Shadow of a Dead Star (The Wonderland Cycle)

by Michael Shean

  In the far distance, well into the Verge, something was burning. Bright silver-white light like a giant magnesium flare, the distant glow belched a twisting column of smoke that seemed somehow darker than the sky itself. He was dimly aware of a voice sounding somewhere behind him, something about a hospital going up — the name seemed familiar.

  Walken rose, sitting up on the black leather sofa that now came into focus. Real bovine leather, he imagined, considering his environs, ridiculously expensive with the near-extinction of cattle. He looked around; two chairs were angled toward him, standing on either side of the couch and framing his view of the city. A rectangular coffee table made of deep red marble filled the space between them. Two glasses of what looked like wine rested on the polished surface; expensive, heavy crystal goblets, the liquid inside a red so dark it was almost black.

  He shifted, felt something press into his ribs; he reached and felt the C-J there, realized that he was still in his coat and with what he guessed was all his gear. He was astounded. What kind of incompetence was this? Surely, after all that had happened, Exley wouldn't just dump him in front of his 'Mother' without taking the pistol and his knife.

  "Ah. You're awake." A woman's voice, light and soft, poured like warm cream into his ears from behind him. Walken turned to look over the back of the couch for its source. The room was indeed vast, a single, wide open office, with a black marble floor to match the ceiling and walls paneled in pale wood. Simple fixtures burned dimly at intervals on the walls. There were few furnishings save for the furniture he sat on, however and a vast slab of what looked like congealed ink that served as a desk for the pale and terrible beauty who sat behind it.

  Even at a distance, the eyes of Ghia Merducci were familiar. They had been in the sockets of so many others of late, but unlike theirs hers bore an amused malevolence that rooted him to the spot. There was no synthesis, no emotionless stare. In the brightness of the distant fire their retinas shone green like an animal's. "Yeah," he said after a long moment of merely staring at her. "I'm awake."

  She smiled at him, a cold, plastic smile. Never was there such a well-engineered expression as this, he thought and he wondered how many years of research went into making it so enthralling and yet so positively imposing all at once. "And without damage, I see. I'm glad to see that even with the death of his sisters, your Mr. Exley did not seek to kill you."

  Walken blinked at her. "Exley doesn't have sisters," he said without thinking.

  "Oh?" She flashed at him another of those awful smiles and rose delicately to her feet. "That's what you think. I know Gerald Exley far better than you ever did, Thomas — which is why we are here." He watched as she crossed the polished floor toward him, a strange vision with her white skin and the ultra deep black of her Tomiko Urasawa business suit. She walked around the back of the couch, trailing the faint smell of lilacs in her wake and moved to take her seat in one of the chairs facing the sofa. "You do know why you're here, don't you, Thomas? You've figured it out?"

  Whatever she might seem to the rest of the world, displayed behind the polished lens of flat video and holography, up close she was queen of the Uncanny Valley. It was the porelessness of her skin, its almost ceramic cast, as if she had been poured in one piece and fired in an industrial kiln. It made him shiver just to look at her. He tried very hard instead to examine the surface of the coffee table instead of that face, attempting to examine every atom of the polished red marble so as not to be given reason to look back up at her terrible beauty. "No," he admitted finally. "I don't. I don't even know how you know who I am."

  She laughed and the sound was a silk scarf drawn over his ears. "I own the single most advanced biogenetics company in the world, Thomas. I possess the most advanced technology. Changing your face might deceive your former employers but it certainly cannot deceive me." She was quiet for a moment and from the corner of his eye Walken could see that she was crossing her legs, folding delicate hands upon one knee. He busied himself with staring at her shoes. Why could he not look at her?

  "How?" It was more of a mumble than a question.

  She smiled. "A genetic analyzer module implanted in the body. It allowed Gerald to spot you in the bar. He was looking for you, you see."

  Walken blanched. "That kind of technology doesn't exist," he said, sounding vaguely petulant. "Even in Wonderland."

