<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 25 Off the Map Unlike the first time he'd come to Portland, Steve was no longer a newcomer. He knew his way around, and he knew who to ask. Only it would be harder to find Anton this time, because he had no way of knowing if Anton was in Portland at all. He circled his old apartment in the rain, looking for a place to park. He'd held onto the place even though he hadn't been back in months. Given Anton's behavior lately, he assumed that Anton had gone into hiding from his imagined enemies. The apartment was the first place to look, because Anton might have left a message for him there. Maybe he would even find Anton holed up inside. If Anton had come to Portland at all, he would have chosen the apartment over his own studio, in order to keep out of sight of people like Kliff. It was impossible to find a parking space nearby, so after half an hour he settled on a spot a few blocks away. He scurried back to the apartment in the rain. He could tell right away that Anton hadn't been there. The dishes in the cupboard had a film of dust. A bar of soap in the shower was dried up and cracked. There was nothing in the living room but an armchair, an empty bookshelf, and a pile of sweepings in the middle of the floor. They'd moved out in a hurry, and the disorder they'd left was untouched. It upset him to see the apartment in that condition. He remembered the previous spring, when Anton had sat by the window in that same armchair, working out melodies on his guitar. They'd been happy then, hadn't they? Distraught, he left a note on the kitchen counter. "I came to Portland to find you. If you see this, give me a sign." He walked a few blocks to the Windsor Hotel. He knew that Anton had stayed there when he first got to Portland, and it pleased him to do the same. He could have let himself into Anton's studio, but he wanted to keep away from there for the same reason Anton would have. He was convinced that Kliff kept the place under surveillance. The Windsor had the same surly manager who had greeted Anton years before, only thanks to frequent visits from Anton's fans, he'd come to think of himself as a kind of celebrity. He'd appeared in documentary videos, and been interviewed on Swedish TV. On the wall opposite the reception desk was a poster of Anton in concert, from the Destroyed Teen phase. "How much is a room?" Steve asked him. "Twenty bucks a night," the man said. "Unless you want Room 34." "What's so special about 34?" "Nothing. It's just like the others, but it costs a hundred." Steve realized it was Anton's room. "Is it available?" "Of course it's available. It's often available for long stretches of time." He swept his hand outward to illustrate "long stretches." Over the years, he'd related Anton's story so often that he'd acquired theatrical gestures like this one. Steve paid for three nights, and the manager gave him the "no drugs, no booze" speech. It was part of the deal. For a hundred bucks a night, he didn't care what people did in that room, but it was part of the authentic experience Anton's fans were looking for. Steve saw that Room 34 was well preserved, like a shrine or museum. When he was still a fanboy in Texas, he'd memorized all the details. There was the bed where Anton had bounced, the desk where he'd scribbled a letter to Becky, the airshaft he'd looked down while smoking a joint, the sad-faced clown painting he'd covered with a sketch. All these had seeped into legend. He realized that Anton, whose life he shared, and the Anton who was a hero to millions were two different people. One was human, the other was untouchable. Many times he'd borrowed Anton's shirt, drunk from his glass, or used his comb without a moment's thought. Now it intimidated him to scatter his belongings in this sacred space. He took a shower and walked to Zombieland to make the rounds. He decided not to ask any questionson his first night. Instead, he would simply make an appearance and see how people reacted. They would know he was looking for Anton, and spread the word. He made a point of going to places where he'd been with Anton in the past. He had mint tea and couscous at the Star of Tunis restaurant, and stopped by Lizard Lounge for a drink. He poked into underground galleries, clothing stores, and music boutiques. He finished the night at Club Omaha, where Sanjay the bartender was his friend. No one had seen Anton, or if they had, they weren't talking. He kept up the search over the next few days. He went to the Japanese sauna where he and Anton had gotten massages, and the microcinema where they'd gone for private screenings. He stopped by the bookstore where he'd once worked. The folks at Chaos Theory Records were helpful, promising to keep in touch if they heard anything. But the only real hint came from Farnham T. Sparks of Rebel Youth. He seemed high-strung at first, and finally he spat out, "Anton's done a bad thing. I wish I could say more, but I can't. Let's hope it blows over in time." No one would talk to him about The Last Assassin. If he mentioned it, they would look away. Apparently the album hadn't gone over well in Portland, and Anton's long absence had also left a bad taste. He'd gone from hero to pariah, but no one would say why. There was even a change at the House of Mysticism. The full-length