Anarchaos

XXXII

I wanted to be angry; it would make it much easier to do what I had to do. I thought about the uselessness and stupidity of Gar’s death, about the bungling and panic that had cost me years from my life and led to the loss of my hand, about the lost opportunity that Gar had been offering me, I thought about it all and I couldn’t be angry. I could only feel a heavy regret, a weighted nostalgia and remorse.

Everything was much more difficult this way. Without the blessed blindness of fury, I had to do everything coldly, impersonally, watching myself every step of the way.

Violence done of duty weighs more heavily than violence done out of passion.

I moved through the ship light and quick and silent and unseen, armed with nothing but my hand. From Triss I had learned the location of Phail’s quarters and there I hurried; this first part had to be gotten over with as quickly as possible.

I saw no one. According to the artificial time by which everyone on Anarchaos lived it was now late at night, so that only a few crew members were up and about. These I avoided easily, and soon came to Phail’s quarters.

The door wasn’t even locked. I entered a darkened room, stood silent in the darkness for a while, and finally determined that I was alone; there was no sound of breathing here. I felt my way around the room, touched furniture which indicated it was a parlor or sitting room, and came at last to another doorway, in which the door stood ajar. I paused here, listening, and heard the sound of regular breathing I’d been hoping for.

I moved through the dark to that sound, and reached my hand out, and promptly found his throat. I closed my hand around it.

How the pulse beat against my palm! He woke up at once, thrashing and waving his arms around, but I stood and waited and after a time his struggles weakened. I released him when he was lying limp but the pulse was still beating; I didn’t want him to die without being sure who was doing it to him, and why.

I left him, and found a light, and switched it on. His face was so altered by lack of breath that for one bad instant I thought I’d come to the wrong room. But it was him, Phail, with his arrogant face and dry sandy hair. He slept nude, and in his thrashings had kicked the covers off; his body was surprisingly pale and thin.

I brought water from the bath and sloshed it on him, then slapped his face until he returned to consciousness. When his eyes opened, and I saw that he recognized me, I put my hand on his throat again.

He didn’t move. He lay there unblinking, and stared up at me.

I said, “You murdered Gar Malone. I came to Anarchaos to find you and punish you.”

Then I dosed my hand.