The company shuttle that had brought her to Luna was still parked at the docks. Should she go to it? Or should she ride around the city until some course of action took shape in her mind?
Her wrist pad vibrated. Lem was trying to reach her. It was rude not to answer, discourteous to ignore.
Wila reached down to answer but hesitated. After several more vibrations, the call went to voicemail. A text message immediately followed: “Where are you? I’m worried.”
At once she saw multiple meanings. Had her disappearance angered him? Was he asking in rage for her whereabouts? No, he had never lost his temper with her. Not once. Quite the contrary. His face and words and demeanor had always been kind, almost reverential, as if she were to be treated like some high priest, which was laughable, of course.
And what was he “worried” about? About her? About her feelings? About what the actions of the evening would do to the company? To him? To the plight of the refugees?
She tapped a quick response. Honest and brief. “I am horrified that I have caused you any embarrassment. Please accept my deepest and most sincere apology. I will of course—”
She paused. She will of course … do what? “Resign” was the word she was prepared to write, the word she almost wrote, the word she knew she should write. That was the only sensible course of action, was it not? To resign? To distance herself from the company as far as possible, to save Lem the further embarrassment of having to fire her. Wasn’t that the kind thing? The right thing? And why was she even asking herself? She knew the answer. She had known it all along. Maybe it was the very thing she had run from, which made no sense to her and yet had the ring of rightness to it. But something else, some other emotion, had stopped her from entertaining the idea. Something else inside her had pushed the notion away and kept it hidden, even from herself. Until now.
She typed “resign” and pressed send. Watching the message disappear from her screen and move into the network, heading toward Lem’s wrist pad and eyes, was like a blow to her stomach. Her life had found new meaning with her work. She had felt purpose, not just professionally, but spiritually as well. It was her path. Of that she had been certain. And now she was throwing it away. She knew it was right to resign, and yet it felt as if she were abandoning herself.
She couldn’t stomach a response from him. She couldn’t bear to think what he might write in return. She turned off her wrist pad. That too was discourteous, she knew. The kind thing to do was to wait and respond and do all in her power to alleviate any anxiety and suffering he might be enduring because of her. That was her duty now, not to wallow in self-pity, but to lighten his burden. That was the way of the path.
So why did it seem so impossible? Why couldn’t she speak to him?
She rode in excruciating silence. She had promised to resign, and so it was done. That was her course now. She would write a formal letter once she could gather her thoughts and dictate the words. She would craft it as bluntly as possible to remove all blame from Lem and the company and the refugee program. She would place the blame entirely and squarely on her own shoulders. Then she would return to Thailand. How exactly, she didn’t know. But Thailand was her path now.
She brought up her legs into the lotus position, which was awkward in the narrow seat of the taxi, and began to pray, not to any god, but as a statement of concern, as a demonstration of hope, as an act of faith, a plea to the universe, that the refugees wouldn’t go hungry, that the children among them would be warm and loved and made to understand the value of their lives. She prayed for Benyawe. And for those on her team. She prayed for the people who had attended the fundraiser and whose hearts may have been pricked with compassion. She prayed for Lem, that his innocence would be evident to the world. She prayed for the men and women of the Fleet, that whatever damage the company would endure would not be so severe as to impair the work of the war. Wila was not one to pray for war, as conflict only compounded suffering. But she could pray that the hopes of those fighting it would not falter, for there was darkness and fear and discouragement down that path.
She prayed until the car stopped at the docks, and there were hundreds of prayers still inside her. But for the moment, the prayers had done their work and realigned her once again. She was centered now. She had uncharacteristically allowed her emotions to derail her from her path. But now she was back upon it.
Wila stepped out of the car and realized at once that there had been a mistake. She was not at the docks, or at least not at any part of the docks that she recognized. She was in a vacant parking garage, or what appeared to be a parking garage, except it was white and pristine and mostly tile. A thin, dark-skinned woman in a black suit was standing a short distance from the car, hands clasped behind her, facing Wila, almost as if waiting for her.
But no, that was silly. No one was expecting her. The car had misunderstood. It had misheard Wila’s command. She had said docks, but it had processed something else entirely.
And yet something about the way the woman regarded Wila, her posture upright and stiff, her face free of any emotion, told Wila that this was no accident, that she was meant to come here. Someone had brought her here.
Wila moved to get back into the car, but the woman in the suit spoke and stopped her. “Ms. Saowaluk. If you will kindly accompany me, please.” She gestured to her right, where an elevator waited a distance away.
Wila blinked. The woman knew her surname. And not just knew it, but knew how to pronounce it correctly, with all the accents in the right places, with every consonant struck and spoken as it should be, as if the name were as familiar to the woman as her own. Her accent was definitely east African, though where exactly Wila could only guess. The woman’s skin was as dark as Wila had ever seen, as black as the fabric of her suit. The contrast between her and the bright white tile all around her was so distinct that the woman seemed to almost float in the air. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman Wila had ever seen. And yet there was an edge of danger about her. A gravity. A presence. Like a jaguar, lean and focused and lethal in an instant. Her head, like Wila’s, was shaved to the scalp, and perhaps that was what relaxed Wila a bit. The sight of it created an instant kinship between them. A commonality. A connection. And yet this woman was clearly no Theravada Buddhist.
