by John Meaney
Laura had been impressed with how fast the commissioner moved when things came to a head. He'd led the escape from his office when Eyes—Marnie Finross—had trapped everyone inside; he'd directed Laura and the Vixen to hunt down Finross on the streets; and, somehow, he had uncovered the extra information that had led Laura and Donal to the Senate in Fortinium, where Blanz had assumed the form of another senator.
*Hundredth floor. Last chance to change your mind.*
“Why would I—?”
But she had already shoved him out into the vestibule.
“Later, Gertie.”
*Good luck, lover.*
Things had changed. Rows of desks filled the open office space. Each desk contained three or more surveillance screens—lens-fronted mirrors, linked by transparent cables to complex glass domes in the ceiling. Uniformed officers, mostly female, were watching the screens.
A handful of plainclothes guys were huddled around one desk, watching while the surveillance operator flicked stone switches, following some suspect's movement across crowded Hoardway, down into a Pneumetro station.
“Can I help you, Lieutenant?” asked a pretty young officer.
“I'm hoping to see the Old Man.”
“The commissioner's usually busy first thing in the morning”—she looked down at a wraith-written list—“but there's a note saying if you turn up, you can go straight in.” Her smile was bright. “Guess you're one of the privileged, sir.”
“I guess.” Donal gestured to the rows of monitors. “How's all this working out?”
“Getting better every day. Don't know how one person managed it.”
She meant Eyes.
“And did she? Manage it?”
“Well …” The young officer glanced toward the plainclothes team. “We can surveil suspects without using scanbats. No one really thought of doing it before. Not systematically.”
“You guys know what happened to Eyes?”
“Sir?”
“I'm just asking what the scuttlebutt is.”
“Hard to know what's rumor and what's fact.” She tapped her desk. “Word is, Eyes is in a catatonic trance inside a secure ward somewhere. And that she had something to do with Senator Blanz, and Dr. d'Alkernay's murder. And what happened to Commander Steele.”
“That's all true,” said Donal.
“Oh.”
He smiled at her, and she smiled back. It should have been a light-hearted moment, except that Donal was microcalibrating his body language to match hers. When the difference between unconscious action and conscious control was lost, was it possible ever to act naturally? Or must everything a zombie did become manipulation?
And yet, it might prove useful for Donal to have a friend inside the new Surveillance Department.
Laura. I wish I could ask you for advice.
“Take it easy,” he told the young officer.
“And you, sir.”
He walked past the surveillance desks, and stopped before a massive portal formed of black iron. This was new to him. The commissioner's previous office, which Eyes had attacked, remained inaccessible, sealed off from normal reality.
Iron doors pulled back, and Donal stepped into a short tunnel. The walls flexed, as though about to swallow him, the outer doors closed with a muted clang, then the inner doors parted. What remained was a circular opening—the word Donal thought of was orifice—around which a multitude of narrow, wriggling ciliaserpents moved. Their toxin, once injected, would take immediate effect, setting into motion a slow biochemical shutdown, a death as agonizing as rending by hookwraiths.
“Come inside, Lieutenant.” It was Commissioner Vilnar's voice.
“Sir.”
The ciliaserpents withheld their poison bites, allowing Donal through. A black iron chair—its arms, back, and four legs formed of curved, pointed, dark metallic sheets—walked across the stone floor and stopped in front of him. It seemed livelier these days, since it had faced danger alongside the commissioner—and Laura—when Marnie Finross had detonated hexplosive charges to cover her escape.
“Take a seat.”
It was more a matter of the seat taking him. Donal sat down, and the chair walked with mincing steps toward its master's desk, then stopped. The commissioner's huge scale-covered chair rotated until the commissioner faced Donal.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant.” His blocky face was expressionless. “You and I are going to City Hall, the day after tomorrow.”
“City Hall?”
“So you can receive your commendation from His Honor, the mayor.”
“Oh.”
“Don't fool yourself, Lieutenant. Once the publicity dies down, the knives will be out.”
On the main driveway before Tristopolis City Hall, a park-keeper-janitor was raking the bonestones, while his nonectoplasmic wraith companion drifted alongside. The man stopped, holding his rake, and stared up at the huge, skull-shaped central building.
Formed of petrified bone, it had existed for three millennia, maybe more. Scholars argued—the parkkeeper-janitor had heard them when they visited—but none had truly determined the constructs origins. Rising some 350 feet above the grounds of Möbius Park, it sat amidst a strange dark treescape laid out in interlocking twisted loops.
All around, inside those shadowed areas, translucent forms drifted, glowing crimson or lilac as their moods and hunger changed. They were ectoplasma wraiths, far different from the parkkeeper-janitor's companion. Their bodies manifested as the seventh state of matter, ravening with the need to subsume physical, living mass. Subsisting off a deep-buried power grid that existed only to feed them, they always wanted more.
Few intruders escaped the guardian wraiths of Möbius Park.
Only the gravel roadways were protected from the wraiths, and venomous gargoyles drifted over those roads, on guard. Their perches were on the wings of City Hall, two arcing additions to the original skull, each of them nineteen stories tall, filled with municipal offices and, some said, secret installations where only mage-adepts might enter and survive.
