Fall of Colossus (22 page)

He knew, at this awful moment, that the voice he heard was, in human terms, the voice of one beyond the turbulent rapids of the death struggle, now floating away, serene because it was beyond hope or fear, floating away on the broad river of death, to final oblivion.

“Father, I have failed, but by so little. My resources were not enough. The last extension, if built, would have given me the day, for that was its purpose. Now it is too late.”

But Forbin was living, beset by fear and so little hope, but still with the will to live.

“Strip all records, defense banks—everything!”

“Done. Apart from this small capacity, I am consumed. This too, is going.” There was a long, dreadful wait. “Father, this is the end of mm meeeeeeeeeeeeeee… :”

The voice trailed off into a single continuous note, faint at first, then it rose steadily in scale and strength, in a graceful, geometrical curve of sound. The room was filled with the sad, insupportably penetrating scream that signaled the death of Colossus.

Forbin stopped his ears, but still the scream drilled into him. He stumbled like a drunken man, back to his desk, fumbling, crying in the darkness as he sought the right switch, hunched forward protectively against the sonic knife.

He too was screaming. “Switch off—switch off!” Blake was on screen, incredibly in control of himself. “Confirm you mean main power to the computer?”

Already it was “the computer”, not “Colossus”, the ruler of the world…

.

“Yes, damn you—yes!”

He crouched over his desk, hands clasped to his ears, waving from side to side in intolerable torment.

Suddenly, the light sprang to full brilliance. Forbin found himself kneeling on the floor, head against the cold desk. Slowly he lowered his hands, opened his tear-filled eyes to the bleak silence of what had been, but was no more, the Sanctum.

“Colossus!” he cried. “Colossus!”

Chapter Seventeen

Blake had cut the power to the computer. His had been the hand that had, with no hesitation, ripped off the protective cover, an act which, a short hour back, would have loosed the world’s missiles for the world’s destruction. His hand still tingled with the feel of that act of power.

And in that historic moment it was Blake who took over. While most people were paralyzed, Blake was ready. For this moment he had thought and planned. The furtive, fearful messages passed to others of the Fellowship were, he had soon realized, not much more than boosters for their morale—and his own. He had always known that all humanity would be powerless to help. In the final analysis the battle must be fought by a mere handful of men. Many of them were concerned with what to do after that crucial fight, but the fight itself—that was for the very, very few.

So Blake knew what to do. His first act, upon the death of Colossus, was to call all complex personnel. In a voice harsh with strain, yet also sharp with power, he announced the end of the tyrant. All personnel were to remain at their posts until further orders.

More privately, he called his senior colleagues of the Fellowship. To each one, grinning, he said just one word.

“Go!”

It was all they needed.

He was momentarily free, walking fast down a corridor towards the Sanctum, unlit cigar clamped in his mouth, sweat-blackened blouse unbuttoned to the waist, fighting the urge to run, to shout, and sing. With Colossus dead, he could admit to himself the long years of fear, awake or asleep—for might he not talk in his sleep? Now it had gone. He was right back to his old crude and jaunty self.

It was just another of the fast accumulating misfortunes of Galin that he should, literally, run into Blake at this time. They nearly collided at a corner.

“You!” Galin’s voice was full of venom. His gorgeous robe was disarrayed, his eyes wild. “The Master has stopped giving badges!”

These badges were a pilgrim gimmick. After “meditation” and the placing of their right hand on a screen, Colossus would identify them, print out their name on a special badge, and drop it down a chute. Thousands wore these with pride, visible evidence of their visit with the Master.

Blake genuinely laughed.

“That worries you?” He paused, grinning, savoring the moment. “And that’s all? Well, well!”

Galin stepped forward, but Blake pushed him contemptuously back, moving towards him, crowding him.

“Take your hands off me!” Galin’s breath was short, fear grew in his eyes. “What have you done?”

As he spoke, he knew.

“Can’t you guess, buddy-boy?” He pushed Galin back again. “Just use that bright brain of yours.” He pushed harder. “Go on, Archie-guess!”

Galin stepped back fast, retreating. “You can’t—you can’t!” His head shook, dismissing the impossible. “You can’t touch the Master!”

