"Five minutes, tops. You won't be sorry."
"I hope you're right."
Hari pulled up the call file from his deskscreen's memory core, selected CURRENT and INCOMING: CAVEA, and dragged the icon onto Clearlake's box on the screen. A progress bar popped up, slowly filling as the file began to upload.
It had reached only 7 percent completion when it self-terminated. Hari frowned. "What the fuck?"
"Hari, what is this crap? Some funny-looking bald elf yapping like a monkey, this is your hot story?"
"Give me a second," he muttered, but when he went to reselect INCOMING: CAVEA, a dialog box popped up on his screen.
THE SELECTED FILE CONTAINS MATERIAL THAT IS RATED CLASSIFICATION RED.
UPLOAD OF RED-RATED MATERIAL CONSTITUTES FELONY CORPORATE ESPIONAGE.
PENALTIES FOR FELONY CORPORATE ESPIONAGE INCLUDE UP TO TEN YEARS IN PRISON, FINES OF UP TO TEN MILLION MARKS, AND/OR PERMANENT DOWNCASTE TO WORKER STATUS.
CLICK OK TO ACKNOWLEDGE.
Hari moved the cursor to the radio button marked OK, and clicked it.
Another progress bar popped up, labeled DELETING RED-RATED FILES; it filled swiftly. Before he could even move the cursor to save the current feed to a new file, the feed wiped to black.
"Jed?" Hari said grimly. "I'm gonna have to get back to you on this."
He stabbed the cancel, and the box went blank. He sat very, very still for a long silent moment, thinking hard. Some netmonitor program must have been set for this; it wasn't hard to program a script to capture and respond to specific words or phrases on a netwide basis—that technology was almost two hundred years old. This one must have been set to capture references to HRVP on Overworld. That meant somebody knew this was going to happen.
That also meant he could guess who that somebody had to be. He was already in the shit. In deep.
He keyed the Security switchboard. "This is Michaelson. Put two guys in riot gear on the door of the Cavea techbooth. No, don't—specials, make them specials. Two specials in full gear. No one goes in or out until I get there."
"Acknowledged."
He punched a new code. The screen swirled into an image of Tan'elKoth's face. "I am otherwise engaged," the image told him. "Leave a message."
Hari entered his override sequence. "Tan'elKoth, acknowledge," he said. "Acknowledge, dammit. One goddamn question, all right?"
The screen cross-faded into a real-time image: Tan'elKoth scowled at him. "I am teaching," he said testily. "These are the hours that you, Caine, yourself assigned to my seminar. You should know better than to interrupt."
"Yeah, whatever. What do you know about HRVP?"
His scowl deepened, and he lowered his voice. "I am no physician," he murmured, "but I have read widely in the history of your civilization. Why?"
"No time for a long story. Got an Actor here who might've been exposed. What are the chances he could be infectious?"
"Exposed? How could this Actor have been exposed? And when? And to which strain?"
"If I wanted a bunch of useless fucking questions that I don't know the answers to," Hari said, "I would've called a real doctor."
"Mm, just so. Well. I would say—based upon my understanding that several strains of HRVP are capable of remaining potent in the environment for weeks—that yes, this Actor could possibly be infectious. He should certainly be isolated and undergo an antiviral regime before being allowed to make a transfer."
"Yeah," Hari said heavily. "It's a little bit late for that."
"What do you mean?" Tan'elKoth's eyes widened. "Caine? What do you mean, it's too late?"
"No time. Listen: I'm on my way over right now. Start pulling; I'm gonna need a little of your on-the-net magick."
"Caine, I am teach—"
"Dismiss the class. This is more important. Believe me. Get your shit together, Tan'elKoth. I'll explain everything when we get there." "We? Caine—"
He hit the cancel and rapidly entered one last code: his personal contact code for Shanna.
The look of annoyance fixed on her face when she answered would have stung him at any other time; right now he had bigger problems. "Shanna," he said. "Where are you right now?"
