kill…you!” and tried to sit up. Tasarov hit the other knee. “Big sonnabitch think you’re God,” Polau muttered. “Show you who’s in charge.”
The door opened. Ruskin and Wood came in, followed by Howes.
“He tried to kill me,” Tasarov said angrily, stepping back, startled that he hadn’t killed Polau by now. “With this! Howes, do you know what this is about?”
Howes seemed reluctant to speak.
“You’d better tell me what you know, kid!”
Polau lay on the floor, breathing hard, still trying to speak. “Goddamned big fuck left us all to die in that stupid town. They massacred most of us, then beat the shit out of those who were left.” He pointed a finger. “He was gone by then!”
“What’s he talking about?” Ruskin asked.
Tasarov looked at Howes, then at Wood, and tried to remember. A lot was still missing inside him. It was there somewhere, if he could just turn a corner and catch it.
Howes said suddenly, “He was jealous of you…and me.”
Tasarov looked at him with surprise. “But there is no you and me.”
“You couldn’t tell him that. He bragged how he’d be the boss once he killed you. You were the one to kill. He always wanted to impress me, ever since he brought me along on that job we got caught for. Thought he’d get me that way.” Howes gave a futile laugh. “I think he really wanted you, one way or another,” he said, looking directly at Tasarov. “But there was more, wasn’t there?”
Tasarov did not remember Polau from the Dannemora break. Maybe it was a friend or relative of Polau’s that died. He looked at the man on the floor and tried to remember—and the massacre in the resort town came back to him. By the time it happened he was long gone, leaving those who had not escaped to face an army division. He had heard about it later. There was nothing he could have done. The break and the taking of that town had given him and many others a chance to disappear, even though later he had been captured as someone else. In the end, it was every man for himself. Some did better than others.
“What do we do with him?” Wood asked.
“You stupid assholes,” Polau rasped from the floor, struggling to raise himself up on his elbows. “All this shit about talking back to the folks at home—it’s all his way of keeping you busy, with him on top!”
The effort produced a sudden gurgling in his throat. He fell back and was still.
Howes knelt down, examined him, and said, “His throat’s busted…he choked to death.” He looked up at Tasarov, and for a moment it seemed he had lost his last friend in the world, as worthless as that friend had been.
“I didn’t try to kill him,” Tasarov said as Howes stood up.
“He would have killed you,” the younger man said. “It’s just as well. He was going crazy thinking about everything. He was no good. Got me caught the first time we ever did anything. Ruined my life, what there was of it.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” Tasarov said, almost meaning it, and still puzzled that he had not killed the little assassin after the first blow.
Howes looked up him. “Are you really the big shit he thought you were? He hated you like I never saw anyone hate.”
Don’t answer, Tasarov told himself, knowing that the younger man didn’t really expect an answer. And don’t ask him why he didn’t warn me, if Polau had bragged to him.
“I’ll bury him,” Howes said without looking at Tasarov. “I knew you’d get him.”
■
More than a hundred men spewed into the microphones over the next few weeks and months, as the habitat fell away into the abyss. Some men pleaded, others were heartfelt as they reached down into themselves to tear out their suffering and hurl it homeward. They sang their growing agony and horror, and were eloquent as if eloquence were a force of nature able to open hearts and minds, given to them as the last weapon they would yield against their own kind.
They were evil men, and good men who had
The door opened. Ruskin and Wood came in, followed by Howes.
“He tried to kill me,” Tasarov said angrily, stepping back, startled that he hadn’t killed Polau by now. “With this! Howes, do you know what this is about?”
Howes seemed reluctant to speak.
“You’d better tell me what you know, kid!”
Polau lay on the floor, breathing hard, still trying to speak. “Goddamned big fuck left us all to die in that stupid town. They massacred most of us, then beat the shit out of those who were left.” He pointed a finger. “He was gone by then!”
“What’s he talking about?” Ruskin asked.
Tasarov looked at Howes, then at Wood, and tried to remember. A lot was still missing inside him. It was there somewhere, if he could just turn a corner and catch it.
Howes said suddenly, “He was jealous of you…and me.”
Tasarov looked at him with surprise. “But there is no you and me.”
“You couldn’t tell him that. He bragged how he’d be the boss once he killed you. You were the one to kill. He always wanted to impress me, ever since he brought me along on that job we got caught for. Thought he’d get me that way.” Howes gave a futile laugh. “I think he really wanted you, one way or another,” he said, looking directly at Tasarov. “But there was more, wasn’t there?”
Tasarov did not remember Polau from the Dannemora break. Maybe it was a friend or relative of Polau’s that died. He looked at the man on the floor and tried to remember—and the massacre in the resort town came back to him. By the time it happened he was long gone, leaving those who had not escaped to face an army division. He had heard about it later. There was nothing he could have done. The break and the taking of that town had given him and many others a chance to disappear, even though later he had been captured as someone else. In the end, it was every man for himself. Some did better than others.
“What do we do with him?” Wood asked.
“You stupid assholes,” Polau rasped from the floor, struggling to raise himself up on his elbows. “All this shit about talking back to the folks at home—it’s all his way of keeping you busy, with him on top!”
The effort produced a sudden gurgling in his throat. He fell back and was still.
Howes knelt down, examined him, and said, “His throat’s busted…he choked to death.” He looked up at Tasarov, and for a moment it seemed he had lost his last friend in the world, as worthless as that friend had been.
“I didn’t try to kill him,” Tasarov said as Howes stood up.
“He would have killed you,” the younger man said. “It’s just as well. He was going crazy thinking about everything. He was no good. Got me caught the first time we ever did anything. Ruined my life, what there was of it.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” Tasarov said, almost meaning it, and still puzzled that he had not killed the little assassin after the first blow.
Howes looked up him. “Are you really the big shit he thought you were? He hated you like I never saw anyone hate.”
Don’t answer, Tasarov told himself, knowing that the younger man didn’t really expect an answer. And don’t ask him why he didn’t warn me, if Polau had bragged to him.
“I’ll bury him,” Howes said without looking at Tasarov. “I knew you’d get him.”
■
More than a hundred men spewed into the microphones over the next few weeks and months, as the habitat fell away into the abyss. Some men pleaded, others were heartfelt as they reached down into themselves to tear out their suffering and hurl it homeward. They sang their growing agony and horror, and were eloquent as if eloquence were a force of nature able to open hearts and minds, given to them as the last weapon they would yield against their own kind.
They were evil men, and good men who had
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