Heroes Die

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  “What’d you do, lay in a Charm?” I ask disbelievingly.

  Her voice is very, very small. “I had no choice.”

  “Sure you did,” I tell her. “It’s Majesty who doesn’t have a choice.” The small spark of anger in my chest is suddenly fanned by memories of countless self-righteous lectures from her. “Shit, you used to tell me I was the one with no principles.”

  “You know, you’re right, Caine,” she says, heat banishing the shame from her voice. “I should have done it your way, and killed him.”

  “Pallas—”

  “You know the difference? You want to know the difference?” She gets right in my face, snapping. “A Charm wears off—in a couple of days, he’ll get over it. How long does it take to get over being dead? I found out he’s hooked up with Toa-Sytell himself. What would you have done?”

  Majesty, in bed with the Eyes? So Kierendal was right . . . My voice is quiet and calm, and all I say is, “Oh?”

  But she knows me too well; her quick anger flees, and she sags tiredly. “Don’t do it, Caine. I need him, you understand?”

  From this range, I can see the red twist of arteries in her eyes, the purple swipes of fatigue beneath them. Her cheeks are sinking into her face, making her eyes larger and more luminous. She’s so exhausted she can barely see, and I don’t want to fight anymore.

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  She shakes her head irritably. “I get an hour or two here and there. I’ll be ready to move the tokali tomorrow morning; I’ll have plenty of time to rest after that.” She settles back a little; we’re so used to shouting at each other that the anger fades as quickly as it grows. “You look like you could use a nap yourself.”

  I look at Lamorak and find on his face a frown of disbelief that mirrors my own. We both start to talk at once, because neither of us can believe that she meant what we just heard her say: tomorrow? Move the tokali? What is she, nuts?

  “Stop it.” She takes off her cloak, folds it into a cushion, and seats herself on it on the floor. “I’ve been off four days, that’s what you said, right?”

  “Yeah . . .” I say reluctantly. I don’t want to give her any rope, here.

  “So, even allowing for uncertainty and a pretty big margin of error, I have at least twenty-four hours left. That’ll be enough to get them out of the city, and well on their way down to the coast.”

  “That’s cutting it awfully close,” Lamorak says doubtfully.

  “Too damn close,” I say. “You’ve cut it too damn close already. What if something goes wrong? What if you’re caught, this time? What if you’re the one-in-a-million statistic that breaks the lower edge of the boundary? Don’t you remember what—” My conditioning locks the words in my throat. “—what . . . it . . . will do to you? How are you gonna feel when everything starts to halo out? How long do you think you’ll stay conscious?”

  I spread my hands, wishing I could find a way to express the throttling horror I feel. “How much time will you have to scream?”

  “There are thirty-six people in there,” she says patiently, but with the calm finality she’s always used to settle arguments. It’s her My mind is made up, don’t waste your time voice. “Innocent people, who will be put to death if I don’t save them.”

  “Fine. Save them. But save them on-line. Shit, that’s what you get paid for, isn’t it?”

  “You think I do this for money?”

  For an instant there’s a fresh spark of anger in her eyes—like she’s about to step up and start swinging—but then she lets it go. “Caine, you know me better than that.” She opens her hands wearily. “I don’t even know if I can do it—get back on-line. It’s the spell, isn’t it? The Eternal Forgetting?”

  I nod. “They think so.”

  “I can cancel it one person at a time. I touch them and tell them they know me, like I did just now with Talann. But who do I touch to get back on-line?”

  Me! shouts a primitive part of my brain. Touch me! But that’s just wishful thinking.

  “Break the spell,” I tell her. “Cancel the whole fucking thing, and the sooner the better. Nobody knows how much time you have left.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t do that. The Eternal Forgetting is the only thing that’s keeping me effective. It conceals the pull of my magick, lets me walk Cloaked past the best adepts on the planet. And Berne knows me, and he knows I’m Simon Jester. I drop the spell, and he and Ma’elKoth suddenly know exactly whom they’re looking for. How long do you think I could hide from Ma’elKoth once he knows who I am?”