posters of Anton were gone. In their place was the slogan, "We Are All Harry Mellow," with photos of young people of diverse races in the role of guru. The booklets like Why Psychic Hygiene? were still there, but now they were known as the "Teachings of Harry Mellow" instead of the thoughts of Anton Dupree. Steve slipped out of the lobby as soon he saw the temple receptionist coming, remembering how Anton's encounter with her had been the start of all their unhappiness. That night at Cosmos, he wished he could dance and forget everything, but he was there to pay attention, take it all in. He circulated, letting people approach. After a while he saw Kliff on the other side of the room in conversation with the Countess, a celebrity DJ. She was laughing incessantly, hair piled high on her head in a surreal twirl. He realized they'd been watching him the whole time. Fixing him with his gaze, Kliff telegraphed his thoughts. "Don't be a victim. Get away from here now. You can't help Anton any more." Steve felt a powerful urge to go up to him, but he suppressed it. If anyone could tell him what had happened, it would be Kliff. But he could never see Kliff as an ally, and he couldn't imagine Anton accepting that either. When he looked again a few minutes later, Kliff was gone. He left the club in a fit of despair. He was ready to return to Twin Falls, knowing that Anton could find him there if he wanted to. If Anton didn't show up after a month or two, he would move back to Portland and resume his life as a student. At least that way he could get on with his life, although maybe he would be waiting for Anton forever. He decided to stop by Anton's studio on his way out of town. If there was anything to learn there, now was his chance. He went to pick up his car, which was still where he'd left it on the first day. On his way he ran into Uncle Tom and Old Charlie, the two old-timers who had helped him meet Anton in the first place. Their advice had worked out, so he owed them a debt of gratitude, but he still felt uneasy around them. They teased him about his relationship with Anton, calling him a "student of Anton's anatomy" and quizzing him on the finer points of sexual practice. The rush of embarrassment this gave him heated his desire for Anton, and he confessed that Anton had gone missing two weeks before. "Not another filthy love story!" shrilled Uncle Tom at the top of his register. "Easy, Tom," said Charlie. "He's been wounded. You love to get wounded, don't you, Steve?" Steve shook his head in confusion. "Why would I want that?" Charlie extended his arm in a calming gesture. "Don't worry, kid, we'll help you. We know what you want." Steve was torn between suspicion and desire, but desire won out in the end. He followed the old-timers to an all-night diner, where he bought them a meal of eggs and toast. Once the food was in front of him, Charlie announced, "Anton never came to Portland. You won't find him here, 'cause he ain't here." "Do you know where he is?" Steve played with his fork. "You betcher bunnies we do. He's off playing cowboys and Indians." Uncle Tom stepped in with a cough. "What Charlie's trying to say is, he's on a mission." "A mission?" "What used to be called cloak 'n' dagger work. You know, spy stuff." "He's at the training camp now," Charlie said, "and we know the feller who delivers the supplies. We can have you smuggled up there if you want. Eight hundred dollars, cash." Steve narrowed his eyes. "So you want my money." "Your money don't mean poo to us!" Uncle Tom said. "It's for the driver. He takes a risk." "I dunno," Steve muttered. "Maybe I shouldn't intrude." Their talk of missions and spies had unnerved him. "Come on, kid, show some spine," Charlie said. "Can't you just send him a message?" Charlie smiled serenely. "A message ain't gonna cut it, kid. You know that. If you want to see your loverboy, here's your chance." Early the next morning, Steve was waiting at a gas station on the road out of town. A delivery truck pulled up at the pump. The driver hopped out and came toward him in long strides, introducing himself as Max. "We'll make room for you in back," Max said, "behind the olives and the walnuts." "Olives and walnuts?" That seemed odd for a training camp. Max laughed. "That's just the camouflage. I've got other supplies, too." Steve's remaining doubts were overcome by Max's youth and vigor. He handed over the money and climbed in back. For a minute he could hear gas pumping, and then they were on the open highway, winding into the mountains. When Max finally opened the doors, they were in a valley surrounded by rocky pinnacles. He saw a cluster of bungalows, and an exercise ground with an obstacle course. Anton came toward him, wearing a sky-blue jumpsuit. Steve burst out laughing, overcome with delight. "What the hell is this?" "We're training for a mission, and I'm the commander." That made him laugh even harder, but Anton's gaze was severe. "You shouldn't be here. I didn't want you mixed up in this. But now that you've found us, we can use your help." It was beginning to dawn on him that Anton was serious. "What kind of mission? Do you have helicopters?" This was prompted by Anton's jumpsuit. "No helicopters. This is a ground action only. But as it happens, one of our trainees recently dropped out. Are you ready to take his place?" Behind