Garth clenched his teeth, tasting sour orange from the fizzy drink he had finished while waiting. “So you just put my career on a shelf while you chase after another star.”
Stradley shook his head, and for the first time Garth saw real emotion behind the publicist’s eyes. “Why do you think you need my services at all anymore, Garth? I’m helping someone else get to the level you’re already at. I was there for you when you needed it, and now Juanita needs it a lot more than you do. She’s my challenge and my passion—and in a few years, no doubt, I’ll be having this same discussion with her, too.” He sighed and mumbled to himself, “Artists! They never learn.”
Feeling lost and disappointed, Garth stood, ready to leave. Stradley pawed through his gathered messages. “Look, Garth—Juanita’s coming for a meeting in just a few minutes. I’d like you to meet her. You’ve seen her show, right? It would be a good idea for you two to talk. She’s experienced your work, too, and was very impressed by it.”
Confusion buzzed around Garth. He backed toward the door. “No . . . no, sorry. Not interested.”
Stradley crossed his arms. “What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid? No, that’s not it. I’ve got to get back to work.”
Stradley flicked his head back and forth as he scanned all three of his COM screens. “We’re pushing the deadline on your new show, and it’s got to be finished on time. Even if it is APATHY. Don’t lose the brownie points you’ve earned from the past exhibitions.”
Garth departed from the hype-meister’s offices. Juanita Cole was due to arrive at any moment, and he left in a hurry so he wouldn’t risk meeting her.
51
Being so close to capture, for so long, made Eduard feel even more alive. Every moment passed with heightened awareness, deeper suspicion, faster reflexes . . . and frazzled nerves. He had to pay attention to everything.
But the stranger who reached out for him from the dim alley was a real master at stealth. The man touched his arm, and Eduard leaped aside, ready to whirl and fight, if necessary.
“Whoa, I’m not one of them!” the man snapped in a whisper. “Don’t make a scene. Someone will notice.”
Eduard had learned the danger of drawing attention to himself. He froze. “What do you want?”
“Been watching you, rabbit. Come on, I want to save you—and protect myself.” The man had an average body, plain clothes, unremarkable features, and very, very bright eyes. “You’re good, but not good enough.”
Grasping Eduard’s elbow, the stranger led him toward the alley’s private dimness. “You’ve got the potential to be one of us. Potential. But they’re huntin’ hard, and you could make it come crashing down. Can’t let that happen. Gotta teach you what you’ve gotten yourself into, otherwise you muck it up.”
Eduard had acquired the narrow-eyed, skeptical gaze of a combat-weary jungle soldier, attuned to peripheral vision, senses heightened for anything out of the ordinary. He followed, but kept his distance. “You have no idea who I am. If you knew, you’d call the Beetles without a second thought.”
“Well, that’s my other option, if you prove to be too dumb to be trained.” The stranger waited as a cluster of laughing athletes walked past on the nearby street, jostling each other. “You’re Eduard, right? One of them Swans from the Splinter monastery?” He flashed his bright, bright eyes. “Must be crazy even to talk to a rabbit as hot as you. This manhunt has made my life a living hell, but I may as well show you what you’re doing wrong. Live longer, both of us.”
Eduard found it hard to restrain himself. “I haven’t done too badly alone.”
“One mistake can screw up everything. Just like your little mistake with Chief Ob. Or was that something you did on purpose?”
Eduard stared at him in disbelief. The man found this greatly amusing, and he laughed without making a sound. “I don’t have any particular love for the BTL—especially not Mordecai Ob, so in a way you’ve done me quite a favor.” He glanced around, found a relatively clean spot in a recessed doorway, and squatted against the wall. “Do you know what I am?”
Eduard refused to lower his guard. “A crazy old man?”
Angry, the stranger jabbed a finger at Eduard. “I’m a Phantom. The only one you’re ever likely to see.”
Eduard caught his breath. “A real Phantom? How old are you?”