  “Longer than you’re going to live if you don’t drop the spell!”

  “But more than my life is at stake, here,” she says calmly.

  “What if they figure a way to counter it? Ma’elKoth’s so far beyond brilliant, he’s terrifying. You think he’ll never find a spell defense that works? Then while you’re still expecting this Eternal Forgetting to protect you—”

  “I’m not worried about that,” she says with a quick shake of her head. “The man who wrote this spell also invented what’s probably the only real defense against it—he’s down in that basement right now, Caine. I don’t think he’s planning to sell his new invention to Ma’elKoth.”

  “A defense?” Lamorak says. He’s got a funny look on his face, like he’s suddenly really interested but for some reason is pretending this is just idle curiosity. “What kind of defense?”

  “Those silver nets Konnos was using to conceal his family from seeking items,” Pallas tells him. “You remember, just before—”

  “I remember,” I cut in forcefully. “And you know what? It’s not a new invention. Ma’elKoth already has that technology. Fucking Arkadeil was wearing a whole suit of that silver mesh while he tortured Lamorak. Tell her.”

  He gives her a pale, shamefaced look; I guess he doesn’t really like thinking about the Theater of Truth. “It’s true,” he says. “Nothing I could do got through it.”

  She nods grimly, her eyes fixed on some internal truth. “Not surprising. Konnos freelanced for the government from time to time.”

  The bottom of my throat burns like I’ve swallowed acid. “You’re going through with it anyway.”

  “They still haven’t made the connection,” Pallas says. “They don’t realize that it might be a defense; maybe it’ll take them another day to work it out. I only need twenty-four hours. It’s worth the risk.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “The tokali—” she begins.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the tokali—”

  “You never did. I would never expect you to. That’s part of the problem.”

  The burning in my throat forces its way up into inarticulate snarls. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!”

  I stomp around a little bit and bite down hard on my temper. Finally I feel like I can speak again. “Lamorak, you talk to her. Anything I tell her, she wants the opposite, no matter what.”

  “Caine, you know that’s not true. That’s just childish,” she says, and Lamorak frowns like he’s been thinking hard enough to hurt his pretty head.

  “Caine, I, ah . . .” he says, his voice low and slow. “I’m sorry. I agree with Pallas.”

  “What?”

  “She has to follow her heart, don’t you see?” he says virtuously. They exchange a puppy-dog look that makes me want to slap them both. “I support her. I’ll help. No matter what.”

  I lower myself onto the floor, slowly; I’m afraid my head will explode if I move too fast. The stabbing bitterness churns in my stomach. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that after all I’ve gone through, I’m still going to lose her.

  Because I know, y’see, I can feel it—this is her last chance.

  The affair, her thing with Lamorak, that I can handle. As long as she’s alive and happy, I can handle it. What I can’t face is the thought that she will be gone, snuffed out of the world, that I’ll never see her, hold her, stroke her hair, smell the delicate scent
of her skin, ever again.

  Pallas says, “This is screwing up your Adventure, isn’t it?” That suspicious tone is back in her voice.

  I lift my head to meet her eyes. “I don’t follow.”

  “Bullshit you don’t. That’s why you’re upset,” she says, jabbing an accusing finger at my face. “They sent you here to rescue me, and I don’t want to be rescued, and it’s going to screw with your profit margin.”

  I sit still for a moment, searching for the flame of anger her tone should have kindled inside my chest, but it’s not there.

  Ashes, only ashes and bitter defeat.

  “Pallas, you can believe me or not, it’s up to you,” I say heavily. “They didn’t send me here to rescue you. They’re allowing me to rescue you, like in my spare time. If anything, they’d prefer that you die—it’ll make the story a hell of a lot more dramatic.”

  She leaves Lamorak’s side for a moment. Something in my tone has caught her, and she knows, whatever my many faults may be, I’m not a liar. She crouches just out of arm’s reach, and her brows draw together.

  “You should explain that,” she murmurs.

  I shrug and shake my head dismissively. “You ever wonder . . . Do you ever wonder why it is you’re fighting so hard to bring down a government that—in broad outline—is kind of like our own?”

