“But maybe,” I say, “maybe a Cloak in conjunction with a powerful nondetection. . .”
His eyes widen.
“Give me that scroll of yours.”
“But, but—”
Booted feet batter the floor of the hallway outside. That means Lamorak has already fallen. The realization stops my breath, and tears begin to well up in my eyes; the burning knife that this drives into my chest hurts so much that I can’t think.
I shake the tears violently off my face. I’ll have time to cry for him later, if I live long enough.
I reach out and tangle my hand in Konnos’tunic and jerk his face close to mine. “Give it.”
Without waiting for his answer, I yank the scroll case from his belt. I give him a shove, and he stumbles back while I unscrew the bone knob and shake the scroll out into my hand.
“But, I’m not sure this is—”
“You have a better idea?” I unroll the buttery lambskin of the scroll; the markings on it are painted in ink of gold, and they instantly burn their way into my brain. I barely have time to summon mindview and open my Shell before the eldritch chanting begins to spill automatically from my lips. The words ring in the air, and then there was no more light, no more sound, no more Pallas; there was only Hari Michaelson sitting in Chairman Kollberg’s simichair with sweat pouring from his hairline. The eye shield was blank before his staring, and all he could hear was the harsh rasp of his breathing and the trip-hammer slam of his heart against his ribs.
4
IT SEEMED LIKE minutes that he sat rigid and sweating, convulsively digging his fingers into the leather of the simichair’s arms. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t make himself move to shift the eye shield, he couldn’t swallow past the giant hand that squeezed the breath from his chest.
“That’s, mm, all we have.” Kollberg’s voice came from somewhere outside Hari’s universe.
This must be what panic feels like, Hari thought disconnectedly. Yeah, that’s it: this is panic.
The induction helmet lifted away, and Hari had nothing to look at in front of him except Kollberg’s moonface with its rubber-lipped smirk.
“It’s, um, pretty, pretty intense, isn’t it?”
Hari let his eyes drift closed. The longer he looked at that smug bastard’s face, the closer he came to felony forcible contact. Kollberg was an Administrator; while forcible contact with an upcaste man was no longer a capital crime, it still carried a mandatory downcaste to Labor and five years’ commitment to a public camp. When he was sure he had control of his voice, he said, “Is she alive?”
“No one knows. The end of that cube marks our last contact. We have no telemetry, nor do we detect her transponder signature. We, mm, we believe that this scroll, the spell on it, severed the thought-mitter link.”
Hari pressed his fingertips against his eyelids and watched the phosphenes explode showers of sparks across his vision. “How long does she have?”
“Assuming she’s still alive—”
“How long?”
Kollberg’s voice became chilly. “Don’t interrupt me, Michaelson. Mind your place.”
Hari opened his eyes and leaned forward in the chair. Kollberg stood before him and waited. The invisible hand that crushed Hari’s chest tightened its grip until it nearly strangled his voice. “I apologize, Administrator.”
Kollberg sniffed. “All right, then. So: this sequence, that you have just second-handed, this occurred near ten hundred Ankhanan time this morning. The energy cell in her thoughtmitter carries sufficient charge to maintain amplitude match for one hundred seventy hours, give or take ten. At the very least, she has one hundred fifty-seven hours remaining. If she presents herself at a fixed transfer point before then, well and good. Otherwise . . .” He let his voice trail away.
Hari sat motionless, his mind flooded by horrific visions. Amplitude decay is every Actor’s nightmare. Young Actors in training at the Studio Conservatory are shown a series of holos of what is left of Actors who slip out of phase with Overworld; usually all that returns is a bubbling mass of undifferentiated protoplasm, or a twisted array of half-crystalline splinters, or something entirely indescribable—and those are the good ones, the easy ones, the ones that don’t hurt you to remember.
Once in a while, you can recognize one as having once been human.
Hari asked quietly, “Does she even know she’s off-line?”
Kollberg’s rounded shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. “Frankly, Michaelson, she’s most likely dead.”
“Get me there. I know that city. I can find her.” Or her body. Hari forced the thought away by promising himself that if her body was what he found, he would also find Berne. Let’s see you channel, you fuck. Let’s see you channel with my fingers jammed through your eye sockets.