  "That's right," Ghia said and she sounded as though she were speaking to a child. "But it exists for me, you see. And Gerald, for that matter. And others in my family. Most of us have the system installed."

  He marshaled his strength sufficiently to look up at her. Her eyes were gleaming with that flat amusement, like the cat that watches the mouse struggle to regain consciousness after having been struck with a paw. "Who does?" he asked her. "Genefex employees?"

  "Employees?" She chuckled. "This is a family-run company, Thomas. The members of that family are no more employees than I am. The rest are... expendable resources." Ghia reached for one of the two heavy goblets and brought it to her nose. She breathed in deeply, sighed and took a sip of the dark stuff inside. "You should have a drink, Thomas," she opined after swallowing, the terrible eyes drifting closed, swirling the glass in her fingers as she settled back in her seat — quite at ease, the lady of the manor.

  "I've been tranquilized enough today, thanks," he murmured darkly.

  "I suppose that you're right." Ghia smiled at him again. "But you may find it to your advantage to relax. We've a lot to talk about."

  "Do we?" Walken stared at her; with her eyes closed she looked more like a mannequin than ever, enough to depersonalize her for a crucial moment. His hand slid into his pocket, found the grip of the C-J. She tilted her head back and took another sip and he grew keenly aware of the line of her throat, its fragility. He replayed in his mind the effect the comets had on Emitra's skull.

  As if she had read his mind, Ghia's smile broadened. "Don't be silly, Thomas. I've left your weapons only so that you understand that they will have no effect on me. It's been many years since those toys were a threat to yours truly." One eye opened slightly, the pale lashes unlocking to show a millimeter of silver and black; he was reminded of a Venus flytrap. "But if you decide to try, I will have to hurt you. Or, perhaps, I will hurt Miss January. You don't want that, do you?"

  He stared at her, transfixed by the subtle note of menace in her voice. It seemed to resonate with some long-buried animal instinct he was previously unaware of; he dropped the weapon back into his pocket. "No," he said, "I wouldn't." After a moment he pulled the hand out, remembered the Sony in his other coat pocket and said, almost shyly, "Does she know I'm here?"

  "She doesn't, no," Ghia replied with a shrug. "I'm afraid that wasn't part of the plan. As far as Miss January is aware, you burned with Orleans Hospital. But don't worry, my dear; she will receive the full measure of Anton's holdings, just as they agreed. I'm a woman of my word, after all."

  "Oh." Something hard tugged in the base of his heart, a pang of guilt and loss. He realized, shame brimming quite suddenly in his heart, that he had never really tried to find much out about Bobbi beyond what she had volunteered. In that moment he vowed, should he somehow get to her after all this was done, that he would change that. "The one with Exley, Emitra? She said she was going to kill Bobbi."

  Another shrug. Ghia took another sip from her glass. "I would not have allowed it," she said. "I have other plans for Roberta January, Thomas and they involve neither her death nor even her ill health. I would like for her to succeed in what she's going to put herself to doing after she's realized that you're gone."

  He screwed up his face at that. "And what is that?"

  "She's going to try and find out why you were able to decode Anton's data packet. She's going to try and find out why he killed himself, you see. I have planned for her to do so — and do not ask why, Thomas, because I shall not tell you. That is a story for another day."

  Ghia explained this to him with all the gentle patience of a
matron: quiet, gentle, implacable. "I arranged for you to get it," she told him, "Because I wanted you to do it. You see, Anton was one of my people. One of my family. It was I who was responsible for everything leading up to your coming here — well, beyond a few anomalous events of course. I did not expect Miss January to fall in love with you. Then again, I've never been good with human emotions. They're just too... animal, I suppose. Too instinctual." She smiled widely at him. "I've never been very good with instincts, you see. I have more of a planning mind. Are you sure you won't have a drink?"