  She looks puzzled. “I’m not bringing anybody down. I’m just trying to save some lives.”

  “You’re embarrassing Ma’elKoth: making him look like a fool. His hold on the nobility is based almost entirely on fear of his near omnipotence. But everyone can see that he can’t catch you.”

  Now she frowns, disturbed. “I don’t want to topple Ma’elKoth. If anything, he’s right”—a twist to her mouth, parody of a smile—“the Aktiri are the greatest threat the Empire faces. He’s got the wrong Aktiri, that’s all.”

  I shake my head minutely, slowly, and I can’t hold in the bitter laugh. “If only I could tell you how right you are.”

  “I don’t get you,” she says, frowning, puzzled. Then her face clears to understanding, then to wonder, and passes through to wide-eyed horror.

  She whispers, “You?”

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’m a fucking idiot—I can never seem to remember how smart she is. A cascade of denials tumbles through my brain, but none of them can make it to my lips before she reaches out with a tentative hand that holds warm and dry on my wrist, a touch that goes through me like a lightning stroke and stops my mouth, stops my breath, my heart.

  “Caine . . .” she whispers. “My god, Caine—tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that’s not what’s happening.”

  “That’s the deal,” I say miserably. “That’s what I owe them, for the chance to come here. For the chance to save you.”

  She looks stunned, sickened, horrified beyond words. “Another Succession War . . . and that’s the best you can hope for; that’s what happens if by some vanishingly small chance you don’t die a hideous death . . . Caine, I’m not worth that—”

  I summon the courage to lay my hand over hers and squeeze. “Yes, you are. You’re worth anything.”

  And there are tears in her eyes, and I wish I had the words to tell her how precious she is to me; she shakes her head, denying it, denying me, denying the infinite value of her life.

  “But this is the last one, win or lose, live or die,” I tell her. “I fought it—I’m trying to leave that whole part of my life behind, but they won’t let me . . .”

  “You waited too long,” she murmurs. “They’ll never let you.”

  Lamorak has been looking from her face to mine and back again, and finally the truth has percolated through the pudding he uses for a brain.

  “You’ve contracted on Ma’elKoth?” he breathes. “Fuck me like a goat. . . You don’t have a chance!”

  And he’s right, of course. I agree with him completely, but I can’t tell him so, because right now, looking at his bruised and battered face, something has shattered an ice mirror inside my head. Its pieces rain tinkling around me, glittering and shining and chilling my back and making the hairs stand up on my arms. The pieces are falling into a new picture, a new mirror that shows a truth I hadn’t seen before, and each piece falls into place with a click like the tumblers turning inside a lock.

  Fuck me like a goat—it’s a common enough exclamation of dismay, or incredulity, I suppose, but I’ve heard it recently.

  From Berne.

  Click.

  Majesty’s voice is inside my head now, repeating, “Somebody gave her up . . .”

  Louder, more resonant: click.

  Another click, from Pallas’ memory that I share: Lamorak at the window, sun glow backlighting his perfect profile as he lights a smoke with just enough pull to be felt outside—a signal. And then his own words: Please believe I never wanted it to turn out this way. I’m sorry, Pallas. And this is where I pay for it.

  And then one more, one that echoes like a boulder down a well, like the final steel-into-wood chock of a guillotine’s drop.

  Ma’elKoth himself rumbles up from the deepest depths of my chest: I have found that two agents, working separately—even in competition—toward the same end, achieve that end much faster and more reliably.

  Click.

  I look into the eyes of this dead man, and say, “You. It’s you.”

  He stiffens; he can see his death on my face, and he doesn’t even know why.

  “Caine, uh . . . Caine?” he says. “Mm, Pallas, what’s—?”

  She tries to hold on to my hands as I pull them free and stand. Her words come from impossibly far away. “Caine? What’s wrong?”

  Her voice is buried by the winds that howl from the abyss in the center of my spirit; their roaring fills my head, presses outward until the entire universe breathes hatred.