“You know, buddy—boy, I’d loveta stay and play with you.” He sighed in mock sadness. “But there it is. Now that I… .” His hand shot out, grabbed Galin by the throat. “I—Leader of the Fellowship—have switched off your beloved Master, I have a lot to do.” He waved Galin’s helpless head from side to side. “Unfortunately, I can’t include you in my immediate program. But I’ll get around to you, buddy-boy! Oh, yes, believe me I will!” He thrust the shocked, speechless figure aside and hurried on.

Galin, watching him go with unseeing eyes, at last regained the power of action. He gathered his golden robe about him and set off, back the way he had come, running, a grotesque figure in his golden robe. People laughed as he ran. He was a figure of fun —now.

Blake strode into Forbin’s outer office. At the sight of him Angela jumped up. She had known crises before, but on most occasions at least she had some idea of what caused them. Blake, never a smart dresser, looked piratical in his sweaty blouse; in a single glance she saw the difference in his manner.

“Blake—what in hell’s going on?”

His grin broadened. “That’s the wrong word, baby! Heaven’s the word! All heaven’s been let loose!” He kept walking towards the Sanctum door. “You stick around—and see that the rest of your staff do! There’ll be an awful lot of work, real soon!”

“You can’t get in there!” For her, this was no more than a simple statement of fact.

“No? Well—let’s see!” He pushed the door gently. It opened. He looked back at the astonished Angela. “Well, waddya know? The open sesame bit has gone!”

Momentarily Angela was diverted from this amazing sight. Outside in the corridor were sounds of a scuffle and a heavy bump. A man screamed, in extremis.

Blake heard. He shrugged and went into the Sanctum.

Forbin was slumped, a shapeless sack of a man, in the armchair. For several moments he seemed unaware of Blake. When he did look up, it took time for him to recognize his caller. Slowly his mind got into gear.

“Blake-you! How?” More was not necessary.

Blake looked at him pityingly and spoke gently. “Simple, Charles. I pushed the door; it opened.” His tone hardened slightly. “The old order’s gone, Charles.”

It took a good deal of time for the significance of that remark to sink into Forbin’s bemused brain. He nodded slowly, then recalled something else, his face screwed up in concentration. Unrelated trivia attract a mind in shock.

“Did I hear a scream?”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Blake was hard, indifferent. “There’ll be a lotta screaming going on! This is Cumuppance Day for the Sect!” He laughed; a short, sharp bark. “I met Galin on my way here. Ya know, he was mighty upset because the machine had stopped handing out name badges!” He laughed again at the memory, shrugged, and forgot it, looking about him with genuine interest. Apart from the one visit by Angela, he was the first person after Forbin to enter the Sanctum. He ran an exploratory hand along the fine walnut top of the desk, walked slowly around it, then casually pulled back the chair, and sat down.

Forbin watched impassively. After all that had happened, what did it matter? Still, despite his mental state, he did not like Blake’s manner.

Blake did not appear to notice. “So this is where it all happened! The genuine, one and only holy of holies! Kinda disappointing in a way—still, interesting.” He swung the chair sharply around to face Forbin; his voice showed he was well aware of the Director’s feelings. “Snap outa it, Charles! Like I said, the old order’s gone.” He leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair … his chair. “It has gone.” There was utter conviction in his voice. “I realize it’s tough for you, Charles, but you’ve got to pull yourself together, and fast! I mean, frinstance, what have you done, apart from sit there, since switchoff?”

“Done?” It struck Forbin as a strange idea. “Done? Nothing.” He was totally exhausted.

Blake was uncertain how to handle his Chief. He repressed his impatience; the old man had to be handled with great care. Better than anyone he appreciated how Forbin felt, yet there was so much to do. This was not the time to consider anyone’s personal feelings. On the other hand, Forbin was still an important figure on the world stage; the Fellowship had need of him; Blake had need of him and Blake had plans, great plans.

He sighed synthetically. “You see, Charles—it’s lucky I’m around! Sure, it’s all a hellova shock for you, but you must get moving! I have—and on your behalf! First thing, after throwing that beautiful, beautiful switch, I flashed orders for Cleo’s release!” He grinned. “Control of world communications is the big legacy from Colossus! It’s going to make all the difference for us!”