“Spent the last two centuries outrunnin’ death. By my reckoning, I’m two hundred and thirty-seven years old. Does that count as a real Phantom?” The man spread his hands wide. “I call myself Artemis, though it’s probably high time to change that name again. Guess it’ll do for the moment.”
“And what do you know of Bureau Chief Ob?”
“I know that Inspector Ob almost caught me twenty years back. Closest I’ve ever come to having my balls clipped. I stole the body of some starving young artist, didn’t know who she was, but Ob took it as a personal insult, came after me like an express train. Took me months to muddy the trail enough to shake him. For decades I’ve been hiding while Ob climbed the Bureau ladder.” He grinned. “But which one of us is still standing, eh?”
“Twenty years ago? And you think the Beetles are still after you?” Eduard couldn’t believe it. “Does the word paranoia mean anything to you?”
Artemis glowered at him. “I know how to spot ’em, even with all their tricks. Here, let me show you one little thing that’ll make you a believer. A true believer.” He scuttled off down the alley without looking over his shoulder, confident that Eduard would follow. He did.
Artemis ducked into a small street, where they went through the side entrance of a clothing shop. From there, the man took a lifter to the third level and across to an open food court.
“Go to those benches near the window and look outside onto the streets. Don’t worry—the glass is mirrorized. I already checked. The only thing they can see is a reflection.”
“Who? Who can see?”
“Just look, rabbit!”
Feeling a sudden chill, Eduard peered through the broad window. Hovercars passed in interleaved lanes, people walked below, businesses went about their daily activities. Cloud shadows dappled the buildings. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Pretty good, isn’t it?” Artemis leaned close to his ear. His breath smelled of onions. “Look at that man on the corner, handin’ out sandwich tokens.” He tapped the glass. “Does he really fit? And that woman holdin’ blue balloons? Gotta know the crowd, see the patterns, understand how it all works, so you can pick out sharks ripplin’ through the currents.”
Artemis continued to point out unsettling details—a furtive man here, a too-casual person there. Eduard saw nothing compelling about any individual example, and he began to suspect the Phantom’s overactive imagination.
Until he spotted Daragon.
He was wearing a sport jacket, muted plaid shirt, casual pants—but his facial features, his dark hair and almond eyes, remained the same. Daragon had disguised himself as a solitary businessman on lunch break, trying to be unobtrusive. Eduard gasped and drew back from the window.
Artemis patted his shoulder paternally. “Now do you see it? I saved you from a setup, a stakeout. You owe me, rabbit.”
Eduard walked unsteadily back into the food court. He wanted to get away, but he didn’t dare go out into the streets. He had swapped bodies since the last time the Beetles had almost caught him, and he had lost his own identity on his ID patch—but Daragon had his uncanny ability to see someone’s real persona. The Inspector needed only to get a glimpse of him. . . .
“Whoa, careful, careful,” the Phantom whispered, catching up to him in the food court. The smells of hot oil and condiments cluttered the air. “Don’t call attention to yourself.”
Eduard skewered him with a stare. “How did you know?”
“Survival.” Artemis laughed. “You don’t stay on the run for so many decades without being able to spot somethin’ like that.”
They glided through the ever-shifting c
rowd, making no waves. A woman in a gray suit set down two wrapped sandwiches on an empty table, then headed toward a napkin dispenser. Without hesitation, Artemis casually snatched the sandwiches and walked with Eduard toward the lift tube.
“Come on, I know a safe place.” He held up the sandwiches. “Let’s have lunch, and we can talk some more.”
One of the places where Artemis liked to stay was a forgotten back room in a former hotel. During the chaos of remodeling operations years ago (which Artemis claimed to remember), he had slipped in at night to wallseal a door here, disguise an opening there, and create a private chamber for himself.
The room was dim and stuffy with an unpleasant chemical odor, but Artemis assured him it was safe. A tiny, low-energy glowplate burned in the corner, not enough to make the room bright. The scattered darkness made the place seem hushed and secretive.
The Phantom flopped down on a narrow cot with well-worn fabric and a frayed blanket. He unwrapped the two sandwiches, peered under the bread, and chose the one he liked best. He handed the other to Eduard.
