The Gate 2 Part 15

Bruce turned from the window. "That's a wonderful story. Anything else you want to add to that?"

Norahc frowned at the apparent sarcasm. "Yeah. I gave my father everything. Sore gave everything to others. Love and Death-they're opposites, but married to a common thread."

"I don't follow you."

"I sometimes have to look in the mirror to see what's really going on. It was my father that created Gateway, and my father that d.a.m.ned Destination. What I do for him is something very few people could do themselves. Sore wouldn't have any of it. If you pull yourself back for just a moment and see the grand scheme of things, then you'd see where we all fit in.

"You have a chance to be a part of that. Just remember that sometimes it's the simple things that get us through the day."

Bruce stood in silence. Norahc guessed he really didn't understand.

In time, he would.

Norahc stepped away from the door. "Just watch the light. Company will do the rest." He put his hand against the wall and the door slid shut.

"Thank you."

Norahc slept.

For the first time in ages, he closed his eyes against the world around him, blocked out everything he'd ever seen, and slept. Dreams wouldn't come, but at the very least there was relaxation. The stasis tube he placed himself in was Bruce's-the only empty place to hide. In a few hours, Company would open Gateway, Destination would accept the s.h.i.+p, and Awakening would begin.

For once, he didn't need to be a part of it all. They promised to leave him alone, long enough to rest, to recuperate, to regain his strength.

Bruce would be fine. Despite his gruff exterior and c.o.c.ky att.i.tude, he seemed like a good pick. Norahc was pleased with Company's selection.

Evil is bound to repeat evil.

Death is a beginning.

Eternity is chaos.

The water in the stasis tube subsided. Norahc's head fell forward and hit the gla.s.s enclosure. He waited for the signal, then opened his eyes.

Bruce stood on the other side of the gla.s.s, his eyes red. b.l.o.o.d.y tears streamed down his cheeks. He shook, though probably not from the cold.

Norahc pointed to the access panel and waited for the gla.s.s to slide open.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" Bruce screamed.

Norahc stepped out into the holding bay. He smiled at Bruce and turned toward the door. "I guess I forgot to tell you to keep your eyes off Gateway."

Bruce let loose a guttural laugh followed by a cough and few spots of blood. "Did you also forget to tell me where we were going? Did that slip your mind as well?"

Norahc stopped at the doorway and turned around. "No. I told you-three times, in fact. You just wouldn't accept it."

"That was h.e.l.l!"

"Yes. It even works as a metaphor, doesn't it?"

Norahc looked down the row of empty stasis tubes. "Time to go pick up another load."

- Benjamin X. Wretlind ran with scissors when he was five. At ten, he wrestled the giant ape creatures of Seti Alpha Nine while nursing a bad case of the measles. At fifteen, he was awarded the n.o.bel Peace Prize for blowing stuff up. At twenty, he admitted that only the scissors thing was true. He is the author of CASTLES: A FICTIONAL MEMOIR OF A GIRL WITH SCISSORS and is working on another novel to be released in 2012. You can read his musings at http://www.bxwretlind.com.

THE GHASTLY BATH.

by Dawn McCullough-White.

A young man dressed in black crouched in an alley between two city houses. The coming dusk cast deep shadows in every corner. Rain pelted him.

Off in the distance he heard an argument between a mother and child. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Jules sat in the shadowy darkness, watching the window of Gilbert's house intently. There was a candle in the window of the one-room home, a dirty little picket fence surrounded the place, and the man apparently threw all of his garbage in the alley, because Jules was sitting atop a pile of it. He suspected the culprit had to be Gilbert, or his neighbors, a young couple who fought more than two people in love probably ever should. He'd been sitting there half the day, listening to them, beginning to smell like rotten eggs while he watched.

Someone snuffed the candle.

Jules smirked. He jumped down from his pile of trash and leapt easily over the fence. Glancing around, Jules saw that he was indeed alone, and with that he peered into the window that faced the alley.

Gilbert was shucking off his pants, getting ready for bed.

Jules pulled a dagger and a blackjack from his belt and crept up to the front door. It was unlocked. Without hesitation he walked right in.

The other man's eyes widened when he saw Jules in his black clothes, with the emblem of the a.s.sa.s.sin's guild, a red letter A, embroidered on the front of his cape. Water dripped all over the floor.

"Who-"

"Gilbert Marklegrove?" Jules hissed. Gilbert was an older man, a jailer and sometime executioner.

Gilbert turned suddenly to reach for a pistol but tripped on his way to the table and fell.

Jules stepped over to Gilbert, who was face down, struggling to free his feet from his pants, and cracked him in the back of the head with the blackjack, sending him reeling.

Gilbert lay on the floor, tangled in his pants and long underwear...not exactly the fanciest vestments to greet death in.

Jules stabbed him in the back. Without explanation. Without whys or hows.

