Watson, Ian - Novel 10 by Deathhunter (v1.1)

die twice. This weird characteristic made
the creature seem more real than if it had possessed a hundred reflections:
wherever it flew to, it existed totally. It was as though this creature had soaked up all potential reflections into itself , so that it could be seen
fully — intensified — not just glimpsed out of the corner of one’s eye. And
that was precisely the magic, or the technology, of Weinberger’s cage!
                 Circling
outward from the real Nathan Weinberger, the red bat-moth beat from one phantom
cage to the next. Yet the further it flew outward, the more golden bars got in
the way. Very soon it was flying into a wall of thick syrup. It could escape no
further through the reflections.
                 Weinberger
swung round, tracking it. He grabbed in the air with both hands. The space
above the actual waterbed was empty; the thing — Death — was not there. But in
all of the mirror-cages all the reflections of his hands grabbed in unison.
Weinberger seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
                 Death
flapped frantically around the circuit, from one cage to the next, to escape
those grasping hands. But it was all one and the same cage to Nathan.
                 He
caught it.
                 In
a cage thrice removed from the original the hands of one of his reflections
closed on it and held it tight. His own real hands remained empty, as did those
of all the other reflections of himself. But not that one reflected pair. Not
those. They held the red thing high. The bat-moth. Death.
                 Death
slashed at his hands with its wing-hooks, and gouged with its beak. Blood ran
down the hands and wrists of that reflection. The real Nathan cried out in pain
— and yet his hands showed no trace
of wounds. Only the hands of that one mirror image which held
the creature were being flayed and stabbed — yet Weinberger still felt the
pain.
                 However
much it hurt him, he refused to let go of the creature and continued to wrestle
with it. It seemed quite uncrushable, if he was trying to crush it. With face
distorted, he held on. His own two empty hands were cupped in mid-air, the
sinews standing out. However much damage the creature did to his phantom hands,
he still held it fast out there in the reflection. His finger bones had become
a cage.
                 “He’s
over-reacting to the stimulant!” Sally called, seeing none of this. “What’s
happening?”
                 “He’s
fighting Death!” cried Jim. “He’s caught Death and he’s fighting it!”
                 “What?”
                At that moment Weinberger faced
towards where he knew Jim must be.
                 “Depolarise
the glass!” he bellowed through the wall. “Transluce it!”
                 Jim
tore himself away from the periscope hood, found the button and hit it.
                 Immediately
he and Sally could both see through the cage. And of course, all the reflection
worlds had disappeared. Weinberger was still wrestling — with thin air. His fingers
still clutched — nothing. Jim could see what the man was doing, because he
already knew what he was doing, but to Sally it must have seemed an insane
mime.
                 Now
Weinberger was tearing Death free so that he could hold it in one clenched hand
— to throw it far away from him? No, now that he had succeeded he would never
give up his hold on Death. He held that one imprisoning hand aloft in a salute.
Baring his teeth, he grinned through his agony.
                 “Cut
the current!” he ordered harshly.
                 Jim
squeezed the bulb. The crackling hiss, which might have been the sound of
Death’s wingbeat or its wordless voice, faded away.
                 “Unlock
the cage!”
                 Jim
pulled the glass wall open, as ordered, then