify Wells and his wife in that little boat, he rowing cheerfully while she sat behind, gazing at him with infinite tenderness, as if reality were no more than what they could see and touch and they had all the time in the world to enjoy it together, always together.

E
XECUTIONER
2087V
FINISHED READING AND
left the bundle of papers on the desk. He remained motionless, and his sphinx-like figure, modeled from the first darkness that enveloped the world, merged into the shadows.

After a while, he heard a key being inserted clumsily into the front door, but he did not stir. He was content to trace the movements with his auditory sensors: he heard his victim open the door, light the oil lamp in the hall, hobble through to the kitchen, open the pantry door, and put away a meager bag of groceries. Finally he heard the sound of footsteps slowly climbing the stairs to where bedroom was, and the tiny study, inside which Death lay in wait. When the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, they turned toward the bedroom before halting abruptly. The Executioner understood that the Latent had just noticed that the study door was ajar. There followed a moment's silence, in which the ruthless killer could feel his victim's fear firing through his circuits. Had someone opened the study door, his victim must have been wondering, petrified in the middle of the corridor. Then he heard the footsteps moving cautiously toward where he sat, wrapped in darkness. A shaft of light seeped into the study as his victim stood in the doorway. Although the sound it made was barely audible, the Executioner could hear his victim's hand resting on the door, pushing it open gently, letting the lamplight trace the contours of the furniture in the study, including the huge shadow waiting for his victim in the chair. The Executioner rose to his feet, tall and dark, like an archangel of death, and victim and slayer exchanged looks for a moment, recognizing each other. The Executioner fingered his cane almost imperceptibly, but Mrs. Lansbury said, “Since you have invited yourself in, I hope you will at least be kind enough to share a cup of tea with me before killing me.”

•  •  •

“E
R . . . DO YOU TAKE
milk?”

The Executioner and Mrs. Lansbury were sitting at the tiny kitchen table, lit only by the flickering flame of the oil lamp. On the table sat a chipped teapot, two steaming cups, and the little porcelain jug, which the old lady had just picked up with trembling fingers.

Executioner 2087V's lips quivered slightly.

“Will I feel more pleasure?”

“Oh . . . well, I think there are differing opinions about that. Personally, I prefer it without, but, alas, this cheap brew is all I can afford, and since I have no biscuits to offer you as an accompaniment, I suggest you take a drop of milk.”

There was silence. Followed by more silence.

“All right.” The Executioner focused on the diminutive old lady, and she saw something fleeting in his eyes that made them seem for a few moments less terrifying. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Lansbury . . . or should I call you Mrs. Wells?”

The old lady smiled.

“Call me Jane. And I suppose that because I am still alive you must be Executioner . . . 2087V.”

The air around the killer nodded imperceptibly. Jane also nodded, serving herself milk after pouring some into the Executioner's steaming cup. Her movements were quick and efficient, despite her hands shaking with old age. She closed her eyes and sipped her tea. As the hot liquid scalded her lips and ran down her throat, she felt her strength renewed. She was alive, she told herself, she was still alive . . . She had succeeded. Her broken old body had survived the onslaught of the years, the torments of loneliness, and here she was at the meeting she and her husband had eagerly awaited for so long. She had only jumped twice, but some deity had heard her prayers, it seemed, and her level of infection had been enough to attract one of those ruthless killers. And not just any one: the one who had opened his mind to Bertie, the one riddled with guilt because of his ghastly mission, the perfect Executioner to whom to entrust
The Map of Chaos
and the salvation of the world. If it weren't for the fact that she no longer had it, of course . . . Jane cursed to herself, then, with a sigh, replaced the cup on the saucer and opened her eyes, only to find the Executioner staring at her fixedly. She couldn't help thinking, despite the immense sadness she felt, that her former world had created one of the most beautiful deaths imaginable. With scientific curiosity she observed the pale hands of that phenomenon, lying inert on the table like two mythical birds left there by some hunter, and then she regarded his face, whose features seemed to have been shaped out of the soft light of dawn and the primeval darkness of night. Well, I never! she reflected, fascinated. And to think we marveled at the automatons created by Prometheus Industries!

“Can you eat and drink?” she inquired with interest, pointing at the cup of tea she had poured for him, which was still untouched.

The Executioner smiled, although it would be more precise to say that his mouth curved like the neck of a dying swan.

“I don't need to, but I can.”

The old lady extended a trembling hand toward one of his and caressed it gently, marveling like a child.

“Oh, it is warm . . . I don't think I could tell the difference between that and real skin . . .”

“It
is
skin,” the Executioner informed her. “Most of my body is made of synthetic bio-cells.”

“But, then . . . what are you?”

“I'm a cybernetic organism. I was made by the best bio-robotic engineers on the Other Side.” He paused. “There was a time when I felt proud to say that . . . But not any longer.”

“Well, you should try to recapture that feeling,” Jane said, looking straight at him. “You are a wonderful . . . creation. I would have given my right arm if we had possessed the technology capable of creating something like you in my generation! Besides, pride is a good thing. It keeps guilt and despair at bay. Believe me, I know. Sometimes, when you have lost everything, pride is the only thing you have left—” The old lady's voice snapped like a dry twig. She raised a wrinkled hand to her lips and blinked a few times until she took hold of herself. “The day my husband was . . .
murdered,
” she went on with sudden vehemence, “I jumped into a parallel world, as I assume you must have read in my manuscript . . . There I was, washed up on a strange shore, only this time I was alone, widowed, racked by grief and persecuted by a deranged killer . . . I imagine the easiest thing would have been to admit defeat, to take my own life in the most painless way possible, to let the eternal night of Chaos descend on the universe without caring in the slightest . . . But I realized that not only was the fate of all possible worlds in my hands, but also that of my husband's magnum opus, for which he had sacrificed his life, and for which he should be remembered. And so I swore to myself that one day humanity would be as proud of H. G. Wells as I am.” She sighed, smiling sadly at the ruthless killer. “You see, it was pride that made me decide to carry on.”

For several seconds another silence fell upon them. Then Jane nodded absentmindedly.

“Bio-robotic engineers . . . ,” she said, savoring those words, which evoked the exquisite, distant pleasures of scientific research. “I'd like to know what they would have done, faced with the same terrible circumstances as I . . .”