"I'm in the car," she said, in a if you weren't such an idiot you'd already know it tone. "I'm taking Faith to Fancon in Los Angeles this morning, remember? You coded the travel permit yourself"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, right. Shit," he said tiredly. Faith loved conventions, loved meeting her parents' devoted fans—loved getting the day off school at the Admacademy. Too bad, he thought. "She's with you now?"
Faith leaned into the video pickup's field wearing a sunny smile. "Hi, Daddy."
"Hi, honey. Listen, I'm really sorry, but we have to change your plans." Her face fell; watching disappointment gather in her sky-blue eyes cut Hari like a slow knife. "But we're going to Fancon—"
"Change plans?" Shanna said. "What are you talking about?" "Turn the car around. I need you here right away. Right now." "Hari, is this really important? I have a panel at 1400—"
"Yes, goddammit, this is important. People's lives are at stake. How fast can you get here?"
Her brows drew together. "It's that bad?"
"You can't even imagine," he said feelingly.
She glanced away from the screen, checking the car's position on the GPS map. "Fifteen minutes."
"But," Faith protested, her lower lip threatening tears, "but Fancon ..."
"Yeah, and uh, listen—" Hari scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands, trying to wipe away the sick dread that gathered in his throat. "Don't bring Faith. Drop her at home, and get your Pallas gear, all right?"
He refused to let himself be hurt by the spark of anticipation that danced in Shanna's eyes. "It's that kind of problem?" she asked slowly, like she was trying not to sound eager.
Faith, too, suddenly brightened. "Mommy's going back to the river?" "Yeah," Hari said.
"Wow," Faith said happily. "I thought we had to wait almost another month before we got to be together again. A month is a long rime!"
"Then you're all right about not going to the con?" Hari made himself ask.
"Uh-huh." She nodded brightly. "I get to have the river in my head instead. And you and Mommy won't be fighting all the time."
Shanna made a little grimace of apology through the screen; Hari waved it off. "Meet me at the Curioseum," he said. "At Tan'elKoth's place." He gave her a frown that asked her not to press for an explanation.
She nodded, that spark of anticipation now colored by a breath of wariness. "I'm on my way. Give me an extra fifteen to drop off Faith and get my gear. Take care of the permit."
"Yeah. See you."
He canceled the call and accessed the San Francisco travel site. It took him only seconds to register her new destination; as Chairman, he had the authority to code and alter travel permits for any Studio contractee.
It took him one more thoughtful moment to accidentally reinitialize his deskscreen's memory core. "Oops," he muttered flatly, as a keystroke erased all traces of his communications.
"Damn," he said. "I hate it when that happens."
He rose, and stretched to force blood into muscles stiff with long inactivity. Hey, how about that? he thought.
My fucking back doesn't hurt.
2
On his way out, Hari stopped at the desk of his assistant. "Gayle," he said, "there's something wrong with my deskscreen. I think I lost some data. Can you look at it for me?"
Gayle Keller peered up at him and blinked; he had a round face, close-set eyes, and a long nose that made him look like a nearsighted rat. Keller had been Arturo Kollberg's assistant; Hari had despised him for years, and six years of closer association had only intensified the feeling. He was pretty sure Keller supplemented his Studio paycheck by keeping the Social Police up to date on Hari's activities, and it wasn't even a secret that Keller filed regular confidential reports with the Studio's Board of Governors. Shortly after becoming Chairman, Hari had begun
proceedings to have Keller replaced—until he'd received a call from Westfield Turner himself, who'd reminded him heavy-handedly just how difficult it is to find a quality assistant, after all. Keller was, in Hari's clinically unbiased opinion, an unctuous lying little fuck.
"Administrator?" he said, looking politely puzzled. "Perhaps I should calla tech?"
"Aw, come on, Gayle." Hari forced a grin, looking as good-natured as he could manage. "You've been working with this system for twenty years. Where are you gonna find a tech who knows it better than you do? Just have a look, huh? If you can't fix it, go ahead and call MIS."
Keller pushed himself back from his desk with an irritated little sigh, got up, and went into Hari's office. As soon as he was out of sight within, Hari started fiddling with the keypad to Keller's deskscreen. "See, all I did was something like this—"
"Don't touch that!" Keller suddenly appeared in the doorway. "I mean, please, Administrator—"
"Oops," Hari said. "Guess I know what not to do, huh?"