“Forgive me,” said Wila. “You appear to know who I am, but I do not have the great pleasure of knowing you.”
Wila did not feel fear. A jaguar should set off all kinds of alarms, but she felt nothing but calm. Was it the afterglow of her prayers, or something else? Because she should be afraid. Someone had brought her here, someone powerful enough to track her movements and then control the car that had carried her.
Lem, perhaps? He had said that he was worried. Had he taken matters into his own hands and returned her to company headquarters? Wila had visited headquarters before, but she had only seen a small portion of it. It was said that Juke Limited’s facilities were larger than the city of Imbrium itself.
Was Lem that powerful? Could he control the cars of the city? Could he find her and bring her to him that easily? If so, perhaps Lem wouldn’t be as adversely affected by Sokolov’s attack as Wila had feared. Maybe the strength and size of the company would shield him.
And yet, if this woman worked for Lem—As what? Security detail?—then why had Wila never seen her before?
“My name is Nyalok,” said the woman. She gestured again to the elevator. “If you would please accompany me.”
Wila went with her, feeling completely at ease. As the elevator descended, Nyalok kept her eyes forward and remained as silent as stone.
“I am pleased to meet you, Nyalok,” said Wila. “May I ask where you are taking me?”
“Everything will be explained,” said Nyalok.
“But not by you,” said Wila.
“No. Not by me.” She faced Wila then. “You are not in danger, Wilasanee Saowaluk. You are safer here than you have ever been in your life.”
There was no irony
in the woman’s voice, no hint of sarcasm, no veiled threat.
“I believe you,” said Wila. “Thank you for the reassurance.”
The elevator opened, and they stepped into a half-circle lobby with contemporary furniture and an unoccupied receptionist’s desk, behind which there was no company logo. Instead, the walls displayed large gold-framed works of art. It was clearly a corporate environment, but it felt as welcoming as someone’s home. Nyalok led Wila through a series of doors that unlocked and opened as they approached, triggered by something Nyalok had on her person, perhaps. The doors were thick and heavy and appeared indestructible. If this was a corporation, it was one that invested heavily in security.
They saw no one. The hallway was carpeted and quiet and empty. Nyalok, who was nearly a head taller than Wila, walked briskly and with purpose. Wila, falling behind, lifted the hem of her robe and quickened her pace to keep up. They passed doors to offices, but Wila heard nothing behind them. She glanced down side corridors, but those too were empty. Which was odd. The dome of Imbrium provided the appearance of day and night, but Imbrium was a city that did not sleep. Every place of business employed staff around the clock in one of several work shifts. The lights at Juke Limited were never off. The building never closed.
And yet this place appeared vacant.
Or, thought Wila, it was occupied by people who preferred not to be seen.
Wherever she was, it was not Juke Limited. The locks, the décor, the profound silence. At Juke, there were people everywhere, always, at every turn, hurrying somewhere, carrying something. There was a palpable energy to those halls. An urgency. To move down a corridor was to get swept into a current.
But this place was silent and empty. Immaculate, well lit, comfortable even. But completely devoid of people.
Nyalok reached a door and opened it, and the view before Wila nearly took her breath away. Before her stood Wat Thung Sri Muang, the ancient, tiny teakwood Buddhist temple in the park in Ubon Ratchathani. There it was, set atop stilts in the middle of a small pond. There were the lotus flowers, floating on the surface of the water, blooming, glistening in the sunlight, their pink and white petals reaching upward and out. There was the narrow bridge that Wila had crossed so many thousands of times in her youth, the bridge from the green grass of the park to the temple, the wood well worn and smooth from thousands of sandaled monks like herself. And there was the sky above the temple, blue and brilliant and clustered with clouds. And there were the high-rises beyond the park, reaching skyward.
All of it was there. An impossible reality.
Wila stepped through the door and onto the grass, surprised to discover that the grass did not give beneath her feet. It was solid and flat, like glass or stone.
Because it is glass, she realized. Nothing before her was real. She was inside a holoroom, much like the one that Lem had adjacent to his office. But this was a holo unlike any she had ever seen. The level of detail, the dimension, the life of it, the realness of it, not like a trick of light, with obvious imperfections and translucence, not like something she could put her hand through, but something tangible, something of substance.
A man stepped out of the temple and crossed the bridge, coming toward her, his eyes fixed upon her, a light smile on his face. Wila did not recognize him. His black suit and shirt were like what Nyalok was wearing, not quite a uniform, but something that suggested order among them. Wila put the man in his mid-sixties, though there was nothing about his movements that suggested his age. Short white hair, parted to the side, not a strand out of place. He was trim, but with broad shoulders that gave him a commanding presence.
He stopped before her and his smile widened. “Hello, Wila. My name is Oliver Crowe.” He spread his arms. “What do you think of our temple? None of it is real, of course, as you no doubt can see, but I thought you might appreciate it. A little taste of home. Call it our welcome gift to you. Shall we go inside?” He gestured back the way he had come.
