He chuckled again as the car angled down a ramp into a dully lit tunnel. The tunnel curved, spiralling down into the ground; a series of huge, metre-thick doors swung or irised open for them. The car’s motor whined; behind, she could hear the deeper notes of what she guessed were the trucks. After a while her ears popped. The young emissary started to whistle.
There was a huge, echoing underground vehicle park, full of cars, trucks, light-armoured transports and tanks. She was carried to an elevator that descended to what looked like the foyer of an hotel. Her skin still tingled and her muscles felt like jelly as they put her in a wheelchair, secured her and pushed her along a gently lit corridor to what smelled like a clinic.
A male nurse rose from a desk and nodded to the emissary, who patted her on the head and said, “She’s all yours, matey.”
She was pushed into a surgery. Her heart thudded as she saw an operating table through a glass screen. A female doctor and two female orderlies appeared, pulling on gloves.
The doctor put something cold to the back of her neck, muttered something, then came round and squatted on her haunches in front of her. “I think you can hear me,” she said, talking quite loudly. “We’re just going to get you washed and cleaned, do a proper check-up and then let you sleep for a while. All right?”
She stared at the woman; middle-aged, a little plump, hair bunned; brown eyes. She had no idea whether what she’d just been told was the truth or a lie.
The two orderlies stripped her, removed the bandage on her hand, cleaned the wound and put a temporary dressing on it before they washed her in a warm pool. They dried her with towels; efficiently, neither gently nor roughly. They helped her to stand, then slipped a plain white shift over her head. They supported her from either side and made her take a few unsteady steps, then took her through to a couch. The doctor she’d seen earlier ran nerve-response tests which tingled but did not hurt. She re-dressed the hand-wound and took a small sample of blood in a vial, which she slotted into an analyser. The doctor asked Sharrow to speak. She tried but only drooled. The doctor patted her arm.
“Never mind; you should be all right in the morning.” She prepared a gas-syringe and put it to Sharrow’s neck.
The last thing she remembered was the gentle jolting of the wheelchair being trundled along an unseen corridor that seemed to go on forever.
She awoke in a snug bed. She saw a time display in the darkness that indicated it was early evening. A glowing patch alongside proved to be a light switch.
She was in a small room furnished like a cabin. She was lying on her side, curled up in an alcoved bed with a shallow wooden panel down half the open side. She was wearing the shift they had dressed her in earlier. She tried moving her arms and legs, then sat up and after a pause swung her legs out of the bed, holding on to the wall as she stood.
The carpet beneath her feet was deep and rich. The air was warm. The room held a recessed bookcase full of repro books, a desk and chair, a screen that didn’t work and a wardrobe full of clothes all of which were her size. Attached was a bathroom with various toiletries, though nothing that could cut.
There were no windows; air came silently from porous tiles in the ceiling. It was so quiet she could hear her heart beat. A lump of black glass the size of an eyeball was wedged in a top corner of the room, from where it would have a view of everything except the bathroom.
She tried the door; it was locked. She felt weak and sat down on the bed, then lay down and fell asleep again.
The Lazy Gun came to her in her dreams. It looked like a man, but she knew it was the Lazy Gun. They were sitting in the small cabin in Molgarin’s Keep where she was sleeping. Hello… Hello. So, what would you like to know? said the Gun. What do you mean? What would you like to know? the Gun repeated patiently. She looked around. Where is Cenuij? she asked it. Dead, of course, it said. What else? What about the others? They’re dead, too. I know, but where are they? The dead aren’t anywhere. Unless you count the past. Won’t I see them again? Only in your dreams. Or recordings. She started to cry. You are the last one, the Gun told her. What? You are the last one. You are the last of the eight. You are just like me; I am the last of the eight as well. You are me and I am you. We are one. No I’m not, I’m me. Yes, you are you, the Gun agreed. But you are me, too. And I am you. She kept crying, not knowing what to say. She wanted to wake up but didn’t know how to. Listen, said the Gun. Is there anything I can do? What? Is there anything I can do? Just tell me. What can you do? Destroy things. All I can do is destroy things. It’s the only thing I’m any good at. Would you like me to destroy something? I want you to destroy everything! she screamed. Every fucking thing! All the evil men and compliant women, all the armies and companies and cults and faiths and orders and every stupid fucker in them! All of them! EVERYTHING! I can’t destroy all of everything, but I could destroy a lot of it. You’re being stupid. I’m not; I could destroy lots of things and people, but not all of them.
You’re mad, she said, wanting very much to wake up now.
Neither of us is mad, Lady Sharrow, the Gun said.
The man got up to leave the cabin.
Anyway, we’ll see what we can do.
What do you mean? she said.
About destroying everything. We’ll see what we can do.
She clenched her injured hand, trying to wake herself with the pain, but it wasn’t sore enough.
What are you? she asked it.
The man was at the door. I’m you, the Gun said. I’m the last of the eight.
It winked at her.
We’ll see what we can do.
Now go to sleep.
She awoke to a smell of food and saw a laden tray sitting on the desk. She just missed seeing whoever had left it; the room’s door clicked shut with a solid, massive sound and sucked itself tightly closed.
She lay there, thinking about the dream she had had, and shivered. Then the smell wafting from the tray dragged her back to the immediate.
The tray contained a breakfast sufficient for two hungry people; she ate all of it. It was mid-morning. The screen was working, so she watched the news.
The Huhsz were in trouble because they’d irradiated senior officials on Golter, Miykenns and Nachtel’s Ghost; the World Court was under severe pressure to allow the terminally afflicted bureaucrats access to war-time restricted medical technology. The Court in turn was leaning heavily on the Huhsz for apologies, scapegoats, financial recompense and guarantees of future behav-iour, all of which the Order seemed comprehensively unwilling to give. The World Shrine was virtually under siege and there was talk of force being used; Huhsz cantonment defences and Lay Reserves Martial throughout the system had been mobilised.
There was a news blackout around the Embargoed Areas and the Security Franchise, with rumours of an air clash between the Franchise forces and the Rebel States. Travel in the far south of Caltasp was restricted.
People were apparently still talking about and commenting on the attempted assassination-seen live on screen on Nachtel’s Ghost and still being repeated and re-repeated throughout the system-of some new philosopher-guru from the Ghost called Girmeyn.
She sat closer to the screen, dialled up a news archive and found the filed item from a couple of days earlier; a studio, a live debate; politicians and religious representatives arguing against Girmeyn, and he winning charmingly but decisively.
Girmeyn looked as she remembered him; black hair and dark eyes, and that strange sense of empowered calmness. Then a figure lunging from the audience, stretching over a table, swinging something. Confusion and shouts and a sequence of brief, wild camera angles, most with people getting in the way; a shot of a vicious-looking sacrificial knife lying bloody on a desk with security officers waving guns behind; Girmeyn bleeding from a head-wound, holding one hand up to it, motioning aides and others out of the way with the other hand and talking to the man being held down.