After he was certain Gilbert had stopped breathing, Jules wiped his blade on the man's blanket and tucked away his weapons.

He took a look out the window to see if anyone had heard the struggle, and he was in luck-no one around. That was certainly one nice thing about small towns like this; there were so few people, and most of them went to bed early. That's what he'd been counting on. Generally he hated being sent so far away from Lockenwood for some simple hit, but this had been easy enough, he thought, chuckling to himself. Still though, he might've come in through the front door, but he was not going to carry a dead body out the same way. The window facing the alley would probably be the safest bet.

"And now," he muttered, dragging the dead man to the window and gradually shoving him out. Gilbert got stuck about halfway through, and Jules contemplated cutting off some of the excess bulge so that he might fit, but after a minute or two of struggling, his victim dropped into the muck outside with an unceremonious slosh of mud.

Jules breathed a sigh of relief and slipped out the window himself, landing more gracefully beside the corpse.

The young man next door was dumping his garbage onto the refuse pile in the alleyway. Their eyes locked. He looked over at mud- and blood-streaked body and screamed.

Jules flung a dagger. It caught the man in the stomach but did not have the effect that the a.s.sa.s.sin was hoping for, and the young man staggered out into the street, screaming even louder now.

A guard, apparently out for a stroll when the neighbor went into histrionics, sprinted around the corner and spotted Jules carrying away Gilbert's body. Usually Jules had no problem getting into places, killing people, and getting away unnoticed-it was the way he'd made a living for years, and he was good at his job-but this time his employer, or whoever hired his employer, wanted the man's body brought back. Jules didn't know why, and was a bit miffed at that part of the order, and as the guard came running at him he wished they had just asked for the head.

"Dammit."

Jules panicked and hefted Gilbert, then tossed him over one shoulder and nearly collapsed under the weight. He had planned on bribing the coachman, loading up the body and making his way out of Plunyport in comfort, as the coachmen were quite used to working with the a.s.sociation. But apparently that was not going to happen tonight. No, tonight he was going to have to lug Gilbert to the stables on foot.

Two lanterns lit the stable-one on a peg beside the main door, the other illuminating the bay horse tethered in a dirt hall between the stalls and the boy who was fiddling with the cinch.

Jules dropped Gilbert's body to the ground and drew his dagger.

The child startled as the a.s.sa.s.sin ran toward him, brandis.h.i.+ng the s.h.i.+ning blade.

"Get out of here!" Jules pushed the boy roughly to the ground.

The lad scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over the lantern, and raced out of the barn.

The horse proved difficult to control. It spun around outside the stable, and Jules caught sight of the sheriff and several of the locals running toward him. They were still on foot.

He kicked the gelding hard in the sides. This got its attention. It stopped spinning and picked a direction. At first it just leaped forward, but Jules kept kicking it and holding onto the reins with one hand, pulling them back too tightly and confusing the horse. With the other hand he gripped the saddle, straining to stay upright as the animal raced out of Plunyport and on toward Lockenwood and Wick's tower.

He just needed to get into Lockenwood, back to the tower that was the heart of the a.s.sa.s.sin's guild. He'd be safe then. Generally the guild was left alone, well protected by the crown. It was only because that stupid neighbor had actually seen him with the dead body, that's what everyone was so up in arms about-that and the fact Gilbert was the town jailer. Apparently they didn't like their citizens being a.s.sa.s.sinated, even if Jules was wearing the cape with the a.s.sociation's emblem on the front.

No one was behind him now. For one moment he felt his worry ebbing away, and then he s.n.a.t.c.hed a glimpse behind him as the horse galloped blindly through the dark and pounding rain. As he did, he glanced down and saw that Gilbert's body was sliding off the back of the horse, until just one hand remained visible, still tied to the back of the saddle.

The gelding's gait s.h.i.+fted, and when the dead body slapped the back of its legs, it sped up.

"Dammit." Jules pulled back on the reins.

The horse did not stop. It bucked, throwing Gilbert's body into the air for a brief moment, putting pressure on the saddle as it fell back down onto the horse's rear.

The horse bucked again and raced forward at a dizzying pace.

"Whoa!" Jules tugged harder, panicking.

The body was going to be so damaged by the time he got back to the tower that the man who wanted Gilbert dead wouldn't be able to recognize him, and Wick wouldn't get paid... and then Wick would be angry and he wouldn't get paid, either.

"Why does this always happen to me?" He jerked on the reins again.

The saddle lurched to the side. A moment later he was floating, facing the sky, gazing into the darkness, and then he landed hard, splas.h.i.+ng in the mud.

Jules covered his head protectively, but the gelding was gone. He stood up and wiped the mud from his pants. His ribs felt bruised, his legs muscles strained.

The saddle and Gilbert's dead body lay on the muddy ground in a heap.