Anton's bravado was a weary sadness. Preparations for the mission were dragging on. The recruits were disorganized and lacked the necessary skills. Because he was no longer working for Reinhold, time no longer stood still while he was on a mission. There had been plenty of time for Steve to track him down, which meant that Reinhold had been able to do the same. In his heart he was worried, but Steve had found him, and that couldn't be undone. It was time to show Steve some of his secrets. They walked to one of the bungalows, where he pulled out a satchel and opened it on the table, revealing piles of tiny blue crystals wrapped in plastic. "I have a parallel life as a drug trafficker. And this is the product, Jamaican Blue." He explained that after the show in Boise, he'd come to this hideaway with his band and crew. He'd lured them with promises of hot springs and rock climbing, and then revealed the next stage of his plan. "We are the Last Assassin," he'd told them. "It's time to take things into our own hands." They'd trained in techniques of sabotage and raids on the enemy. In time, he hoped to stage an attack on the Citadel itself. He'd never spelled out this last part, but his team understood. They knew the story of the Last Assassin better than anyone. "You mean the Citadel is real?" Steve said in amazement. "Of course it's real. Where do you think I go when I'm not with you?" "I don't know, out? Or into your own head?" "You see? You've already guessed what the Citadel is. It's in here and out there at the same time, which makes it twice as real." He told Steve they would finance their revolt by dealing in Jamaican Blue, which he'd learned to make while working for the Colonel. It had the advantage of existing in a gray area of the law, which meant it was neither legal nor illegal. Their first mission would be to take a shipment across the country. A moneyman in Idaho would give them a payment, and they would take the product to Georgia to collect a second payment. Along the way, they would cover their tracks by touring as Generic Dummy. When he'd laid out the plan to his band and crew, they'd been enthusiastic. "Awesome idea," Icky had said. Skip, too, had been steadfast and loyal. Apparently they'd been waiting for this. Finally, Anton had stopped dithering and turned to action. Only one crew member had chosen to quit. Maybe it was the mountain air, but that one was weak. Now Steve had come along to fill the gap. Steve's presence was a boost to Anton's morale, but he was torn. His first duty was to protect his friend. "I don't know if this is right for you. It could be dangerous. The reason I went off without warning was to keep you out of trouble. Max is heading back to Portland tomorrow. I think you should go with him. I'll be in touch when I can." "No, I'm staying with you." If Anton was going to be a rebel hero, he would be one too. Anton's eyes showed his gratitude, but his face remained stern. "In that case, here's the plan. We'll be training for three more days. Then we'll go to Idaho to collect the payment. We'll meet the moneyman at a diner in the middle of nowhere, which is a major contact point for this kind of business. We'll have a main car, and a backup car in case something goes wrong. The backup car will be parked behind the restaurant, down below out of sight. I'll be driving the main car. The contact person rides with me." "Am I the contact person?" Steve guessed. "That's right, because you're the one I trust the most. I'll be right there if you need me. I'll park by the front door, and you'll go into the restaurant with the Jamaican Blue. When you walk in, just say the code words, and the moneyman will call you to his table. Sit down with him and show him the product. Let him look it over, even taste it if he likes. When he gives you the money, take the product and return to the car." "That sounds simple." "It should be, but we have to be prepared if things go wrong. He'll have his people with him, and what I care about is your safety. That's why we have the escape route. Leave the product if you have to, and go through the kitchen to the back door. Then down the hill through the trees, and you'll find the backup car waiting on the road below." "Do you have your gun?" Anton paused. "No, I didn't think of that. I don't need it now. I left it with you, didn't I?" "In the briefcase, under the car seat?" "That's right." He was suddenly nervous. "What did you do with the tapes? I left them with you for safekeeping. You were supposed to stay put!" "I packed them with everything else that's important, and took it to my aunt's place on my way out of Idaho. There's nothing left in the house now but the furniture." Anton took a deep breath. "All right, then. You did good." • • • Steve stepped from the car with the satchel of Jamaican Blue. He stared dolorously at the windows of the little diner, running the code words through his head. "I've traveled halfway around the world looking for a sign"—it sounded so hokey. "And now I've found it"—even hokier. He fixed his jaw, set his shoulders, and went inside. They all turned to look at him. The waitress stopped chewing her gum, her fingers poised above the cash register. Three or four guys in plaid shirts, guts spilling over their belts, sat on a row of stools. One picked his teeth, another scratched