by John Meaney
“I don't—” Yoshiko began.
Jana interrupted. “It was Rafael de la Vega.”
The receptionist twittered around them nervously, assuring them that the proctors would be here any second now. In fact, in one of the holo spheres above the polished desk, Yoshiko could see strobing blue rings sweeping across the dart-shaped outline of a flyer.
First priority—securing the grounds.
Maggie was looking agitated. She did not even have her video-globe active.
“What's wrong?” asked Yoshiko.
“The Baton Ceremony. We've ten minutes before it starts.”
“I don't understand.”
“Why do you think we're here? Hasn't anyone—?” Maggie hugged herself. “Obviously not.”
Yoshiko felt bewildered. She wanted to cry, to sit down and let her body tremble. But there was no time for that.
Edralix, tentatively, touched her shoulder.
“What is it, Edralix?”
From the corner of her eye, she could see Maggie growing pale. Sometimes, it was hard to remember how much in awe the Pilots were held.
“Oh, Edralix, this is Maggie Brown.” Yoshiko performed the introductions. “Maggie, Pilot Noviciate Edralix Corsdavin.”
“Er—Pleased to meet you, ma'am.”
“Thank you, s—” Maggie, obviously about to call him “sir,” stopped. She was at least half again his age.
Yoshiko felt a smile flicker across her face, despite the urgent manoeuvres she knew were taking place outside.
“Jana said—” Edralix looked in Jana's direction; she was by the desk, intent on the displays. “—we'll wait for the proctors. You two should go ahead.”
“I—”
“Come on.” Maggie, recovering her composure, took Yoshiko's uninjured arm. “We can't be late.”
They saw Xanthia on the way.
The hushed grey corridor led past a membrane tuned to transparency. Inside, solemnly waiting on observation seats, were Maggie's son, Jason, and a fair-haired girl, maybe two years older. In her lap, she held Jason's toy monkey.
“That's Amanda.” Maggie whispered, although their voices could not carry through the membrane. “Xanthia's soul-daughter. Her genetic daughter, too.”
Beyond the seats, separated from the children by another membrane, Xanthia sat.
Xanthia's eyes were locked on infinity, and her pale bare arms clutched herself, as her upper body swung back and forth in endless metronomic repetition. There was no light of intelligence in those eyes.
Yoshiko could only stand and stare at what had once been Xanthia.
“Come on.” Maggie's voice was gentle. “That's the ceremony up ahead.” She pointed to the far end of the corridor, where Luculenti were gathering in a small antechamber.
From behind, a voice called them to a halt.
Major Reilly, accompanied by the Pilots and half a dozen dark-uniformed proctors, was hurrying towards them.
“You've an important ceremony to attend,” Reilly said without preamble. “So I'm going to keep this short. You were fired at by Luculentus Rafael de la Vega, whom you suspect of having attacked Luculenta Xanthia Delaggropos—” Her eyes flickered to one side; she recognized the now-mindless Xanthia. “—through some sort of Luculentus communications channel. Is that correct?”
Yoshiko nodded.
“You saw him in the darkness?”
“No—I couldn't see a thing.”
“But—” Reilly turned to Jana. “You could see him?”
“Yes,” said Jana, and her eyes grew impossibly black.
“How well do you know him?”
“I have never met him. I saw a holostill, in a NewsNet item.”
“I see.” Reilly thrust out her square jaw pugnaciously, apparently unfazed by talking to two Pilots.
“Have you seen the video log?” asked Yoshiko.
“Yes. And that rather interesting diagram. Your son's role in this is still unclear.”
“I—didn't have to hand it over to you.”
Reilly looked hard at Yoshiko. “That's one reason I'm not pressing you on this.”
Yoshiko swallowed.
“Major—” began Maggie.
“I know. You can make a full statement later.” Reilly's voice was brisk. “Right now, you'd better get a move on.”
Yoshiko did not move.
“We're still searching outside,” Reilly continued. “When we find something—”
She stopped, seeing Yoshiko's frozen expression.
“Professor Sunadomari—Do you have any idea how many non-Luculenti get invited to a Baton Ceremony?” Her voice softened a little. “I'll wait for you.”