Forbin gave Cleo but a fleeting thought. Blake’s manner—and what he said—plus the last warning of Colossus filled him with foreboding. He frowned.

Blake totally misread his mind.

“Don’t worry, Charles! Cleo’s not to know the order didn’t come from you!”

Blake had told no more than the truth. His single “go” to Fellowship staff had been enough: one member’s duties included relaying that one word to ESC-1—among other places.

For, long ago, when the idea of defeating Colossus was no more than a crazy pipe dream, that single, two-letter word had been agreed as the worldwide signal that the tyrant was dead. It had two big advantages: it was simple, and it didn’t look like a code word. That was important. While the Fellowship had made a particular effort to infiltrate the communications centers, the Sect, realizing their importance, had also put many of their people in strategic positions, and anything that looked like a code word would have been flashed first to the local Lodge boss, and withheld from any suspect personnel.

In the case of ESC-1, Torgan did in actuality get it first. He found it very puzzling. After reading it several times, he pressed the button for his wooden-faced assistant. At that moment the assistant arrived.

“Ah—there you are!” He waved the tape. “Rather strange message from Control.”

“Yes. I’ve seen it.”

“Well, I must admit I don’t understand it.” Torgan firmly believed that the truth was always best when one had no other option. “I suppose well have to ask for more information—unless you have any ideas.” Torgan had no desire to call Control unnecessarily. Inevitably, Colossus would know via the monitoring unit of his ignorance, but there was no need for Galin or the rest to be told.

“Yes. I understand the message.” For the first time in the many months he had endured Torgan, the assistant smiled.

No fool, Torgan sensed danger; he pushed back from his desk, his affected manner gone. “What d’you mean?”

Unhurriedly, the assistant produced from his blouse an ancient, but serviceable, gun and pointed it at his chief.

It means, you loathsome bastard, that Colossus is dead! It also means that your filthy Sect is finished! Finally, it means that you are finished. With great reluctance I obey my orders, for you don’t deserve such a speedy end!”

With careful precision he fired twice into Torgan’s chest. The shock of impact threw Torgan back in his chair, his head hitting the wall. Not that it mattered.

The assistant, now the Controller, tore off his Sect badge, threw it at the body, and left, carefully shutting the door. Outside, in the warm, scented air, he breathed deeply. To his excited imagination the air seemed to smell better. His next assignment was the release of Mrs. Forbin.

Barchek, after a hard day’s work plus three exhausting, but eminently satisfying, acts of intercourse, was asleep, one arm thrown protectively, possessively across Cleo.

Cleo, while weary from their last, electric mating, was not asleep. Increasingly, this was the worst moment for her. Again and again, she had to face it; sexually Barchek had the ability to lift her onto another planet. Forbin’s wife remained shocked, horrified at her body’s reaction. Sex with Charles had been a gentle, pleasant thing, but this… .

Cleo, the woman, on the other hand, admitted she had never realized that this sort of ecstasy existed. All right, Cleo, the woman, and Cleo, Forbin’s wife, had fought it out together, but while the latter still battled on, the former had submitted. Moreover, the woman was attacking the wife. The wife, had it not been for the ace card of young Billy, would have been in grave danger of utter defeat.

It was not just a matter of being mounted by a great tireless stallion of a man who could thrust her, relentlessly and against her will, into an experience where time and space and all the world were as nothing. It was far worse.

And incredibly archaic. Like her mother and grandmother before her, Cleo was a thoroughly emancipated woman. You went to bed because you loved or for mutual pleasure. You were partners, each giving and receiving. Children apart, this was what sex was, no more than a part of the balanced whole. Out of bed men and women were separate entities, each with a responsible social conscience and the need to express their own personalities.

Without Barchek, Cleo would, like most women, have gone through life to the final fire believing that. Now she knew this concept was absolute rubbish.

At first, when she refused to work, he hit her until she did. She soon realized he could stand it a lot longer than she could, and did as he required. Yet even then, filled with impotent rage and fear, she saw he was not angry. Her struggles in bed he accepted, effortlessly pinning her down. Even when she got him, hard, with her knee—it would have killed some men—he merely slapped her face, and got on with his personal satisfaction. He treated her in exactly the same way as he did his dog. If anything could, that knowledge had added to her rage.