his unshaven neck. "I've traveled halfway around the world looking for a sign," Steve said loudly, feet planted in the middle of the linoleum checkerboard. "Here it comes!" the hairy guy bellowed. "And now I've found it," he finished with a defiant look, though secretly he wanted to cry. The waitress' fingers dropped, and the cash register rang open. All of the men were laughing at him. The confusion on his face made them laugh all the more. "Where'd you learn to say that, punk?" someone said. "Who sent you?" He bolted for the door without thinking. One of the guys lunged at him and got him by the ankle, just as his hand was closing over the handle. He kicked hard and tried to scramble away, but a second guy came up and smashed him in the face with a fist the size of a ham shank. • • • Anton couldn't see what was going on inside the restaurant. He'd been waiting a long time. There seemed to be flashes of movement, but no one had gone in or out. He was about to get out of the car to investigate, when he heard gunshots around back. He threw the car into gear and skidded to a stop behind the restaurant. All was quiet. The kitchen door was open and a couple of cars were parked there. Just then, two sedans roared into the parking lot from opposite angles. He was surrounded and quickly taken. Obviously, the operation hadn't gone as planned. Most likely it was a setup from the start. In any case he was stuck, taken by the law. Only it wasn't any law he'd ever heard about, it was the higher law, the law outside the law. The law that does what it wants. They took him to a mountain clearing for processing. Soldiers in uniform stood outside a canvas tent with one side open to the sun. A man in a sharp suit sat at a camp table, a silk handkerchief tucked in his chest pocket. With a surly expression, he shuffled papers handed to him by an aide. As Anton's accomplices were brought in one by one, he asked for their names and ages, and how they were apprehended. They were stripped of their belongings, photographed and fingerprinted, and told to change into prison jumpsuits. In the end they were all there, lined up in a row, even the crew member who had dropped out two weeks before. Only Steve was missing. A deep depression settled over the conspirators, and no one wanted to talk about what had happened. A white-paneled truck pulled up, and they all got in. They sat on benches for the long journey. There were no windows, only a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. After several hours they arrived at a maximum security prison, in a spot so remote it wasn't on any map. Apparently they were the only prisoners. They were separated, and each was led to his own quarters. Anton was given an entire dormitory wing to himself, and left to tend to his own needs. His food showed up while he was at the other end of the building, so he had no contact with other human beings. Because he knew they were watching, he was careful not to show any emotion. He became mechanical. He did nothing but eat, sleep, and sit. Sometimes he stood on the stairs to the second floor, looking out a small window. The scene outside had a factory feel, like an abandoned steel mill. He stayed there for hours at a time, reflecting on what had happened. Why gunshots? What had happened to Steve? On the third day, his inquisitor came to him on the stairway. He felt the man's presence without turning around. "I feel like I've been here all my life," he told the intruder. They were the first words he'd spoken since his arrival. The man took him to a bare room with a desk and two chairs, which he'd already dubbed the "interrogation room" in his own mind. "I won't say anything without a lawyer present," he began. "I am a lawyer," said the inquisitor. "Hey, that's nice! Is that some new way to increase government efficiency?" "This isn't a government investigation." "You're not cops? FBI? CIA?" The inquisitor shook his head. "DEA, ATF, IRS? The Vatican?" The inquisitor smiled very slightly and shook his head. "Who do you work for, then?" "Who do you work for?" "Oh, boy. What am I charged with?" "There are no charges. This is a preliminary investigation." Anton slapped the table with his hand. "That does it, I'm not cooperating. I don't know how to cooperate. I haven't cooperated since I was born, and I won't start now." He stood up. The inquisitor wagged a finger. "You're not free to leave. You're a very important witness." "Witness to what?" He plopped back in his chair. "You tell me." "Well, if that don't beat all! Tell me what I'm supposed to be implicated in, at least, so I can calibrate my lies." The inquisitor didn't answer. Instead he opened a three-ring binder, and spent a minute or two flipping through its pages. When he finally looked up, he said, "Are you the Antichrist?" Anton's eyes widened. "I don't have an opinion on that right now," he said dryly. The inquisitor made a note in the margin. "Antichrist—refused to deny." "Would you like to be tortured?" he continued. "Excuse me?" "I said—" "I heard you. Are you a would-be torturer?" "It's a purely hypothetical question." The inquisitor tapped the binder with his pencil. "This is a psychological analysis report. It's for evaluation purposes only." The interviews went on like this for several days. Anton suspected that some of them were hallucinations induced