  I take a step toward him, and I try to bring my voice back from beyond the edge of the world to tell Pallas. I have to tell Pallas—

  “It’s Lamorak.”

  My voice is a passionless, mechanical rasp of cinder blocks; no shout, no scream, no howl of rage could ever approach what I feel. Any chance of expression is snuffed like a candle’s flame by the hurricane in my head.

  “He’s the one. He’s the one that—”

  But now chromatic, crystalline halos limn Lamorak’s face, and the timber on which he sits, and the lamp, and the walls, and Pallas’ panicked reach as she extends her hands to me. I turn and I leap for her, to touch her, to complete the circuit, a last desperate attempt to bring her with me, and my outstretched hands pass through her translucent, insubstantial chest, and I fall, gasping and retching out my anger, alone on the transfer platform of the Cavea, in the Studio, in San Francisco.

  23

  I CROUCH THERE on my knees, fingernails clawing at the seamless flat black plastic, smooth and cool. I’m shaking too hard to try to stand, but I can lift my head, lift my eyes past the row upon row of first-handers, faceless behind the blank plastic masks of their induction helmets, up to the mirrored shimmer of the techbooth panels.

  I am in agony, and now, at last, here on Earth, where my conditioning does not block my tongue, I can give a name to my pain. It is the only word that can pass my lips:

  “Koll—”

  24

  “—BERG,” HARI FINISHED, full of that indefinable sense of loss that comes from ending an Adventure on the transfer platform, as the senselink was cut off, as he once again became alone, no longer the source of experience for millions. But the loss was a familiar one, and it sank almost without a trace into the ocean of his impotent fury, as all his raging hatred turned and coiled and stabbed him through the heart.

  So close—he’d been so close. If he hadn’t pulled away from her, if he hadn’t started toward Lamorak, if he’d been half a second faster in his reaction, if his stiffened knee hadn’t slowed him—

  She’d be here, beside him, now.

  She’d be safe.

  The bitter wound of this knowledge consumed him: he
’d held her life in his hands, and he’d dropped it. For long seconds he couldn’t think, could hardly see, could only experience the taste of ashes, the astonishing pain of failure.

  All his wounds dragged at him as he struggled to stand: the deeply bruised shoulder joint from Berne’s crushing grip; his swollen, fiery knee; the ragged hole in his trapezius that sent fingers of fever toward his neck; the stretched-tight new scar of the healed rip on his inner thigh; the innumerable aches and pains and bruises from being tossed through the air and beaten with iron-bound clubs. Of them all, the one that stripped the most strength from his knees and pressed the breath from his lungs was the knife of regret that lodged in his heart and pounded in time with his pulse.

  Only later, slowly, gradually, did the questions start to come muttering through the haze of pain: How did he get here? Why in God’s name did they recall him?

  What the fuck is going on?

  Actors are never recalled in the middle of Adventures; it just isn’t done. Shit, Kollberg had needed special authority from the Board of motherfucking Governors to recall him at the end of Servant of the Empire—what could possibly justify this?

  Why let him try in the first place, if they weren’t going to let him win?

  He looked up at the blank spreading looking glass of the tech-booth wall high above, and opened his hands. He wanted to shout, to rage, to roar defiance, but all that could come from his chest was a ragged whisper.

  “Why did you do this to me?”

  25

  THE TECHS IN the booth sat at their stations but only stared, silently wide-eyed. Not one was brave enough to say a word, to ask any of the questions or make any of the remarks that were in all their minds.

  “That,” Kollberg said distinctly, “was a malfunction. Am I understood? A malfunction. You know your jobs. Do them.”

  Slowly the techbooth came back to life as one tech, then another, then all of them turned to the tasks of closing down the transfer mechanisms and bringing the first-handers up out of senselink.

  Arturo Kollberg cradled his fist to his soft and rounded chest, the fist that he had bruised on the emergency recall switch. He was painfully aware of how little sleep he’d gotten, the amphetamine-masked exhaustion that was the result of the state of continuous nervous excitement of the past three days, especially this last twenty-odd hours since Caine came back on-line.