He pulled a stiletto from the top of his boot and cut the rope holding Gilbert's hand to the saddle.

He examined the body, although it was hard to make out much in the near-complete darkness. It was definitely wetter than it had been before being loaded onto the horse, and muddier after being dragged, and a bit mangled and skinless in some areas.

Jules pulled the body up into his arms, as if carrying a child. He wished this guy weighed something closer to a child's weight, but he didn't, and to make it even worse, it was dead weight. Hauling Gilbert back to Wick wasn't going to be fun. He'd probably be walking somewhere close to five miles.

The a.s.sa.s.sin set off in the direction he believed to be north. He needed to find the ca.n.a.l that ran past Wick's tower. It couldn't be too far; Plunyport was on the other side of the ca.n.a.l, and then due north was the Azez Sea.

He walked on, the rain continuing its a.s.sault. He was nearly blind in the middle of the night, listening for the sound of the ca.n.a.l, but all he heard was the constant thrum of rainfall. The path he'd been traveling turned into a quagmire that could suck the boots off of a man's feet. Then the water began to get deep. He was slos.h.i.+ng through what seemed to be the edge of the sea. He wasn't certain what he'd stumbled into.

Jules dropped the body with a splash and brushed the long, dark mop of his hair from his eyes.

How far had he walked? A mile? Maybe, maybe not-that corpse was d.a.m.n heavy. But it seemed like it had been a mile, and he was soaked to the bone. His wet leather clothes were heavy and growing more and more uncomfortable with every step he took.

"This is ridiculous." He reached down, searching in the dark for Gilbert's body. Something appeared before him. He wasn't certain what he was seeing, something s.h.i.+ning in a sliver of light. His hands found water as he knelt down, but no Gilbert. Jules reached out as far as he could without leaving the place he'd been when he set down the body, calling out, "Where are you?"

He splashed forward, feeling around for anything that resembled his mangled victim.

"Gilbert!" He took a few steps to the right. "Wick is going to kill me-" he muttered just before he slipped.

There was no ground beneath his feet. His face raked over a rocky embankment as he fell. He was pulled underwater, sucked down into a fierce undertow into pitch blackness, and then propelled forward. His body twirled end over end as he fought the current.

In a panic he swallowed dirty water. He slammed into something hard and rocky.

Jules resurfaced, gasping for breath and clawing the murky water. He was in the ca.n.a.l. He must've walked right over the edge and fallen in. And with the storm, the undertow was driving him north at a furious rate. The idea of the ca.n.a.l emptying out into the Azez Sea did not sit well with him. That was much deeper water, and he wasn't certain he'd have the strength to swim back to sh.o.r.e if the current took him there. He was going to have to gather his wits and get to one of the banks. That was his only chance.

Regaining his bearings, now feeling certain that he must be in the ca.n.a.l and moving steadily toward Lockenwood, he cried out for help. Unfortunately, he didn't see the tower, which sat right on the edge of the Avon. What he saw were objects on one side of him that he didn't recognize-tall silhouettes against a dark gray skyline as he was swept past, still gasping for breath, trying to control his spinning in the rough, rapid torrent.

"Help!" His voice faltered. He was knocked into something large and solid that seemed to be in motion under the water as well. His legs tangled up in it for a moment, and then he drifted past it. Jules didn't have time to think about how badly his leg had been twisted as he slammed up against a hard, flat surface and then pushed up into some sort of wooden furniture, maybe a desk. It pressed him up against a tall, heavy object that crushed against his body as the current forced him along.

Jules felt himself spiraling. Then the back of his head smacked into the sharp edge of a building.

He groaned, reached for his wounded skull, and felt the slick, smooth side of the desk pound his face into the building again.

Confused, the a.s.sa.s.sin slid down into the rus.h.i.+ng water. For a moment he was nothing more than a leather-clad rag doll, limp and washed away by the current, his long, dark hair twisting and swimming about him like ink. He buffeted against boulders and gasped for breath, filling his lungs with the tide.

His eyes wide and panicked, he pushed off a large rock beneath him. Breaking the surface, he managed to cling to another desk or table that had been somehow swept into the ca.n.a.l.

In the darkness he could make out the shape of a heavy, square sort of structure. Every so often a stone peaked out of the wash. He began to realize that he hadn't fallen into the ca.n.a.l, and he hadn't gone past the a.s.sociation tower. As a matter of fact, he wasn't going north at all. If he had been, he would've reached the sea by now. No. Somehow he must have slid into a ravine and gotten caught up in a flash flood.

The desk he'd been riding bashed into a sandstone peak and turned sideways, then it cracked open and a bloated white corpse slid out, once more knocking Jules under the waves.

The a.s.sa.s.sin tried to dislodge himself from the corpse, but the crook of its arm had become entangled with the hilt of the dagger on his belt, pulling him along under the water, deeper and deeper.