Eduard gobbled the food. He found it difficult to let down his guard, but he enjoyed the stolen lunch more than any food in recent memory. While he ate, he studied the other man huddled over his sandwich. Even here, Artemis still flicked his eyes from side to side.
“I used to idolize immortals like you,” Eduard said around a mouthful of mortadella and provolone sandwich. He picked out a pepperoncini. “I’d study the crowds, always wondering if I’d ever see a real Phantom.”
“You’d never know it, even if you did.” Artemis brushed a hand across his lips. “There’s no way to tell.”
“I fantasized about what it would be like to outrun death.”
Artemis grinned, his mouth full of food. “It’s exciting.”
Eduard glanced around the dim room, recalling how the Phantom had sneaked to this claustrophobic hiding place, how he had stolen an inexpensive sandwich. “I always thought a Phantom would accumulate a lot of wealth over so much time. I expected you to be living with a bit more . . . extravagance.”
Artemis finished his lunch and wadded the paper, tossing it into the corner where other old wrappers made a disarrayed pile. “Wealth means too much attention. To be a Phantom, you gotta learn to be invisible and to value other things—such as personal safety and anonymity.” He stretched out on the cot with an exaggerated yawn. “Sorry I don’t have another cot, but you can curl up there on the floor. Get yourself a good night’s sleep, a safe one. No worries.”
Eduard found a clean spot against the wall. He had slept in worse places. On the run, he’d grown accustomed to napping anywhere he could hide for a few hours. Artemis hit a switch, and the glowplate’s weak illumination faded.
“Stick with me, rabbit, and you’ll learn everythin’ you need to know.”
Eduard settled back to sleep, but for a long time he was unable to feel safe, despite the other man’s reassurances. Artemis snored, content with his place, but Eduard’s disappointment deepened.
The Phantom might know how to survive, but he had forgotten how to live.
52
In the ranks of the Bureau, political scramblers fought to divide the pieces of Mordecai Ob’s empire. In the past several years, after his meteoric rise up the chain of command, Daragon could have been one of the contenders himself, the Chief’s heir apparent, his golden boy. But he would not give up the search for Eduard or delegate it to anyone else.
Back inside Headquarters, he sat in the Chief’s office, which had remained unclaimed in the turmoil surrounding Ob’s death. The newly appointed Acting Bureau Chief preferred his own offices on the mainland, and no one contested Daragon’s right to be there. As he worked at the expansive desk in silence, looking at the cold fireplace, the place struck him as very uncomfortable. Too quiet, too empty . . . too haunted. It was difficult to concentrate.
But this workspace was just a spot for him to pile papers and collate the hints and threads that might eventually lead him to Eduard.
Daragon spent his days pounding the streets, continuing the relentless search. He joined tracking teams at random, then he went out for hours alone, walking the nights, studying the ocean of people and looking inside for one familiar identity, one recognizable persona. . . .
Daragon ran his hands through his dark hair, staring at the discolored fiberceramic logs in the fireplace. Weariness descended upon him like a lead blanket. This manhunt had gone on for so long already.
Against his better judgment, he had poked into the wild stories Garth and Teresa had told about Ob’s alleged addiction to Rush-X. True, the Bureau Chief’s previous trainers had been dismissed under curious circumstances, and through some sort of COM glitch could no longer be found. True, Ob could have used his authority to divert confiscated shipments of the illegal drug for his own use.
If Daragon hadn’t known his mentor so well, he might have considered these possibilities, but he had no intention of tarnishing the memory of his martyred Chief. No one else in the Bureau was interested, either. It was an open-and-shut case, and Eduard had already been convicted in absentia. The sentence was set. If they ever caught him, the Bureau of Incarceration and Executions would terminate him.
Daragon brooded in front of the artificial fireplace, oblivious to the flickering shadows of fish overhead. He had once loved Eduard and now felt betrayed, more disappointed than he’d ever been. His friend had ruined everything, had even turned Garth and Teresa against him. Daragon was trapped, and only the Bureau could give him the strength and support he needed.
