“Possibly.”
“It would be better. Failing to make the pitch would be suspicious.”
“I know. And it's such an important pitch. Let me check how far he got in pulling the pieces together.”
“Give me the cryptokey, darling, and I'll help.”
“It's nothing you can help me with.”
“Yes I can,” Cecilia said. “I'm an emulator too.”
Her naked statement stunned me. For a long moment, I stared into the image of her eyes, finally beginning to see the truth.
“On whose behalf?” I asked.
“I don't know,” she said. “Either she put me in place because she wanted to escape from him, or he put me here because he killed her. It's a double blind contract. I don't know. I think she's dead. But I'm trained, Jack. I can help you. Give me the cryptokey, please.”
“No,” I said.
“Why not? Don't you trust me?”
“Trust you? I don't even know who you are.”
“I'm the same as you, Jack. The same. Just a poor girl who didn't want to be useless. You're hurt, darling. Let me help.”
Despite my medicated state, I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. Having been stabbed in the back hours previously did nothing to raise my confidence in human nature. Strangely, I felt betrayed, because while I had made love to Cecilia as Coupon, this stranger had made love to me as Cecilia.
And why was she telecommunicating? Why wasn't she at my side?
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In the communications center,” she said. “I've got to overwrite the memory of fifteen different systems. Some of them are cryptolocked with your code…with Coupon's code, Jack. I've got to have it.”
“I'll clean them out later,” I said. “There's time.”
“You don't trust me!” she wailed.
“No,” I said. “But maybe I will later. Give me time.”
Cecilia's image stared at me. For a moment she seemed to have frozen.
“All right,” she said. “That's fair. Let's just get through this bloody presentation.”
“There's a lot of work ahead of us,” I said.
“I'll help you, Jack.”
“I need your help…Cecilia.”
“I'm Luiza,” she said. “Luiza Johnson.”
“Luiza.”
“Call me Cecilia, though, Ja—Fred. Cecilia. Otherwise we'll have to keep rewriting over the memories. And someday you might slip in front another person.”
“Cecilia.”
“Yes, Fred.”
“Frederick.”
“Of course. Frederick.”
We muddled through the presentation. I healed well enough that I was able to attend the necessary meetings in St. Petersburg. At the first opportunity, however, Cecilia and I escaped in the Sephora. We set course for the lesser Antilles. By the time we anchored off the Ochos Rios recreational complex, Cecilia's and my relationship had taken its new, more loving form. To all the world, it seemed as if Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Coupon had undergone a marital renaissance.
We grew into a good team. Besides her emulator training, Cecilia refused to talk about her past. For my own part, it was difficult to try to explain who or what a Jack Quimby was or once had been. Our work together seemed the most fruitful topic of conversation. Eventually I came to believe that a romantic relationship is a complex of behaviors and chemistries, with identity having little to do with it. Did it really matter? Men had loved women throughout history, but what man had ever claimed to know them?
Yet I was beginning to trust her enough that I was contemplating sharing Coupon's cryptokey. As luck would have it, I was on the cusp of deciding to do so, the day the message came in from the Taiwanese black arts enterprise.
Unlocking the code with Coupon's cryptokey, I read the following message:
Most excellent Mr. Coupon,
We of Red Dragon Semantic Arts have been honored with your patronage. We regret the tardiness of our delivery, but since the outer message code was irreducible, we had to resort to special actions to obtain the key. Decoding the inner code, of course, relies on your own private key.
We have billed the indicated account by 50 MYen. May we suggest that you exercise the utmost delicacy in your further dealings with Universal Emulators. We look forward to the next opportunity to be of service.
I tapped in the two large prime numbers which constituted Coupon's private key. The original text then became sense:
Special Emulator Reichmanf,
Your most recent request to allow Emulator Quimby to relieve you on station is most emphatically denied. The current team in place is highly functional. We will not entertain any more communications on this issue. You will continue to perform your duties as stipulated by your indenture contract, which will not be up for renegotiation for another three years, six months, eleven days.
Find comfort in the knowledge that your private account now totals over 39 trillion yen.