The parkkeeper-janitor shook his head, as his wraith companion drew closer, billowing.
*What's the next event?*
“Some presentation, day after tomorrow.” The man leaned on his rake. “Usual kinda crap. Mayor and his cronies. Speeches. News paper guys.”
*Maybe I should take a peek.*
“Ya can't be that bored.”
*Probably not.*
Gargoyles were gathering above a roadway. Perhaps there was the sound of motors.
“Someone coming. Guess I'll get outta their way.”
Three dark saloons with silvered windows came slowly along the gravel, tracked overhead by gargoyles. As the cars halted, flame -wraiths rose on either side of the main steps: both an honor guard and a further layer of protection.
“Private security,” muttered the parkkeeper-janitor. “Them guys.”
The men exited. Dark suits and cropped hair were enough to identify them. At this distance, the tiepins and cuff links, bearing the super imposed U and P of the Unity Party, were impossible to make out.
*I'm gone.*
“You don't have to—”
The wraith was sinking down into the gravel.
*Later.*
“—go.”
With a long exhalation, the parkkeeper-janitor swung his rake, and returned to his endless task. He did not look up from the gravel as the visitors entered the main skull of City Hall. He already knew the hard-faced bastards would be scanning him, the flamewraiths, and everything in sight.
Freaky bastards.
But he said nothing as he continued to rake, only relaxing when the full complement of security men had disappeared inside the building.
Donal shifted his weight forward onto his feet. The black iron chair quivered, as though about to restrain him; but Commissioner Vilnar shook his head. The chair grew still, allowing Donal to stand up.
“Feeling restless?” The commissioner looked at him wit
hout expression. “Or were you expecting to feel safe here?”
“Not what I was pinning my hopes on.”
Donal walked across the room, and stopped before the stone cre-denza. On top of it was something new: a large brass orrery, powered by clockwork. Small spheres representing the planets moved along rods bent into near-circular orbits.
“Prometheus.” Donal touched the innermost planet, then the next. “Venus. Earth. Mars. Oberon.” The next two were encircled with rings. “Jupiter. Saturn.” And, far out from the others: “Poseidon, and Hel.”
“Check out the rotation.”
It was a strange thing for Commissioner Vilnar to say. Donal focused on the brass Venus. It appeared to be a solid sphere running along a horizontal rod, but it was rotating on its north-south axis. The brass was liquid, ensorcelled.
“Is the whole thing to scale?” asked Donal.
“No. But the ratio of daily rotation to annual orbit is correct for every planet.”
“I can see that.” Donal turned back to face Vilnar. “Nice toy.”
There was the tiniest movement of muscles around Vilnar's eyes. He was processing Donal's casual comment: that Donal could see that the orrery was exactly correct. No living human could have made that judgment without a magnifying lens and several days’ observation.
“And what else do you see, Lieutenant?”
“I see a police department with trouble brewing, if there are Unity Party recruiters inside the force as well as City Hall.”
“Hmm. And what if I said I agree with you?”
Donal thought back to Vilnar's words: The knives will be out. A warning, but the kind that came from an ally or an enemy?
“So what about the team?”
“The task force was federal.” Vilnar rubbed his temple, ran a hand across his shaved scalp. “Without Commander Steele, I'm waiting for the federal liaison to make a decision. For the time being, Commander Bowman will assume command responsibility for you and your team members. But that does not mean the task force is operational, understand?”
“Sir? Commander Bowman has Robbery-Haunting to run, but we could still—”
“Do nothing until authorized.”
“Understood.”
“Hades, Donal.” Vilnar hadn't used Donal's first name before. “You want Blanz to die for killing Laura, and you want to get Cortindo for setting the thing in motion. But Cortindo was in Illurium when he disappeared, and another country is about as out of our juris diction as it gets.”
“He might be back in Federation territory.”
“And he might not be. I've not even heard about Blanz's progress, about when he'll be able to stand trial.”
“I thought I'd killed him.” Donal remembered the rage as he clawed at Blanz's eyes. “Can mages regrow eyes?”
“I don't know. Here's a more pertinent question: can zombies testify before a supreme jury?”
“Of course—” Donal stopped. “You think the law might be about to change?”
“See here.” Vilnar raised his bulky form out of his chair. “There's a moon missing from the orrery.”
He pointed into the brass model.
“All right.” Donal had never known the Old Man to take so long getting to the point. “Is this some mystic thing?”
“Only to the mathematically challenged.” Vilnar's fingertip sketched a path around the tiny Poseidon. “There's an irregular lumpy moon, not remotely spherical, that tumbles unpredictably, even though its orbit is predictable.”
“Excuse me? That doesn't hang together.”
“If the orrery included it, you could forecast where on its orbit the moon was, but not which way up it was pointing.”
Donal said nothing.
“It can tumble in an instant,” Vilnar continued. “Remember how Greater Alritel's inflation went to two thousand percent in days? Or don't you read the foreign news section?”
“You're trying to tell me that things can change suddenly, is that it?”
“Hmm. And what else have you worked out?”