“I beg your pardon?” Kollberg’s eyebrows twitched upward, and his whiny schoolyard-hectoring tone brought Hari back from his bloody fantasy. “I, ah, don’t think I heard you correctly. And I think you should get up from my seat, now.”
Hari lowered his head and reminded himself that Kollberg held Shanna’s life in those soft corpse-pale hands. He slowly pushed himself up out of the Chairman’s simichair and stood, head still lowered with eyes downcast. He put as much sincerity into his voice as he could shove past the fire in his chest.
“Please, Administrator. Can we make some deal? Please send me to Ankhana.”
“That’s better. That’s, ah, that’s what I’ve been hoping you’d say. Come with me to the Contract Center.”
5
HARI AND KOLLBERG nearly filled the soundproof plexi cubicle in the middle of the Contract Center. Seated outside on tall stools were a pair of Studio Attorneys who were also registered witnesses. Kollberg fidgeted and played with his notepad while Hari slowly scrolled through the contract. In other cubicles scattered through the room, lesser Actors scanned standard contracts in the company of other lawyers.
The contract spelled out Caine’s obligations in the euphemistic terms of “colorfully and suspensefully attempt to remove the current Ankhanan Emperor from power.” Even in its most privileged and secret documents, the Studio never openly ordered an Actor to kill.
Hari looked up from the screen. “This doesn’t say anything about Shanna at all.”
“Of course not,” Kollberg said easily. “You want to go to Ankhana. We want Ma’elKoth eliminated; I’ve already explained why. It’s a very straightforward proposition.”
“If you’re so hot to have him killed, why don’t you just transfer six guys with assault rifles into the Colhari Palace?”
“We, er . . .” Kollberg coughed wetly into his fist. “We tried that; except it was eight, not six. We, ah, still don’t know precisely what happened.”
Hari looked at him, blinked, blinked again, then said, “Oh,” and turned back to the contract.
“Yes, well, after that incident, Ma’elKoth has, mm, done something to the palace. We don’t know what, exactly, but it seems to prevent our scans. Within the palace grounds, we’re completely blind and deaf. Any Actors who get past the gate are cut off until they leave.”
“I see.” Hari leaned his elbows on the desk and lowered his face into his hands. “Before I sign this, I want more information.”
“Certainly everything pertinent will be in your faxpack.”
“I mean, for example, what happened to Lamorak? Is Karl dead?”
Kollberg lifted his notepad and tapped a query onto its screen. He read its response with pursed lips and said, “We’re not sure. On the basis of Pallas’cube, we assume he was killed.”
“How can you not be sure? Did that fucking spell cut him off too? Can it do that?”
“As to the effects of this spell,” Kollberg said, “there’s no way to know. I’ve queried Archives, and they have no record of a spell with this effect. That, ah, Konnos fellow, his claim of having originated that spell must be accepted as genuine. We don’t know the operation of this spell; all we can really say is th
at it seems to be, ah, singularly powerful. But, mm, that’s nothing to do with Lamorak. He was never on-line.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a, ah, pilot program of my own devising. I call it the Long Form. Lamorak is on freemod.”
Kollberg rose and began to pace the two steps back and forth he could take within the cubicle. “Lamorak—Entertainer Shanks—his career hasn’t developed to the satisfaction of his Patron. He volunteered for this Long Form program. Instead of having first-handers coexperiencing his Adventures in real time, and thus restricting his Adventure to the usual ten-day average, he’s had a prototype thoughtmitter implanted that contains a microcube and a graver; it will record his experiences for up to two months, at which time he’ll transfer back to Earth. The cube will then be edited into a standard second-hander format. This will allow for a much more extended story-arc, and—”
“This is insane,” Hari said. “You’re telling me that nobody knows whether either one of them is even alive? Good Christ, Administrator!”
Kollberg nodded agreement. “Yes, I know, it’s terrible. The real pity is that Pallas’Adventures have been relatively dull lately—her Simon Jester operation, smuggling fugitives out of the Empire, has been entirely too easy. As soon as it starts to become interesting, this happens. Terrible.”