I studied the message for long minutes, unable to comprehend. Finally, when I did understand, I wondered if Emulator Reichmanf had taken the place of the original Coupon, or had he merely assumed the place of an n-1 generation copy?
And who was I? Nothing about me seemed so important as the fact that I was the only man in the world who held Coupon's private cryptokey. Reichmanf had shared it with me and it had been the death of him.
Out on the sponson, staring at the hypocritical blue face of the tropical ocean, I realized down to my grafted bones who I was.
The bearer of Coupon's cryptokey. In other words, Coupon.
Fair Verona
R. Garcia y Robertson
R. Garcia y Robertson is the author of a fantasy, The Spiral Dance; several SF novels, including The Virgin and the Dinosaur; and the recent historical novel (but only in the sense that Berger's Little Big Man is an historical novel—it has a contemporary sensibility) American Woman. His stories have appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction and Asimov's with some regularity for the last ten years and are characterized by their broad range of concerns, stylistic sophistication, and attention to historical detail. Garcia has tended toward time travel or historical settings both for his fantasy and SF stories. His fiction has been underappreciated since the small flash of critical and peer attention garnered by his first novel, The Spiral Dance. This story, from Asimov's, shows all his strengths, but is particularly fine at plot surprises. This is the work of a fully accomplished writer.
“In fair Verona, where we lay our scene…”
—Romeo and Juliet, Prologue
THE NOBLE DOG
Antonio first saw her in the night, at Carnival on the Via Cappello. He had just staggered out of the inn that came to be called the Casa di Giulietta, because of its marble balcony. A surge of revelers filled the torchlit street. Harlequins, lace doves, street minstrels, and drunken louts—laughing, dancing, singing, and colliding, tripping over cobbles, falling into fountains, and pissing on the bonfires.
Standing under “Romeo's” balcony, with enough good red bardolino abroad to float a boat, Antonio wondered what mischief he meant to get into. Should it be a woman, or a fight? Or maybe both. Then he saw her. His heavenly vision. Lady Love in a gold lace mask and a wide-sleeved gown. She turned, winked, blew a kiss, then was gone, whirled away by the throng.
Without taking fuddled eyes off the crowd, he grabbed Proteus, his manservant, who was busy tipping the innkeeper. “Did you see her? Who was she?”
Proteus pushed a silver groat on the barkeep, then turned to his drunken master. “Who was who?”
“The woman in the gold mask. She was shockingly beautiful.”
Proteus looked askance at the crowd. No woman seemed to stand out. “How could you tell? She was masked.”
“I can tell,” Antonio insisted. He had seen it in the smile above her swan white throat. “You can tell a beautiful woman by her walk. By the way she carries her head.”
“Doubtless.” Proteus slipped a spare b
ottle of bardolino into his jacket. The way tonight was headed, his master would be brought to bed soused. Or not at all.
“She has to be the most beautiful lady at Carnival. I'd stake my life on it. My fortune. My estates. Even my slim hope of seeing salvation.”
“I have nothing to match against that,” Proteus admitted.
That she was a lady was obvious. Her gown, her goldlinked belt, her wig powdered with gold dust—were all beyond the means of Verona's most industrious courtesans. Plunging cloth-of-gold décolletage had shown off sculpted neck and shoulders, and round firm breasts, right down to the nipples. But Antonio would have been wild for her if she had worn sack cloth. Or a nun's habit.
Pushing Proteus aside, he lurched into the street. The crowd parted smartly for him. Despite his black-feathered mask, none could mistake the prince's nephew in tight hose and pearl-studded jacket, sword at his side and spurred like a Tartar.
He looked up toward the Piazza Erbe, the herb market atop the ancient forum. Nothing. Turning toward the Via Stella, he spotted a flash of gold in the throng. Antonio took off, spurs striking sparks on the pavement.
The crowd parted even more promptly. Antonio Cansignorio della Scala was so used to such deference, he barely noticed. Everything in Verona seemed arranged for his pleasure. He was the Noble Dog. Tall and handsome, an accomplished troubadour, a skilled condottiere, a passable silversmith, and a good Catholic—but an enemy of the Pope. Most of all, he had the good luck to be a nephew to Cangrande della Scala, the “Big Dog” who lorded over Verona. Directly descended from Mastino I, the Mastiff, founder of the Scaligeri dynasty.