  Walken stared at her, reaching unconsciously for the glass; he felt its weight in his hands and blinked before setting it back down. "No, thank you," he said. "But why would you arrange all of this? If you wanted me up here, why didn't you just ask? Or kidnap me, I suppose? This whole setup, it seems..." He paused, considered his words. "Wasteful."

  She opened her eyes entirely then and looked at him with an expression of mixed incredulity and mirth — but not surprise. "Waste? What waste? I had a very specific reason for doing what I did to get you here, Thomas. The path was important, don't you see?"

  His jaw set. "And all the people who died?"

  "Amount to absolutely nothing." She shrugged. "One must pave the way, after all. Of what use are human lives but to be expended?"

  He felt his fist tighten around the stem of the glass, which had somehow returned again to his hand, threatening to snap it off. Images of the dead again flew through his mind: the Dolls, the Koreans, Hunt, Brighton and all those dead Special Tactics gargoyles. He found himself swallowing down the urge to simply leap across the room and jam the ruined stem of his glass through those too-perfect eyes. With the urge went the trembling and he found himself for the moment still master of himself. "I don't think that's right at all," he managed between clenched teeth. "The lives of human beings aren't to be simply thrown away. And what about Stadil? Wasn't he one of yours?"

  A bright laugh issued from Ghia's lips; again Walken struggled not to attack her. "What a strange thing to hear from you of all people," she said, a sly look on her lovely face. "Anton knew his place. He is meant for a greater fate, one which you need not worry about."

  With this, Ghia scooted forward a bit, hands on her lap. "Now, then, let us look at you!" She beamed at him like a proud matron, the dazzling synthetic smile wide and warm. "You've grown a great deal in just a few weeks, I think."

  Walken shifted in his chair. Fear and revulsion bubbled inside him, but now his instinct — that voice that he had trusted for so long — spoke up against such animal feelings. It told him to trust her, to hear her. Shrinking from this, flooded with confusion and mounting terror, he stared at her in silence.

  She saw that he would not speak and so she continued. Ghia's voice pitched itself low and soft, as if attempting to allay the fears of a child. "Since long before the Bureau you had felt yourself completely apart from the world you'd grown up in, hadn't you? How long had you been building that separate world that you hoped to live in before everything fell apart? You don't love humans, Thomas. You want to be apart from them just as much as we do."

  These words shot a spark of bravado across his complex of fear, disrupting it for a moment. His eyes narrowed. "So that's what this was all about? Showing me some supposed truth about myself? Are you some kind of cult leader?"

  "Something like that." She took a deep drink from her glass, then and set it aside. "Why don't you have a drink, Thomas? You're drying your mouth out, being so negative."

  The crystal was cold on his lips and its contents quite unlike anything else he'd tasted. Though he hadn't meant to, the goblet in his hand had made it to his mouth. Before he could stop himself he was taking a deep draught of the dark fluid. It was warm despite the coolness of the goblet, very smooth; it went down like water but tasted like chemical astringent, bitter on his tongue. As he swallowed it the mouthful seemed to disappear from inside of him, instant alchemical conversion, to spread like waves of heat throughout his body. His eyes widened at the sensation. "What is this?" he asked, unable to keep the returning fear from tingeing his voice.

  "Something for your consciousness." She smiled again, now and he felt a pang inside his heart to see it; the beauty she possessed seemed less harsh now, almost welcoming. "It lets the subconscious mind open up, you see. Don't worry, this will all be explained in time." Ghia paused for a moment, looking at him in silence. Then, very gently, she spoke.

  "Why don't you tell me about your dreams, Thomas?"

  At the mention of his dreams Walken felt the Vaseline-lens effect lift. New suspicion flooded him like a tide. "How do you know about those?"

  "I'll explain in a moment," Ghia promised. "But tell me about them first."

  He did, though with no small amount of hesitation. He talked about the sea, the glittering towers, the brightness of the vast chemical sea. "But it's all like something out of science fiction," he said to her. "How can you know about them?"