The private message signal on his COM screen startled him, and Daragon turned back toward Ob’s desk, feeling a sudden wariness and perplexity. Very few people knew his direct code here.
He was utterly shocked to watch Eduard’s familiar face appear in front of him. He grasped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.
“Oh, Daragon, I need to see you,” Teresa said. “It’s very important.”
With no place else to turn, all of her other search options careening to dead ends, Teresa had finally decided to contact the Bureau of Tracing and Locations. With his much-vaunted BTL resources, Daragon could help her in a way no one else could.
“Teresa . . . I didn’t think you would ever speak to me again.” His formal composure seemed ready to crack.
“Can I meet with you in person, and in private?” She swallowed hard, trying to remain businesslike, but she found it difficult not to let her emotions seep through.
His face filled with boyish delight, and he jumped at the chance. “Stay right where you are—I’ll have escorts there in a few minutes.” He reached forward to terminate the transmission, then paused. “It’ll be good to see you, Teresa. You look . . . a lot better.”
After months, her body had grown gradually stronger. The awful Rush-X taste in her mouth had begun to fade . . . or maybe she’d just gotten used to it. During the first weeks, she had wondered if she would die from withdrawal. She woke up shivering, nauseated, dizzy. The body knew what it needed, but Teresa could not, would not get it. Each second stretched out, taut as a piano wire.
With surprising speed an official BTL hovercar dropped from the skylanes to land on the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered out of the way as the door hissed open on pneumatic lifts, and a dark-clad officer gestured her inside. Shoppers and businessmen stared as she ducked her head and climbed into the back of the vehicle. From the pilot’s compartment, the BTL officer looked back at her with suspicion, remembering Eduard’s face from scores of emergency bulletins.
The dark vehicle shot through commuter traffic patterns in an override lane. She should have been nervous, should have been terrified, but she had already reached the point of desperation. She had to trust Daragon now.
COM authorized a crow’s-flight path out of the city and low across the green-blue waves to the superstructure of Bureau Headquarters. The hovercar dropped precisely onto a painted target circle, and Daragon strode forward to
meet her as she climbed out. Rigid and waiting, he remained silent for a long moment, as if the breezes had snatched his words away, then his lips formed a sad smile. He took her in a stiff embrace, which she returned. “Come on, we’ll talk inside. I’ve got an office, of sorts.”
Daragon led her down yellow-lit halls and past aquarium windows. Bureau workers marched through database rooms while evidence technicians hunched over lab analysis equipment. Two junior Inspectors sat at a bare table in an empty room, comparing notes.
Inside Ob’s plush office, Teresa primly took one of the fine leather chairs, across from the broad desk where Daragon stationed himself. Looking at her, he shuddered with déjà vu, recalling when he’d first brought Eduard here to audition as the Bureau Chief’s personal caretaker. That had been the biggest mistake of his life. Daragon wished he had just let Eduard scrape by with his miserable body-selling practice. But he’d tried to do Eduard a favor, as a friend.
In the uneasy silence, he saw inside to the woman he had cared for so deeply. “Teresa, if you’ve come here to request clemency for Eduard, I can’t do it. You know I have to track him down, even if it means . . . sacrificing our friendship.”
“Do you really think Eduard’s a threat to anybody, even on the run?” Teresa shook her head. “No, I don’t want to talk about that. I need to request your help in something else. I want to enlist the Bureau to find someone—to find me. I need to track down my home-body. It’s . . . lost.”
Daragon was taken aback. “Right now our resources are mobilized on a manhunt. I’m not sure I can justify the time for a project like that.”
She wouldn’t let him off so easily. “You always told me the Bureau did good and important work, more than just tracking down criminals. You were so proud of how the BTL helped to locate family members and find missing people.” She leaned forward in the chair. “Now I need you to help find me—the original me.” She looked intently at him, using every coin she had. “The one who held you and talked with you in the night.”
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