by his isolation, drugs in his food, or the repetitive questions of the real interviews. He knew that no matter what he said, he wouldn't be released anytime soon. There was no use in protesting that he'd done nothing wrong, that Jamaican Blue wasn't illegal, that no transaction had ever taken place. He tried to say nothing, but with no one to talk to but the inquisitor, the urge to justify himself built up uncontrollably. "Why am I here?" he said finally. "I was parked in front of a restaurant, minding my own business." The inquisitor frowned. "You were behind the restaurant when we picked you up." "What's wrong with that?" "The back is a service entrance." "Is it a crime to be behind a restaurant?" "This isn't a criminal investigation, as I've said many times. Were you behind the restaurant for a reason? Were you an employee?" "I was looking for a friend." "Was he an employee?" "He was a customer. He went inside, but he didn't come out." "Did he use the back entrance?" "No, the front." "Then why did you go around back?" Anton sighed. "Because I heard gunshots." The inquisitor made a note in his binder. "Did the gunshots have anything to do with your friend?" "How would I know? That's what I wanted to find out." "But you suspected they might have?" "I was concerned for his safety." "What made you think the shots came from the restaurant?" "Where else would they have come from? We were in the middle of nowhere." "Did your friend have a gun?" "He's a pacifist. He's never touched a gun in his life." "What might he have done to provoke gunshots?" "Nothing! Are you saying it was his fault?" "Firing a gun in a public place is a crime. If he did something to provoke that, he's an accessory." "Not if he's the victim!" "Let's hope not." The inquisitor made another note. "Did you report the crime?" "How could I? Your people picked me up right away." "You could have mentioned it to them. You could have said, 'There were shots fired.' But you never said anything until today. Why is that?" "Because they already knew." "How would they know?" "They were right there! They swooped in as soon as shots were fired. Isn't it logical to think they were reacting to them?" The inquisitor frowned. "You're the first person to tell us there were gunshots." "Are you claiming there weren't gunshots?" His anger was in plain view now. "What happened at the restaurant? What happened to Steve?" The inquisitor held up a finger and flipped through his binder to a specific page. He ran his hand along the margin until he found what he wanted. "We were responding to a perimeter breach. Your friend violated the perimeter with false code words." "False code words? You mean—" "Code words that were outdated, or known to be false. Our question is, who gave him those code words?" He looked firmly at Anton. Over the next few days, Anton learned the nature of the case against him. He was suspected of "trafficking in an imaginary substance" and "providing false code words to unauthorized persons." Behind these was a larger charge, "conspiracy against hidden authority." These weren't criminal charges, of course, because there were no laws against such things. It was more of an internal proceeding, a court martial. The inquisitor offered him a deal. "We're firm believers in the powers of denial. If you deny any of this happened, we can make it go away." "Deny what happened? The gunshots? The meeting at the restaurant?" The inquisitor shook his head. "We need to go deeper than that. To the root causes." He consulted a list. "The Citadel. The Last Assassin. The referees." "That's pretty deep." "There are techniques for removing such information. You won't notice any gaps. You'll be returned to Portland as if you never left. Only you'll feel cleaner in many ways, like you took a long holiday and came back refreshed. The dark days will be gone." Anton realized they wanted to remove all references to Reinhold's power. His visits to the Citadel, his missions for the Colonel would vanish. Reinhold would be nothing but a promoter who ran the Square Peg Foundation. Sabrina would be a performance artist he barely knew. Kliff would be Kliff, gifted manipulator and survivor. Since he'd been fixated on the Citadel for the past two years, most of that time would be wiped out. It was tempting, but there was a problem. "What about Steve?" The inquisitor smiled. "We can make him go away, too." Anton recoiled. "That's not what I want!" "What do you want?" "You know what I want. I want him back!" The inquisitor folded his hands and looked sad. "Given the realities of the situation, that could be a problem." Anton felt a chill. "What happened to him? He went into the restaurant, and he didn't come out. Your people were there, so they should know." "Isn't it best to let this go? Feelings of loss can take a long time to heal. Take it from me, it would be better to forget. And we can help you with that." "You mean, like he never existed? Like we never even met?" The inquisitor smiled. "Exactly. It's all for the best." Anton's attitude hardened. "No way. Tell the Colonel no way. He can't have my memories. What happened was real!" They'd reached at an impasse. The interviews dwindled after that, and a few days later, he was released into the prison yard. They gave him the clothes he'd been wearing when he was captured, and told him to