“My own good? Who in hell are you to determine what my own good might be?”
Dorn stopped three paces short of Elverda, made a stiff little bow to her, and only then turned to face his employer.
“Sir: I have seen the artifact. You have not.”
“And that makes you better than me?” Humphries almost snarled the words. “Holier, maybe?”
“No,” said Dorn. “Not holier. Wiser.”
Humphries started to reply, then thought better of it.
“Which way do we go?” Elverda asked in the sudden silence.
Dorn pointed with his prosthetic hand. “Down,” he replied. “This way.”
The corridor abruptly became a rugged tunnel again, with lights fastened at precisely spaced intervals along the low ceiling. Elverda watched Dorn’s half-human face as the pools of shadow chased the highlights glinting off the etched metal, like the Moon racing through its phases every half-minute, over and again.
Humphries had fallen silent as they followed the slanting tunnel downward into the heart of the rock. Elverda heard only the clicking of his shoes at first, but by concentrating she was able to make out the softer footfalls of Dorn’s padded boots and even the whisper of her own slippers.
The air seemed to grow warmer, closer. Or is it my own anticipation? She glanced at Humphries; perspiration beaded his upper lip. The man radiated tense expectation. Dorn glided a few steps ahead of them. He did not seem to be hurrying, yet he was now leading them down the tunnel, like an ancient priest leading two new acolytes—or sacrificial victims.
The tunnel ended in a smooth wall of dull metal.
“We are here.”
“Open it up,” Humphries demanded.
“It will open itself,” replied Dorn. He waited a heartbeat, then added, “Now.”
And the metal slid up into the rock above them as silently as if it were a curtain made of silk.
None of them moved. Then Dorn slowly turned toward the two of them and gestured with his human hand.
“The artifact lies twenty-two point nine meters beyond this point. The tunnel narrows and turns to the right. The chamber is large enough to accommodate only one person at a time, comfortably.”
“Me first!” Humphries took a step forward.
Dorn stopped him with an upraised hand. The prosthetic hand. “I feel it my duty to caution you—”
Humphries tried to push the hand away; he could not budge it.
“When I first crossed this line, I was a soldier. After I saw the artifact I gave up my life.”
“And became a self-styled priest. So what?”
“The artifact can change you. I thought it best that there be no witnesses to your first viewing of it, except for this gifted woman whom you have brought with you. When you first see it, it can be— traumatic.”
Humphries’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and disgust. “I’m not a mercenary killer. I don’t have anything to be afraid of.”
Dorn let his hand drop to his side with a faint whine of miniaturized servomotors.
“Perhaps not,” he murmured, so low that Elverda barely heard it.
Humphries shouldered his way past the cyborg. “Stay here,” he told Elverda. “You can see it when I come back.”
He hurried down the tunnel, footsteps staccato.
Then silence.
Elverda looked at Dorn. The human side of his face seemed utterly weary. “You have seen the artifact more than once, haven’t you?”
“Fourteen times,” he answered.
“It has not harmed you in any way, has it?”
He hesitated, then replied, “It has changed me. Each time I see it, it changes me more.”
“You … you really are Dorik Harbin?”
“I was.”
“Those people of the Chrysalis …?”
“DORIK HARBIN KILLED THEM ALL. YES. THERE IS NO EXCUSE FOR IT, NO PARDON. IT WAS THE ACT OF A MONSTER.”
“But why?”
“Monsters do monstrous things. Dorik Harbin ingested psychotropic drugs to increase his battle prowess. Afterward, when the battle drugs cleared from his bloodstream and he understood what he had done, Dorik Harbin held a grenade against his chest and set it off.”
“Oh my god,” Elverda whimpered.
“He was not allowed to die, however. Yamagata Corporations medical specialists rebuilt his body and he was given a false identity. For many years he lived a sham of life, hiding from the authorities, hiding from his own guilt. He no longer had the courage to kill himself; the pain of his first attempt was far stronger than his own self-loathing. Then he was hired to come to this place. Dorik Harbin looked upon the artifact for the first time, and his true identity emerged at last.”
Elverda heard a scuffling sound, like feet dragging, staggering. Martin Humphries came into view, tottering, leaning heavily against the wall of the tunnel, slumping as if his legs could no longer hold him.
“No man … no one…” He pushed himself forward and collapsed into Dorn’s arms.
“Destroy it!” he whispered harshly, spittle dribbling down his chin. “Destroy this whole damned piece of rock! Wipe it out of existence!”
“What is it?” Elverda asked. “What did you see?”
Dorn lowered him to the ground gently. Humphries’s feet scrabbled against the rock as if he were trying to run away. Sweat covered his face, soaked his shirt.
“It’s … beyond…” he babbled. “More … than anyone can … nobody could stand it…”
Elverda sank to her knees beside him. “What has happened to him?” She looked up at Dorn, who knelt on Humphries’s other side.
“The artifact”
Humphries suddenly ranted, “They’ll find out about me! Everyone will know! It’s got to be destroyed! Nuke it! Blast this whole asteroid to bits!” His fists windmilled in the air, his eyes were wild.
“I tried to warn him,” Dorn said as he held Humphries’s shoulders down, the man’s head in his lap. “I tried to prepare him for it.”
“What did he see?” Elverda’s heart was pounding; she could hear it thundering in her ears. “What is it? What did you see?”
Dorn shook his head slowly. “I cannot describe it. I doubt that anyone could describe it—except, perhaps, an artist: a person who has trained herself to see the truth.”
“The prospectors—they saw it. Even their children saw it.”
“Yes. When I arrived here they had spent eighteen days in the chamber. They left it only when