The woman in gold turned a corner, headed for the Piazza Bra. Antonio dashed down a side street, cutting her off. But when he got to the Piazza, he could not pick her out of the costumed crowd. Had he lost her? He doubled back up an alley. There was only one other way she could have gone. Ahead loomed the Arena, Verona's ancient Roman amphitheater. Second only to the Colosseum in size, its colonnade blocked off the entire eastern side of the Piazza Bra. He had her trapped. Unless she hid in the Arena itself, hardly the place for a woman alone on Carnival Night.
Then he spotted her. Beyond the mouth of the alley, framed in one of the Arena's dark cavernous archways, a gold icon in a black niche. He called to her to stop. She turned to look back, standing still and composed. Waiting. She had the good sense to know when the game had gone far enough.
Two costumed men stepped out of the gloom at the head of the alley, coming between her and him. One wore a jester's belled cap and floppy straw boots. The other was tall, wearing the black cloak and white bird-faced mask of a plague doctor. Both had swords at their sides.
The Jester called out, “Montague or Capulet?” The worst words any honest Veronan could hear in a dark alley.
“Neither, swine!” Antonio swore, drawing sword and dagger, not for an instant thinking that this was some honest mistake. Masked or not, all men knew the prince's nephew. Nor would it be the first time that a street feud was used to cover murder. “A thousand pardons, we thought the man was a Montague.”
And Antonio had enemies aplenty. Mighty enemies. A godawful long list. Headed by Pope Clement V, Christ's Vicar on Earth, and lapdog of Philip the Fair. Guelfs in general hated him. So did the Visconti vipers of Milan. Then there were the French, a blasphemous nation of traitors and ingrates. Whole hosts of people would be happy to hear that the Noble Dog had died in some dark alley. Some would even take the trouble to arrange it.
But it was easier wished than done. He glanced past the two men to the woman. She took no active part, standing motionless, lips parted in horror—or perhaps excitement; her mask made it impossible to tell.
“Drop your sword,” the Jester shouted. “We only mean to talk.”
“Just a word,” the Plague Doctor assured him.
“My word is ‘Begone,’” Antonio retorted. “Draw if you be men!”
The Jester drew blade, saying over his shoulder, “Back me.”
Antonio sprang to meet him. Swords clashed and grated. Bells rang on the Jester's cap as he backpedaled, parrying briskly. Fighting drunk, and full of anger, Antonio easily forced them back. Too easily. Both men swiftly gave ground. Suddenly the Jester slipped in his floppy boots, going down on one knee with a shriek of fear.
Piss-poor acting. Instead of trying to get in past the man's guard, Antonio spun about, putting his back to a wall.
A third assassin, dressed like a Saracen in a cloak and turban, leaped from a doorway. His scimitar sliced empty air, where the Noble Dog had been.
The trap had been obvious even to the half-drunk Antonio. Two men falling back before one, while the ringing bells on the Jester's cap covered the third attacker's footsteps. Antonio had seen it done before. And better.
He slashed at the Saracen's throat, feeling the solid jar of contact down the length of his sword arm. Sure of his kill, the Saracen never had time to parry. Blood sprayed the width of the alley. The assassin crumpled, his head hanging sideways.
Antonio congratulated himself. Not bad for fighting on a head full of bardolino! It was two to one again.
The Jester scrambled back to his feet, cursing. He called to the Doctor, “Come, man, make worm's meat out of him!”
The Jester met Antonio's drunken attack, while the black-cloaked Plague Doctor tried to get at the Noble Dog's left side. Cool professionals, they acted unfazed by the death of their comrade. But the narrowness of the alley fought for Antonio, keeping them from both getting to him at once.
Abandoning his caution, the Jester pressed Antonio hard, trying to create an opening for the Doctor. Swords met, rasped, struck sparks. Antonio parried with his dagger, thrusting past the Jester's guard. His point pierced the Jester's jacket, which was sewn with playing cards. Striking metal, the Noble Dog's blade bounced back. There was steel hidden beneath the card-sewn jacket. The Jester's boldness was explained—his ringing Fool's Cap hid the clang of armor.