change. His accomplices were released along with him. Emerging from their separate bunkers, they greeted each other as if roused from a long sleep. "We're letting you go on one condition," they warned him. "Stay out of Idaho from now on." He figured this was to keep him from retrieving the tapes to The Last Assassin. Either that, or they were afraid he would return to the diner where he'd lost Steve. He spotted Johnny Champion, the Colonel's referee, along the sidelines. He was watching them from behind dark glasses, chewing his gum slowly and studying everything. He wore the same smirk he'd worn at the Citadel, when Anton had called for revolution. No doubt he enjoyed being the one to put a leash on Anton. In Portland he was a radical lawyer who was always at protests, but here he was a prison warden. Evidently this was his true form. A white-paneled truck pulled up to the gate, just like the one that had brought them there. The sight of it made them feel like they were still prisoners. But when the doors opened, they found to their surprise that it was equipped with a hot tub, a beach ball, a carpet of live grass, a mini bar, a sound system, and two new companions, Clarissa and Sue. They got underway, their spirits much improved. After bathing, rubbing each other in oils, and kicking the ball around in the grass, they decided to read the Tarot that Clarissa had brought. Still naked except for a headband holding back her bobbed hair, she laid the cards in the grass. Anton pulled a flute from a leather pouch at his waist and diddled it idly, a spirited yet haunting ditty. His drummer Icky joined him on the tam-tams. With a flourish, Clarissa announced that the spread was complete, and her interpretation would commence. He never could recall what happened next, which convinced him that the whole sequence had been planted in his memory to cover a gap. What bothered him was not knowing where the gap had begun. Was it as they'd left the prison, or even before that? Had he really heard gunshots? Had Steve disappeared? In any case, there was no transition to his next real memory, their arrival at Reinhold's Midwestern headquarters in Manhattan, Kansas. The Colonel's compound was a collection of aging brick factories at the edge of town. It had its own railroad siding, and it was filled with high-tech gadgetry. The central courtyard was surrounded by high walls, so only patches of sky were visible. As they left the truck, his companions were whisked away by a professional hostess, while Anton was told, "The Colonel wants to see you right away." As he strode into the Colonel's presence, the old man's knuckles were white with rage. "You owe me one," Reinhold said through clenched teeth. "For what, getting me out of that scrape? I thought you set the trap in the first place." "You're getting cocky, boy. When you released The Last Assassin, we made it disappear. Fair enough, tit for tat. Maybe I can forgive that, but what you did next was far more serious. You started freelancing. You set up a crew to run missions, using the skills I taught you." "That's natural, isn't it? I'm a volunteer." Reinhold's fist crashed down on the table, sending a flagon of fine cognac shattering to the floor. "You're a volunteer who works for me! You've been acting confused lately, so let me set things straight. You're either with me or against me, and now you're right on the line." "You're wrong, I've already crossed it. I'm not looking for forgiveness. What I want is revenge. I'm not a bouquet of roses, I'm a flaming arrow aimed at you. I will pierce you, I will burn you, that is my mission. This is a war between you and me." He'd managed to shock the Colonel, no easy task. In the silence that followed, he felt a twinge of regret. Reinhold had been like a father to him, and had shown him the secrets of the Citadel. Was this how he repaid his trust? He continued in a softer tone. "Ever since I met you, my life has been a lie. It's my own fault, really, for hooking up with you in the first place. But lately, I've been trying to set things straight. I stopped visiting the Citadel long ago, haven't you noticed? If you'd just let go of me, we could have avoided this whole mess. Instead, you pushed it too far. You wanted me to become Harry Mellow." Reinhold laughed silently, his mouth a black hole. "You can't walk away now, Anton, it's too late. You know too much. You're in too deep." Anton bristled. "That wasn't the bargain." "Bargains have a way of evolving. Of all those who've set foot in the Citadel, only you were being prepared to reign there. Only you could have called it your own. Such privileges have a price, and the price in this case is loyalty. What I want now is obedience. Obedience or destruction, those are the options." Anton felt like he was falling. "I can't obey you, you know that. I can't obey anyone!" "Are you refusing?" Reinhold bit his lip. "That's not what I want." "I don't care what you want. Haven't you ruined my life enough already?" "I've been protecting you more than you know. From now on, you'll have the whole world against you. Not just my organization, but my enemies as well." Anton shook his head firmly. "The answer is no." Reinhold shrugged, and pressed a button on his desk. The door clicked open, and he waved Anton out. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>