Killing Time

CHAPTER 9

"My name's Malcolm Tressalian — did my sister manage to relay that much to you, or have you endured uninterrupted flirtation since you came aboard?"

"Yes — I mean no — I mean, she did—"

Tressalian laughed and rolled closer to me, his face becoming fully visible for the first time. "You must understand that she almost never takes any interest in men — but when she does, my God…" I smiled at this statement, though I was paying more attention to his face than to his words. The features were not unlike Larissa's— handsome in a fine-boned way — and the hair was the same silvery color. The eyes, however, were quite different, being of a peculiarly light, rather otherworldly blue. Yet there was something far more important than any of this in the face, a look I had seen many times in children who'd served harsh prison terms, as well as in schizophrenic patients who had lived for too long without treatment:

It was the imponderable depth brought on by compressed, relentless mental and physical torment, a brand as unmistakable as any birthmark.

"And I do apologize," Tressalian continued amiably, "for the way you were brought aboard." As he said this he shifted into position to try to stand up, something that he apparently felt it was important to do at that moment, given the pain that it evidently caused him. He reached for a pair of aluminum crutches that were mounted on either side of his chair, clipped them to his upper arms, and then managed to get to his feet. I didn't know quite what move to make to assist him, especially since I guessed that he desired none; and indeed, once upright he looked very pleased that he was able to approach me and shake hands on his own. "However," he continued, "I'm sure you appreciate that we couldn't just leave you behind to suffer a fate like Mr. Jenkins's." His expression grew earnest. "I trust Eli expressed his condolences — let me add my own. It was a sickening thing to do, even for that unkillable beast we call Central Intelligence."

"Then it was the government," I said quietly, Max's face flashing across my mind for an instant.

Tressalian nodded sympathetically. "The pair of you were getting too close on the matter of John Price's death."

"The matter of his death?" I asked carefully. "Or the matter of the images he'd tampered with?"

Tressalian's smile returned. "The two are one, Doctor — surely you've guessed that much. Your death, however, would have caused an inconvenient public stir. Still, had you persisted they would almost certainly have found a way to quietly eliminate you."

"But why?" I asked involuntarily. "What the hell is going—"

I was cut off by the man seated at the piloting console, who spoke in a steady yet forbidding tone: "Larissa's preparing to engage. They're within range, and she's routed helm control to the turret station."

Tressalian sighed, though his concern did not appear deep. "Well, Colonel, since that leaves you with nothing to do for the moment, come and meet Dr. Wolfe."

The man at the now-usurped guidance panel stood up, and even before he turned I could see that he had an eminently military bearing, one that was complemented by a high-collared suit of clothes that was really more of an unembellished uniform. When he did turn it was in a quick, wheeling motion, and what I saw next caused me to take in a quick and rather rude gasp of air.

Heavy brows loomed low over penetrating dark eyes amid the deep brown skin, and the jaw, had it been any more set, might well have shattered; but what prompted my extreme reaction was the sight of one of the most horrific scars I'd ever encountered, running the length of the right side of the head, tugging at one eye and pulling a corner of the mouth down into a perpetual frown. A streak of snow white followed the line of the scar up into the otherwise jet black hair.

"Dr. Wolfe," Tressalian said, "this is Colonel Justus Slayton."

"Retired," the colonel added in that low, almost ominous voice that made it plain I'd be well advised to tread carefully during any contact with him.

I did. "The same Colonel Slayton," I asked, offering a hand, "who almost changed the course of the Taiwan campaign?" That seemed to take just a bit of the steel out of the man's demeanor, and he actually accepted my hand, encasing it in his own with a force that was impressive.

"No one could have changed the course of that campaign," Slay-ton answered. "My men and I were a token resistance — sacrificed animals, nothing more."

"Offered on the altar of expanded trade with the commu-capitalists in Beijing," I agreed with a nod. "Still, you put up a hell of a fight."

"Excellent again, Doctor," Tressalian said. "Not many people understand the facts of that campaign. What you may not know about the colonel, however, is that after being wounded on Taiwan he became one of the Pentagon's top men in weapons development. That, of course, was before I persuaded him to—"

"Malcolm," Colonel Slayton interrupted. "Before we go any further, there's the matter of the doctor's DNA disc."

Tressalian became slightly embarrassed. "Oh, yes, exactly right, Colonel. I must apologize once again, Doctor. But recent events have forced us to become a little more circumspect in our dealings. Do you mind?"

"Oh — no, of course not," I said, going for my wallet and removing my DNA identification disc. "Hell," I went on as I quickly plucked a hair from my head and handed both items over, "during the last few days I wouldn't have been able to swear that I was me."

Tressalian and I watched as Slayton produced a handheld DNA reader (much like the one Max had carried nearly everywhere he went), then popped in the disc and the hair. After a few seconds he took them out again, nodding as he handed the disc back to me. "Ah, good, that nuisance is out of the way," Tressalian said, heading for the metal stairs that led up to the observation dome. "Now, Doctor, I'll be happy to answer any questions you have — though I think you might enjoy watching Larissa in action while we talk."

I mounted the stairs next to Tressalian, whose slow movements were practiced if not easy, while Slayton stayed a few steps behind us, cither to make sure Tressalian didn't fall or to keep a careful eye on me; in all probability a bit of both. One felt the colonel's presence keenly no matter where he was, not least because of the disturbing and mysterious scar on his face. In an age when almost any organ or tissue in the human body save the brain could be fabricated in medical laboratories — when the colonel's own skin could have been duplicated and run off like so much cloth and then grafted onto his injury — the fact that he left the disfigurement unaddressed was certainly indicative of the man's character. The question was, what was such a character doing in the service of the strange, remarkable man who was hobbling along beside me?

All such cogitations left my head when we reached the observation dome, which offered an unobstructed view in every direction— a view that stretched the limits of my credulity even further.