"Here, let me—"
"No, no problem," Hari said. "Here, all you have to do is—" and another couple of keystrokes reloaded the previous day's backup. Mod-ern lasergel-core memory has none of the flaws of the antique magnetic media that it had replaced. Core data is 100 percent stable, but it's also nonpersistent: reinitialization physically scrambles the gel medium. Once the core was overwritten by the intersecting UV lasers, no data-recovery software on Earth could recreate whatever Keller had recorded of Hari's communications.
Keller glared at him, his piggy little eyes gleaming with suspicion. "You did that on purpose," he said tightly.
Hari shrugged. "I can't seem to get the hang of this new software."
"I don't believe that. I don't believe that for one second. I don't know what you're up to, but I have a duty to the Board—"
"Hey, my fault. I'm sorry," Hari said easily, stepping close to look down into the little man's eyes. "I screwed up. When you make your report, I guess you should remind the Board that the only thing I was ever really good at is killing people with my bare hands."
He looked long and deeply into Keller's eyes, until he saw the threat settle there and begin to work its magic on his attitude.
Hari left while Keller was still trying to come up with some kind of reply.
3
Rover waited with gleaming patience at the open door of Hari's private lift. It was a five-minute walk from the lift to the Cavea's techbooth. Rover whirred precisely two paces behind his left heel.
He stopped outside the door. The two Security specials stood motion-less to either side like a pair of caryatid columns, power rifles held diagonally across their chests at parade rest. Hari stood for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"I am Chairman Administrator Hari Khapur Michaelson," he said. The specials replied in flat unison, "You are recognized."
The back of his neck always tingled when he came close to a special; he remembered too well the time one of these cyborged bastards shot him in the head. He could still feel the hammer of gelslugs against his skull every time he looked at one. The cyborg yokes around their necks overrode their higher cognitive functions, making them incorruptible, robotically faithful in the performance of their duties, and incapable of disobeying an order.
"Allow no one except myself to enter or leave this room without my express authorization."
"Acknowledged."
Walking between them still gave him a twinge.
Inside the booth, the two techs stared at him like nervous puppies, wondering if they were in trouble; they rose as he entered, respectfully silent.
Hari nodded to them. He glanced through the glass reflexively, into the Cavea; the thousand or so empty first-hander berths out there tied a brief knot in the pit of his stomach; shit, Caine had sold out the Cavea every Adventure for ten years—now he had ten Actors at once working out of SF's main hall and they could only pull four thousand between them. And god only knew how many of the private boxes that climbed the walls were empty.
He shook it off. None of that counted right now.
He scanned the curving bank of POV screens until he found Rossi's. The show was still going on: now each time Rossi's gaze settled upon a body, shadowy ghost-images of that person's living days played around it. Translucent mothers cradled half-seen infants; cloudy children skipped and laughed and threw apple cores at each other; youths spun of smoke and cobwebs played plaintive love songs, wrote poetry, and stole away together among the blasted, dying trees.
And through each shape, as through half-melted glass, could be seen the bloated, raven-picked corpse, blackened with decay, that was the end of each bright smile and mother's kiss.
"You've guessed by now that what you are seeing is a Fantasy—what humans call illusion. There will be those who will try to tell you that Fantasy is the opposite of reality, that it is the same as lies, that what you have seen is impossible—that it is a lie because it is a Fantasy. I tell you this is not so.
"It is the greatest gift of my people, that we can bring our dreams to life for other eyes. Fantasy is a tool; like any tool, it may be used poorly or well. At its best Fantasy reveals truths that cannot be shown any other way."
"This is a Fantasy of what I'm asking you to fight. This is a Fantasy of the Blind God."
Hari frowned at the screen and made a faint, thoughtful hissing noise between this teeth. This was the second time Hansen had mentioned this blind god—or was it the Blind God? He'd heard about this before, somewhere, or maybe read it ... One of his father's books? Maybe. He'd ask Duncan about it when he got the chance; he might know the reference.