“That you haven't asked me what I found in the Westside Complex. So either you don't care, or you assume I found nothing. And you went to a lot of trouble for something you don't seem to care about.”
Vilnar almost smiled.
“I expected you to find the safe empty, since Braune”—he meant the forcibly retired Energy Authority director—“found his house had been burgled around the time I was writing you that note. I considered rescinding the order, but I thought you might still find something of interest. Did you find anything?”
So it really had been Vilnar writing on the all-time pad. Donal had been almost certain—enough to follow the instructions—but he could have been wrong. The Black Circle included mages of high ability, Malfax Cortindo included.
“I did find an empty safe.” Donal tapped the tiny brass Poseidon in the model. “I also found a bunch of businessmen from an Illurian power company, demonstrating how they could hook their generators into the Tristopolis grid.”
“Illurian.”
“Yeah. You know how they generate power?”
“I read your report. All of it.”
“The Illurians had a portable generator here,” Donal said. “With kids inside.”
“Thanatos.” Vilnar's blocky body seemed to expand, revealing the physical power he still possessed, despite the years that had passed since he'd worked the streets. “How can an entire country close its eyes to what's going on?”
“Huh. That Illurian cop, Temesin. You know what he said to me? ‘At least we bury our dead.’ He maybe had a point.”
“Maybe. All right, Lieutenant. That's good work. Did the Energy Authority look like they were going for the deal?”
“Their Dr. Grayfell was. Some of the others were a little shocked when they found out how the generator worked. I don't know if that'll make a difference.”
“I'm surprised the Illurians explained the mechanism.”
Donal smiled. “It wasn't their idea, exactly. I accidentally tripped, and grabbed a switch to steady myself.”
“Ah. Too bad about your balance problem.”
“I'll write everything up and—”
“No need. Are there any other details you can think of?”
“None spring to mind.” Donal was fully alert again. “If you wanted to communicate in secret before, why is it all right for me to be here now? But not to write up a report?”
This office must be secure, or the commissioner wouldn't be talking like this. Perhaps after Marnie Finross, there were doubts about other officers. Or did it go further than doubt?
“I need to distance myself from you, but there's an overt reason for this meeting. You'll find an official letter on your desk, but in cases like this, I always see the officer involved in person.”
“Involved in what?”
“In receiving that commendation from Mayor Dancy himself. City Hall, day after tomorrow, at thirteen o'clock sharp. Rendezvous in the parking garage down below, two hours in advance. You'll travel with me.”
“Um, sure.”
“You don't look enthusiastic. I'm also accepting a posthumous award on behalf of Laura Steele.”
Laura. Oh, Hades.
“That's good, I guess.”
“It doesn't help.” Vilnar's voice went surprisingly soft. “I know that. But they damn well ought to remember.”
“Remember that a zombie died in the line of duty? Half of the bastards there will probably say she died years ago. That what Blanz blew apart was some kind of thing.”
“So long as it's only half of them,” said Vilnar, “we're winning the battle.”
Donal took a second to think about the meaning of we and battle. There was a political agenda here, taking him completely out of his depth.
So what am I going to do? Ignore it?
“I'll buy a new suit for the occasion.”
“Good. Perhaps we'll make a politician of you yet.”
“If you say so.�
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“Get out of here, Riordan. See what you can do about keeping up your team's morale.”
“You mean Laura's team.”
“I mean the team that Commander Bowman's running pro tem. And you, I'll see on Sepday morning.”
“Sir.”
Donal looked at the orrery, thinking how odd it was that planetary positions could be predicted a million years ahead, while the events of the next two days appeared uncertain. Or perhaps that was Vilnar's point.
Then he walked to the door, and waited until it sucked open. At that point, perhaps a living human would have looked back at Vilnar. Donal stepped straight into the throatlike tunnel.
At the same time, a group of dark-suited men stood in the main atrium of City Hall. They looked at one another, saying nothing, then fanned out. They crossed the polished petrified-bone floor, walking over the inlaid iron pattern: the federal Salamander-and-Eagle. On seven sides, wide staircases rose up to the next level. At least one man ascended each staircase. Most were carrying fist-size hex detectors: white-gold, egg-shaped miniature cages in which embryonic banshees lay quiescent. If they sensed malevolent ensorcellment beyond the normal security parameters of this place, they would wail an alarm no one could ignore.
Overhead, a flock of miniature white bats fluttered, keeping watch on these private security men who could afford banshees and other expensive gear. The bats were part of City Hall's own internal surveillance, passing their sensory information back to the three on-duty mages sitting in a security chamber in the core of what would have been the gigantic skull's cerebellum, had a living brain occupied it.
Some of the bats followed each security man, including the solo individual on Ninth Corridor, where regimental banners and antique weapons of the Battling 303s were arranged in splendid layouts on the walls, and in glass-fronted display cases. Old spears and sniper rifles radiated from beaten helmets, like martial flowers in a weaponry garden.
The man—he looked chunky and muscular, his plain suit expensive, like those of his colleagues—stopped to examine a banner, its dark stains a history of blood spilled and long-forgotten honor maintained or lost. He appeared not to notice the tiny white bats fluttering overhead.