“Simon Jester,” Hari murmured. A pounding headache built between his temples. Simon Jester was an imaginary revolutionary in a banned twentieth-century novel. Hari had secret copies of a number of banned books, and he’d introduced Shanna to the guilty pleasures of reading the works of unpersons like Heinlein. Those books were banned for a damned good reason—shit, for all he knew, it might have been Heinlein’s libertarian propaganda that started Shanna on this antiauthority fling. If he’d never given her The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress, would she still have set herself against the Imperial Government?
Cut it out, he told himself. Things were bad enough already; he didn’t need to invent ways to make it all his fault.
He pressed his knuckles against his throbbing temples and said, “So, we know nothing. There’s nothing you can tell me.”
“I can tell you this,” Kollberg said, standing over him. “If you want to find out anything, if you want to help your wife, if you want to go to Ankhana at all, you’ll have to contract to eliminate Ma’elKoth.”
“What makes you think I even can? Administrator, a special ops team with assault rifles couldn’t handle him; what am I supposed to do?” Hari said desperately.
“I have infinite faith in your, ah, resourcefulness.”
“This isn’t like going after Toa-Phelathon—have you seen the cube you just showed me? The kind of power Ma’elKoth must have . . . I mean, all I can really do is hit people. How am I supposed to counter that kind of magick?”
“But you do have power,” Kollberg replied smugly. “Star power.”
He sounded like he actually believed Caine could do anything, as long as he stayed in the Top Ten.
“Administrator—” Hari fought for words that wouldn’t come out hot, for a tone that wouldn’t trigger Kollberg’s petty casteism. “Why? Why can’t I contract to find Pallas and Lamorak and bring them out? Why can’t I go for Ma’elKoth after she’s safe?” The plaintive weakness in his voice nauseated him, but there was no help for it.
“For one,” Kollberg said mildly, “I don’t think you would go after him, once they are safe. But more than that, don’t you see the kind of story this makes? Do you have any idea of the kind of audience you’ll command, going to Ankhana without knowing if your beloved is alive or dead, but sworn to slay her enemies or die trying? Do you have enough romance in your soul to understand how this will play?”
“My beloved?” Hari shook his head. “You haven’t been keeping up with the netleads on my personal life.”
“None of that matters, don’t you see?” Tiny white flecks of foam showed at the corners of the Chairman’s lips, and his hands clutched words from the air; there was a vibrancy in his voice that Hari had never heard before.
“You don’t understand what your life looks like from the outside. Street-raised Labor boy from the Frisco slums, rising to the pinnacle of the Studio . . . you’re a vicious and hardened killer whose heart is finally softened by a refined Tradesfolk debutante with a spine of steel. It’s perfection; I couldn’t pray for a better story. Whatever problems you two have are only obstacles, from the public’s view. Everyone knows you’ll live happily ever after.”
“If she’s not already dead,” Hari muttered. The words came out effortlessly; it was remarkably easy to twist the knife in his own belly.
“That would be, mm—” Kollberg pursed his lips and chose the word with precision “—tragedy. But it wouldn’t hurt the story. My god, Hari, this could be bigger than Retreat from the Boedecken—love, murder, politics . . . and Berne.”
Kollberg leaned close and lowered his voice to a reverential hush. “Hari, this may be bigger than Last Stand at Ceraeno. . .”
Hari looked into Kollberg’s moist, bulging eyes and knew that there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, no leverage he could use except to appeal to whatever stunted sense of decency the Chairman had left.
“If I do this,” he said slowly, “if I commit to taking Ma’elKoth, I want a commitment from the Studio, from you personally, that the Studio will flood Ankhana with Actors. That you’ll use every resource to find her and bring her out. Please, Administrator?”
Kollberg appeared to think it over. He stretched his mouth downward and mopped sweat from his upper lip with two fingers, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t like it. It’s a better story if everything depends on you.”
“Administrator—”
“No. It’s final. Sign the contract or go home. Your choice.”
