Antagonist - Childe Cycle 11 (110 page)

Bleys
could
not
remember
a
time
when
he
had
not
been
aware that
there
was
a
part
of
himself,
that
he
thought
of
as
being
in
the back
of
his
mind,
that
perpetually
monitored
his
actions
and
his thoughts,
helping
him
control
his
emotions
and
instincts.
Now,
he suddenly
realized,
it
had
shut
down—vanished;
at
least
it
seemed that
way,
because
he
was
suddenly
being
flooded
by
feelings
of rage.
He
suppressed
it
with
harsh
willpower,
telling
himself
it
was simply
the
instinctual
response
usual
to
a
large
male
unexpectedly confronted
with
a
larger
one.

Fear?

He
was
shocked
as
the
notion
came
to
him.
Anger,
like
many other
emotions,
usually
arose
out
of
the
body's
fear
reaction;
but
he had
never
thought
that
might
apply
to
him.

He
was
abruptly,
absurdly
conscious
of
how
his
own
appearance contrasted
with
that
of
the
man
before
him.
He
had
spent
years
cultivating
the
picture
he
presented
to
his
audiences,
and
he
knew
his tall,
lean
body,
clad
in
a
short,
black
jacket,
and
gray
trousers
tapering
into
black
boots,
presented
a
dramatic
image
that
focused
attention
on
him,
making
it
easier
for
him
to
get
his
message
through
to audiences.

Hal
Mayne
presented
an
entirely
different
sort
of
figure;
but somehow,
in
his
simple,
utilitarian
silver-gray
coverall,
that
difference
failed
to
detract
from
the
fact
that
his
body,
his
face—even
his attitude—presented
an
icon
of
power
and
strength
that
must awaken
a
large
number
of
instinctive
responses
in
those
who
saw him.

People will listen to him, too.

As
Hal
took
a
step
forward,
Bleys
found
his
voice. "Well,"
he
said,
"you've
grown
up."

"It
happens,"
said
Hal.
His
voice,
too,
was
more
mature,
deeper and
controlled.
But
it
was
distant.
There
was
a
strange
moment
of silence
as
they
stood
facing
each
other.
Bleys
was
acutely
aware
of the
ceiling
over
both
their
heads;
he'd
been
used
to
being
closer
to ceilings
than
other
people,
but
now,
with
Hal's
own
height
so
near, that
sense
of
closeness
became
uncomfortable.

Hal's
face
showed
no
emotion
at
all.
That,
too,
was
an
indicator
of how
the
boy
had
changed.
Bleys
had,
he
knew
now,
been
expecting to
meet
that
same
youngster,
and
to
find
him
still
prey
to
the
emotional
volatility
of
young
men;
but
he
had
been
badly
wrong.

Even
as
he
had
that
thought,
he
saw
a
slight
change
in
the
features
of
the
man
before
him,
as
if
a
momentary
shadow
had
passed over
his
soul
...
that
face,
too—something
about
it
rang
the
bell
of some
distant
familiarity.
.
..

He
dismissed
the
thought,
reminding
himself
that
this
man
must still
remember
the
first
time
they
had
impinged
on
each
other's lives;
Hal
Mayne
would
never
be
able
to
see
Bleys
without
remembering
his
tutors,
killed
on
the
terrace
of
their
home.
Perhaps
one day
he
could
be
brought
to
see
it
was
not
Bleys'
doing.

To
cover
the
moment,
he
turned
and
stepped
over
to
the
desk Hal
had
just
left.
It
was
a
float
desk,
apparently
made
of
a
reddish wood
that
concealed
the
metal
frame
of
its
technology.

The
room
appeared
to
be
an
office,
but
it
seemed
unusually
bare. Half
a
dozen
float
chairs
were
scattered
about,
some
with
high, winged
backs
covered
in
an
antique
gold
floral
pattern
on
a
muted dark
red
field.
They
seemed
incongruous
against
the
off-white
walls and
neutral-colored
floor—unless
this
was
one
of
those
technologically
enhanced
spaces
that
could
be
commanded
to
change
its
color and
shape
as
easily
as
the
lighting,
one
which
had
been
put
into neutral
settings.

Intelligent! He's not giving away any clues.

He
felt
a
new
sadness:
for
all
that
he
had
prepared
himself,
mentally,
to
find
Hal
Mayne
an
enemy,
he
regretted
that
the
young
man saw
him
as
a
predator.

It
was
Hal
Mayne
who
looked
the
predator,
Bleys
reminded
himself.
...
Again
he
felt
that
tiny
ring
of
familiarity,
even
as
he
pivoted to
sit
down
on
the
edge
of
the
desk.

He
turned
his
attention
back
to
Hal,
who
had
himself
turned,
as smoothly
as
a
trained
athlete,
even
as
Bleys
moved
to
the
desk.