He was English, his accent unmistakable. A gentleman, with a formal yet playful air about him.
“You will forgive me, Mr. Crowe,” said Wila. “But where am I? Who are you exactly? And why did you bring me here?”
He smiled and cocked a finger at her. “That is why I like you, Wila. You demand answers. Come. I’ll explain everything inside.”
He turned on his heels and walked back toward the bridge, not waiting for her to approve. Wila followed. She glanced once behind her and saw Nyalock remain by the closed door, not coming with them.
The bridge, like the grass, did not give at all beneath Wila’s feet as the bridge back in Thailand had. That bridge, the real bridge, constructed of teakwood centuries old, did not sway violently as if made of rope, but its planks had given slightly whenever Wila had hurried across them. The movement of the bridge had always been near imperceptible, a fraction of a micrometer, so slight that Wila had never noticed it. But she noticed it now. Because it was absent. Because this bridge, real though it appeared, moved not at all. This was not the temple, but a lie, a fabrication. Not because it wasn’t real, but because it attempted to capture something so beautiful and holy and unique that no replica could ever do it justice. It suddenly felt profane.
“You don’t like it,” said Crowe.
Wila smiled at him. “I am enraptured by the realism of it,” she said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
He grinned and motioned her to follow.
As she approached the walls of the temple, she saw how it was done. The walls had dimension and substance because they were actual walls. Wila reached out and touched one.
“Paneled monitors,” said Crowe. “We can move them around however we want and create the appearance of a true wall. The monitor projects whatever we ask. Everything above the panel is projection. As is the floor, obviously.”
“May I see the panels?” said Wila.
He looked somewhat disappointed to drop the charade. But he tapped at his wrist pad, and the world went gray. The temple was gone. The bridge was gone. The lotus flowers, the sky. They were in a gray room with gray paneled walls where the temple walls had been. The floor was opaque glass, as was the ceiling, which Wila was surprised to discover was closer to her than she had guessed. The sky, only a moment ago, had seemed a vast distance away.
“Impressive,” said Wila. “I have never seen a holo so…”
“Realistic?” offered Crowe.
“Is this the work of your company?” Wila asked. “Holo creation? And why would you create one so intricate for me?”
“It’s quite easy to assemble,” said Crowe. “These panels took only a few moments to set up once we had the images from Thailand. And no, this is not the business we are in, Wila. I am in the same business you are. The business of understanding the Hive Queen.”
He tapped at his wrist pad again, and the temple and flowers and sky reappeared. Crowe moved ahead, around one of the freestanding panels—now appearing as an exterior wall of the temple—and disappeared into the temple’s interior. Wila followed, and like a page torn from her own memory, she stepped into the wihan, the great hall of the temple, where monks gathered to pray. In truth, there was nothing great about it, either in size or decoration. But perhaps that was its greatness: Like the pond and the bridge and the lotus flower, the wihan was beautiful in its simplicity, marvelous in its minimalism. Crowe had re-created it down to the grain of wood at her feet.
To Wila’s surprise, Crowe sat down on the floor where so many monks had sat before him. The pillows on the floor that Wila had assumed were projections turned out to be real. Crowe set one down in front of him and motioned for Wila to sit. She found it offensive to do so, to plant herself so casually in a room dedicated to prayer. Again it felt like sacrilege. She didn’t move.
Crowe stood. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ve misjudged you. I thought you would enjoy a view of home, but I see now that I created something that perhaps I shouldn’t have.”
Wila bowed slightly. “Forgiv
e me, Mr. Crowe. You have gone to a great effort to please me, and for that I am deeply grateful. You have shown me a tremendous kindness. This temple, this room, yes, are of great importance to me. Seeing them this way, it is an emotional experience that I did not anticipate this evening.”
Crowe nodded. “You’ve had several emotional experiences you didn’t anticipate this evening. You will forgive me if I added to your distress.”
“Not at all,” said Wila. “Forgive me if I gave any impression of ingratitude.”
Crowe laughed. “Let’s stop asking forgiveness of each other? I suspect you do that often, and only rarely is it warranted.”
“I make mistakes, as all men and women do,” said Wila. “Grave mistakes. Sometimes I hurt people deeply even when I do not intend to.”
The words came out of Wila without her even giving them consideration. Her mind was on Lem, of course, and the refugees, and Benyawe, and everyone. And it appalled her that she would reveal her innermost feelings to a stranger. Was it the room, she wondered? She had come here countless times to speak to Master Arjo, to open up to him, to seek his counsel, to bare her soul to him in the hope of receiving comfort or wisdom.
“Mr. Crowe, would you be so kind to show me another of your holo creations?”
He seemed to sense her unease and tapped at his wrist pad.
The world became a field of yellow wildflowers. The sun, far behind Crowe, was half dipped below the horizon, blanketing the world in a warm amber glow. The freestanding panels that had served as the walls of the temple were now solid gray, like strange monoliths unexpectedly built in a field. Wila felt instantly more at ease, and sank down onto her pillow.
Crowe sat as well. “Better?” he asked.
The Hive Page 18