Hari nodded toward the screen. "Get ready to pull him. On my mark"
"Pull him—?" The techs exchanged worried frowns. "What for? He doesn't even have an audience."
"Just do it, Technician. That's an order."
"Administrator, we can't do that not with the native there. It's an exposed transfer—the Kollberg Rule—"
"Fuck the Kollberg Rule," Hari said distinctly. He thought of one of Duncan's dicta: All authority, political or otherwise, is ultimately a cloak for naked force—and sometimes you have to remind people of that. "I'll give you a choice. You can pull him because it's a direct order, or—"
"But the rule—"
"Or," Hari overrode him, "you can pull him because one of those specials outside has a power rifle jammed against the back of your head. Any questions?"
The tech squinted like a kid flinching away from his father's fist. "No, sir," he said, and turned back to his board.
Hari looked at the other. "And you?"
"Me? I, I, I didn't say nothing. Sir."
"All right, then."
He stared expressionlessly into the tech's eyes until this one, too, turned to his board.
Now on the POV screen, the elf was back in view.
"And I, at least, am no Fantasy."
The elf reached toward Rossi's face, his hand vanishing below the Actor's peripheral vision.
"I am real. Feel my touch. I am here. In the name of all that both our peoples hold sacred, I ask for your help."
Hari listened with only half his attention; with the elf's voice to cover any small noises he might make, he thumbed the reject on one of the dual gravers that recorded Rossi's Adventure. When the cube popped up, he palmed it and swiftly replaced it with a blank from the rack below.
His teeth showed through a particular variety of grin he hadn't used in nearly seven years. "Y'know what?" he said. "I think you're right about that exposed transfer."
The techs flicked brief glances at each other, afraid to be caught looking away from their screens.
"Sir?" one of them said.
"Yeah. It's not worth the risk. Pull him at your first opportunity, and then get his ass back into his storyline ASAP. Call Scripting and have them work out the transition; have a faxpack ready for him. Then we can just forget any of this ever happened, huh?"
4
The scre
en showed the animated image of the friendly stenographer that indicated an open channel to the automated recording function of the Report Center. With what he imagined to be cool, professional competence, Gayle Keller made his report.
"At 1017 this morning, visual transmission resumed from J'Than aka Francis Allen Rossi," he said, reading from his notes. He pitched his voice toward his best imitation of the smooth tones of a professional broadcaster; he liked to imagine that occasionally the Board of Governors themselves played his recordings, and in his fond imaginings he saw a dozen Leisurefolk, faceless With absolute power, listening intently around a long oval table—they would nod to each other, favorably impressed with the skill of his delivery and his rich, round vocal tones
"In what was later determined to be an illusion, J'Than aka Rossi appeared to be in an elven village, which had been destroyed by what was claimed to be an outbreak of HRVP on Overworld. This was reported directly to Chairman Michaelson from the techbooth; immediately on learning of the supposed HRVP outbreak, Chairman Michaelson undertook several real-time communications. Following this, he forcibly erased all record of his transactions from his own desk's memory core, and from that of this reporter. He also threatened this reporter with bodily injury or death."
There, Keller thought smugly. The Board would make certain Michaelson couldn't escape the consequences of such behavior.
"Chairman Michaelson then proceeded to the Cavea's techbooth, where—once again under the threat of bodily injury or death—he ordered the duty tech to perform a transfer that may have been exposed, in violation of the Kollberg Rule—"
He was interrupted by an attention chime from the speaker on his deskscreen.
"Artisan Gayle Keller. You are instructed to remain at your current screen. Hold for voice communication from the Adventures Unlimited Board of Governors."
Keller gagged, then coughed convulsively, spraying spit across his deskscreen. In sudden panic, seeing in his head an irrational vision of the Board staring out at him, knowing they had just been spit upon, he wiped frantically at the screen with the sleeve of his jumpsuit and nearly put his elbow right through it. He had imagined this event so many times that even now, he wasn't sure it was actually happening—but he guessed this must be real.
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