Iris

IRIS

WILLIAM BARTON and MICHAEL CAPOBIANCO

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

AVON BOOKS, INC.

1350 Avenue of the Americas

New York, New York 10019

Copyright © 1990 by William Barton and Michael Capobianco

Cover art by Chris Moore

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-32501

ISBN: 0-380-73038-3

www.avonbooks.com/eos

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books, Inc.

First Avon Eos Printing: September 1999

AVON EOS TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES. MARCA REOISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.

WCD 10 98765432

Dedicated to

The Voyager 2 Computer Command Subsystem

Ave atque vale

The Falsehood that exalts we cherish more

Than meaner truths that are a thousand strong.

—pushkin

IRIS

ONE

Load. Uplink. Begin.

Achmet Aziz el-Tabari, who called himself Demogorgon the Illimitor Artist, was on his knees before Brendan Sealock, scientist, engineer, gladiator. . . . Cultural labels made a miasma between them that was too thick to be thrust aside. It made them things, defying understanding. He looked up at the man. He looked at the curly, dirty, reddish-blond hair, the acrid green eyes almost hidden in deep, dark wells beneath shaggy brows, at the broad face, with its high, heavy cheekbones, at the flattened nose, the wide, frowning mouth framed with shadowy lines, and the massive jaw. He looked at the thick neck above powerful, rounded shoulders, the heavily muscled chest, and the broad waist with its solid stomach, lightly padded with fat. He looked at the long arms, roped with vein-netted muscles that stood out like an anatomical chart. He ran his hands over the corded tree-trunk legs through a thin layer of light cloth.

So ... His own voice whispered to him from far away, rhyming rhymes, naming names. Culture, it said, and tradition . . . 'Brendan. Tell me again why you won't do anything with me?' The man smiled faintly. 'You're the faggot here, not me. Besides, I'm your . . . what is it you call me?'

'You're my 'Great Dark Man,' Brendan. It's from a book that was written more than a hundred and fifty years ago.'

'Yeah.' He laced his fingers through Demogorgon's coarse black hair and jammed his crotch forward into the man's face. 'So get to work.'

As the man's sharp nose began to jab rhythmically against his abdomen, Sealock settled back to look out through