  She shrugged. "Human life," she began, "Is a very disorganized thing, aspiring in vain to be something better. Cities are gridded out, planned and then what happens? Always people find ways to just... fill in the cracks, so to speak. Make messes. There is no value held in careful planning over the entirety of the life cycle. There is merely the desire for immediate response, immediate satisfaction."

  "But people have always been like that to some degree or another," he insisted.

  "Exactly." Ghia rose from the table and he found his eyes rising to track her progress despite himself. Her body moved with aching grace under the lines of her suit; the black fabric seemed to embrace her of its own accord. She glided to the window, turned her back to him. Ghia looked out across the night, at the jeweled neon laceworks of the city spreading out and the towers rising toward the black sky. She laid one palm against the tinted glass. "It is what makes them so easily manipulated."

  Presently she gestured with her goblet toward the glowing circus that was the Waters, still flashing even so late at night with the constant neon dance of the hypermarkets and mall blocks. "Look at it. It's beautiful, isn't it? One of my best works."

  Walken looked. "What," he asked. "The Waters?"

  "Yes." She smiled; he thought for a moment that she was watching his reaction in the glass. "I designed the Waters, you know. It is a perfect engine of commerce and social engineering; more successful than any other commercial nexus on the planet in terms of operational profits and constance of operation. And of course, there are more like it in other cities — New York, Los Angeles, Tokyo and so on."

  "Your family?" His brows arched; impatience, clear and distinct, laced his tone. "What is this family? And how the hell do you know about my dreams?"

  The smile died on Ghia's lips. Her patience was being tried. "Tell me something, Thomas," she said after a long moment, her gleaming eyes sliding from the window to look at him. "What do you think of me? Of all of us, what little of my family that you've seen."

  "I haven't the slightest fucking idea." If she was going to monologue, after all, there was no reason why he should give her any evidence he knew anything. Walken wanted to hear her words in whole, not to just fill in the blanks. "I know you aren't human anymore, at least not by the textbook definition. Not with all that gene work and augmentation. I can't really say anything about what I saw at Orleans, save for that it was evil. You're all evil as far as I'm concerned."

  "Not much in the way of imagination these days," she said, amusement creeping back into her face, "But I suppose you're right. We aren't really human, though I think that you're looking at that particular truth from the wrong angle. Evil? That's just a matter of perception. I must admit myself disappointed at your interpretation of things."

  Walken could scarcely conceal the incredulity the woman's words invoked in him. "How the fuck else am I supposed to feel? You've been kidnapping people and turning them into spare parts, turning little girls into fucking sex toys and worse. I don't even want to think of what the fuck you've be
en doing with the... whatever those things were that tangled with the Special Tactics heat. I'm still trying to figure out what the hell you were doing with the Dolls, never mind Stadil and everything else." As much as he hated to admit it, especially to the monstrous bitch before him, he really didn't have much in the way of answers. Not after what he saw at Orleans.

  "I think you're looking at this the wrong way," she said with a sigh. "Though I suppose that were I in your position, Thomas, I would have greater respect for the vision to which you had been exposed. It has, after all, been a great deal of work to realize. Centuries of labor."

  "Centuries..." His eyes narrowed. "You're mad, aren't you?"

  "I raise the dead before him," she sighed, "And still he calls me mad. Oh, Thomas. All of this..." She gestured across the city again, "This city, Wonderland, the black houses, all of what you've seen at Orleans Hospital — don't you understand how they're connected?"

  "I understand that you're unable to stay young," he said. "Stadil's files told me all about that." Walken paused. Realization flooded his brain, realization of how complex this chain of conspiracy might really be. The placement of its players. The quality of its props. "But now, sitting here... it was all bullshit, wasn't it? Those files. All meant to keep me looking."

  A little purr of satisfaction escaped Ghia's throat at that. She nodded to herself. "Now you're getting it. Very well, Thomas, let me tell you the story. And I'll expect silence from you on this, so be a good boy and be quiet while I tell you."

  Walken frowned, but he said nothing.