Blood hammered at Hari’s headache. His vision misted red, and his hand trembled as he brought the pen to the screen. What choice is there? Even if he’d wanted to refuse, he couldn’t; Pallas’ voice kept repeating in his head:
“He doesn’t care what happens to me.”
Did she believe that? Could she? He kept thinking of Lamorak holding the gap in the wall with steel and guts. He wanted to believe that he would have done the same, or better—that he would have gotten her to safety without sacrificing himself. But it wouldn’t have been the same: put his life, and Shanna’s, at risk for some native family he didn’t even know? Not fucking likely.
Caine would have thrown the Konnosi to the Cats without one second’s thought.
But when I thumbprint this contract, I’ll be stepping into that doorway right beside Lamorak.
Kill Ma’elKoth or die trying; the third outcome—to fail and live, or not really to try—would be a contract violation that could have consequences Hari couldn’t even bear to think about.
I knew what kind of ride this was before I sat down, he thought, and: Will she hurt as much for me as she did for him?
He signed his name on the winking line and held his thumb against the DNA scanner.
“Ah, good,” Kollberg said with deep satisfaction. “The net releases are already prepared, and you’ll be the lead story on Adventure Update tonight. Visit Media on your way out and pick up your interview kit; we’ll put you on DragonTales with LeShaun Kinnison, and you’d best be prepared. Plan on transfer at oh eight hundred tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But—” But that’s eighteen hours, he thought. Eighteen out of Shanna’s precious reserve. Almost a whole day lost.
“Of course tomorrow,” Kollberg said briskly. “Even with the worldwide publicity blitz we’re preparing, it’ll take at least that long to pull enough audience to cover expenses. And you are expected to attend the reception for the subscribers. No need to be on time; let some anticipation build. Shall we say twenty-one thirty tonight? In the Diamond Ballroom, of course.”
Hari held himself motionless. If I lose her . . . If I lose her because of this, because of you, you will be entered on a short list.
A very short list. Right under Berne.
He said quietly, “Yes, Administrator. I’ll be there.”
6
THE SOBBING MOANS from beyond the double door slanted up into shrieks of agony with the relentless regularity of the waves of an incoming tide.
His Grace the Honorable Toa-Sytell, Imperial Duke of Public Order, sat forward on the edge of a comfortable chair across the anteroom, elbows on knees and fingers laced together, and looked at the newly created Count Berne with bland contempt. He tried to ignore the screams that came from the room beyond; had he not found a scapegoat, those screams could well have been his own.
Toa-Sytell examined Berne, from his thick brush of platinum hair to the bloodstained leather of his soft calf-high boots, and tried to imagine what he must be thinking now, as the pair of them waited outside the Iron Room for the judgment of Ma’elKoth. Count Berne stood at the beautifully glazed window that filled the wall of the anteroom and chewed at his thumbnail as he stared out over Ankhana.
The Duke had an intensely detailed and vivid imagination, but of a very literal sort; he had trained himself not to indulge in fantasy. He could imagine very clearly what Berne saw out that window.
From this vantage point high in the Dusk Tower of the Colhari Palace, the financial district on the western tip of the island of Old Town would lie spread below like one of Ma’elKoth’s models—baroque and decorative, backlit blazing red by the setting sun. Nearing twilight, the sun would now strike fire from the slow boil of the Great Chambaygen, hiding the garbage and filth of human waste that Ankhana poured into it, and would gild the immense antiship nets of heavy chain that stretched from the northwest and southwest garrisons across the channels of the river to Onetower at the westernmost tip of the island. Bonfires on the Commons’Beach south of Alientown would be flickering like stars on a clear night, welcoming the throngs of subhuman and semihuman workmen and beggars and street vendors that would be crowding across Knights’ Bridge to beat the curfew. Only purebloods were allowed on the central island after sundown.
Toa-Sytell suspected that Berne’s thoughts tended toward the east, where a similar flood crossed Fools’ Bridge onto Rogues’ Way between the Warrens and the Industrial Park. Those with money would be turning left to their grimy tenements nestled between the manufactories; those without would be turning right to take their chances on the streets of the Warrens.
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