Grinning, the Jester came on, bolder than ever, hacking and slashing. He did not fear a body blow, and probably had an armored codpiece to boot.
Antonio feinted low, as though going for the groin. The Jester rose on his toes, aiming a downward slash. Antonio again parried high with the dagger—this time aiming his sword thrust beneath the upraised arm. His grandfather had been on the losing side at Benevento, and never tired of telling how King Manfred's German mercenaries were cut down by French knights striking à l'estoc into the armpit. His point slid through the Jester's sleeve, and over the cuirass.
The Belled Fool folded up, staggered, and fell gasping against the Doctor. He had the impudence to take Antonio's blade with him, its point tangled in the puffed sleeve and the top of his lung.
Letting go of the sword, Antonio sprang forward with just his dagger, staking everything on a single drunken rush. Pushing the dying Jester aside, the bird-faced Doctor aimed a sweeping blow at Antonio. Too late. The Noble Dog got inside his guard, grabbing the Doctor's right wrist, slamming him against the alley wall. His dagger at the man's throat, he hissed, “Yield.”
Helpless, the Doctor let his blade fall. His white bird mask looked blankly at the Noble Dog.
Antonio glanced up to see the woman disappear into the Arena archway. Damn. Missed her again. The man beneath him would die for that. But first…
Keeping the dagger clenched in his hand, he grabbed the beak of the white bird-mask, wrenching it back. Finding the face beneath irritatingly familiar. He knew this man from somewhere. “Why?” Antonio demanded. “Why dare to accost me?”
Amazingly calm, despite sure death at his throat, the man managed a devil-may-care smirk. “There is a call on your service. Clients are coming down the Beanstalk.”
HEARTBREAK HOTEL
Tearing off his headset, Toni stared at the 3V deck resting on his knees. Naked thighs shone slick and white in the artificial light. Disoriented and drenched in sweat, it took time for the truth to sink in. Those were his thighs. He was no longer in Ve
rona. No longer the Noble Dog. No longer wearing pants.
An audio beeper indicated incoming messages. Toni ignored it, still fixed on Verona. Who was she? Had she really gone into the Arena?
Beeps increased in volume, dragging him into the here-and-now, badgering him with incoming calls. He hated that. Hated being jerked out of the program. Hell, he hated being out of the program period. Hated being anywhere but Verona.
Shutting down the beeper, he stared at the stained white ceiling of the sanitary unit. Sitting bare-assed in a dingy portable toilet, fed by a glucose drip, was a piss-poor substitute for being a prince's nephew at Carnival time. Or at any time.
Setting aside the 3V deck, he climbed up on his exercise bike, thankful that Ariel's pull was only .5g. Any more, and he never would have made it off the toilet seat. Toni found physical exercise boring—but most realtime activities were essentially tedious. So Toni put his tedium to maximum use, telling Proteus—Programmed Techno-Environmental Utilization Service—“Give me the priority messages.”
The housekeeping program obeyed. Grunting atop the bike, Toni responded to his calls as best he could.
“Check. Hunting party headed down the Beanstalk.”
“Yes. Of course I still think of you.”
“Fuck off.”
“2100 tomorrow—at the soonest.”
“Will call back.”
“Shit. OK, OK, I'll get to it.”
When he could not take any more, he told Proteus, “Dump everything over forty hours old. Hold the rest.”
Toni got down off the bike, inserted the glucose drip, and set the deck on his lap, tempted to return at once to Verona. He had to follow her into the Arena. And…
His hand hovered above the deck, fingers itching to hit VERONA. He hit DRAGON HUNT instead.
Instantly, Toni was outside—standing at the base of the Beanstalk, looking out over Freeport with infrared eyes. Geodomes and apartment blocks glowed softly from internal heat. Powered filters showed as bright firefly streaks. Pair-a-Dice Beanstalk towered above him, piercing the dawn sky, connecting Freeport to the Pair-a-Dice geosync platform thousands of klicks overhead. The topless stalk cast a thin shadow onto the cloud plain, a dark razor-straight line disappearing in the direction of Nightside.
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