“OK.” Yoshiko swallowed.
“Come on.” Maggie took her arm.
The group of Luculenti in the antechamber had grown bigger. Jana and Edralix followed, as Yoshiko and Maggie joined them.
No one, as far as Yoshiko knew, had invited the Pilots. There were surreptitious glances from Luculenti, but no audible remarks.
“Professor. Thank God you're here.”
It was Septor, his face flushed and his stance unsteady, a half-empty glass in one hand.
“It's my privilege,” said Yoshiko.
Up close, she could see that his eyes were watery and mildly bloodshot.
“Maybe you can convince her not to go through with it.”
“Convince whom?” Yoshiko did not understand. “Of what?”
“Lori, of course,” Septor said, and he was almost in tears. “She's too young. It's far too soon.”
“Too soon?”
“Years too soon. She should live another decade, at the least.”
“Live?” asked Yoshiko stupidly.
Septor gulped from his glass, as a grey-uniformed medical attendant came up to him.
“I'm all right,” Septor said.
“I believe he means—” Jana's voice was soft. “—that Lori won't survive this Baton Ceremony, the passing on of memories. The soul-parent never does. Am I right?”
Septor looked away.
Yoshiko looked at Jana in shock. She was vaguely aware of Maggie standing open-mouthed beside her.
“I am right,” said Jana.
There was no satisfaction in her voice.
Dark and cold: a thousand tonnes of black water above him, and acceleration's unseen hand pressing him back into his seat, and the memory of bitter failure in his mind.
Pilots!
Not like the damned coconut shy. This time the target had bodyguards. Two Pilots. Who could have expected that?
Should he have tried to shoot them, once his faux-flitterbug assassin had failed? Well, it was done.
Damn it…
He had run, drenched in sweat, while stars whirled and split apart in the night-sky above him—a smartatom spiral, spinning overhead, breaking up his image. Found a crowded plaza, configured his mask, and boarded a Pariduan shuttle.
Running from his prey. And Yoshiko was still alive.
Webbing clawed him back into the seat as the spit-capsule slowed, popped out of the tunnel's end, and screeched to a halt. Brilliance flooded the stark chamber.
Home. It gave him no feeling of security.
The lift-tube took him up to the lounge.
Had the Pilots seen him?
No matter. He had to establish his alibi firmly, on the assumption that they had. The windows depolarized at his unspoken command, and he looked out at the orange-lit Zen garden and saw himself walking in the moonlight.
No Skein ghost-Rafael, this, but a holo which was visible in reality: visible to SatScan and passersby alike.
The holo-Rafael turned at his command and walked towards the house. The false image had been perambulating right to the edge of the grounds—close enough to the neighbouring fishing lodge to have been logged by its surveillance system.
Rafael's spectral alter ego did not waver as it reached the lounge window and appeared to step through the membrane.
The holo-Rafael di
ssolved. Just one more piece of misdirection.
None of this was foolproof. An analysis of Rafael's home would reveal the top-of-the-range hi-res projectors hidden outside, and the tunnel which ran beneath Lake Darintia to a small villa on the Pariduan foothills. 410
He had to buy time, to shore up his alibi.
A ghost-Rafael directed the house drones, under smartatom cover, to remove the projectors outside. Simultaneously, a second Rafael under direct control opened a SkeinLink session with Septor Maximilian.
<<
“All my best wishes, sir,” said Rafael in Skein, causing his image to bow formally. “Let us rejoice in this continuance, and give thanks for Lorelei's beautiful life among us.”
“My thanks, Rafael.” Septor replied as if by rote, his voice dead. “And Lori's, too.”
“At this time, my thoughts are with you.”
<<
He did not know the Maximilians well…but well enough to express his sympathy on the occasion of Lori's Baton Ceremony. Another small addition to the flimsy construct of his alibi.
Withdrawing from Skein, he felt its waves and eddies lapping at the edges of his consciousness. His questing NetAngels, his ghost-Rafaels, were like distant phantom limbs, sensed but autonomous.
A blaze of red, a howl of sound: emergency request. In Skein, a ghost-Rafael screamed into its master's mind, slamming its perceptions directly into Rafael's own, sharp and immediate:
THREAD ONE