Tangled Up in Blue

by Joan D. Vinge

  The Ondinean woman who had been waiting before to see the Queen stood beside her now, like night beside day, dressed in the same pragmatic style that Devony remembered. Both the Ondinean’s blue-violet gaze and the agate-eyed gaze of the Queen were fixed on her, measuring and more than a little curious.

  She had come to the palace this time wearing the persona of a Winter clanswoman; she had not let herself think too much about why she had chosen a face so close to her own, even though the sensenet was not imaging her own face. She saw the Ondinean’s glance catch on the Queen’s necklace, which she was wearing too, as she had worn it every waking moment since Arienrhod had given it to her. “Your Majesty.”

  “Devony … you have more news.” Arienrhod smiled her approval, and gestured at the woman beside her. “This is Mundilfoere; what you have to say may concern certain interests that we share. In any case, speak freely.”

  Devony glanced again at the Ondinean, made unexpectedly self-conscious by the other woman’s silent appraisal. She looked back at Arienrhod. “Nyx LaisTree came to see me this afternoon.”

  “Did he?” Arienrhod’s smile widened. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted … someone to talk to.”

  Arienrhod exchanged a look with the Ondinean. “What did he want to talk to you about?”

  Devony accessed her memory files and repeated the conversation. The two women listened intently, neither smiling nor interrupting. And yet for the first time since she had begun to give information to the Queen, the words left a bitter taste in her mouth. She told herself it was the presence of a stranger that bothered her; that nothing she repeated here would harm Nyx LaisTree; that he would never even know how she had used his vulnerability, or violated his trust.

  “And then he said … he said, ‘I just want to remember. I just want to forget.…’” She touched the jewel in its cage of filament, suddenly too aware of its pressure against her throat.

  The Queen and Mundilfoere exchanged glances again. “And…?” Arienrhod murmured.

  Devony felt herself flush, glad that her reaction was hidden from their sight.

  “And that was the end of our conversation.” Keeping the emotion out of her voice took more effort. She pressed on, before either woman could ask her anything further. “After he left, a Kharemoughi Police sergeant named Gundhalinu came and questioned me. The Police are watching LaisTree, following him … but I don’t think he knows that.” She realized what that implied only now, as she spoke the words.

  “Sergeant Gundhalinu?” the Queen said. She made a small, amused noise. Devony looked at her in curiosity.

  “He used to accompany Inspector PalaThion when she made her monthly reports to me. I know him.” Arienrhod made a dismissive gesture, but Mundilfoere fixed Devony with a pensive stare that only worsened her discomfort.

  “What kind of questions did he ask?” Arienrhod said.

  Devony repeated their conversation. The tendrils of her unease grew as she saw the change that came over each woman’s face when she said, “And then he asked me about the necklace—the one you gave me.”

  Mundilfoere leaned forward. “What did he say about it?”

  “That it looked like Old Empire technology. He asked who gave it to me.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Yes. Was that wrong—?” she asked, suddenly doubting her judgment about everything she had said and done since she entered the room.

  “No,” Mundilfoere said. “No, that was exactly the right thing to say.” She leaned over and murmured something to the Queen.

  Arienrhod smiled faintly. “Devony, I want you to let me know as soon as LaisTree regains his memory. I want to know everything he says.”

  “Why?” Devony asked. Her voice echoed in the sudden silence. She looked down in confusion and embarrassment. “I mean … I’m sorry, Your Majesty—”

  “He may have information about something that belongs to me.” The Queen waved aside Devony’s stumbling apology. “Something that disappeared on the night of the warehouse massacre.”

  Devony looked up in surprise. She swallowed the question already forming on her lips. If Arienrhod wanted her to know more about it, Arienrhod would have told her. “But I’m not even certain that he’s coming back, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen smiled. “He’ll come back. If you want them to badly enough, they always do.”

  Devony glanced down again, not sure of whom the Queen was speaking, or if she was simply speaking in generalities.

  “Thank you, Devony.” Arienrhod nodded in dismissal.

  As she began to turn away, Mundilfoere said, “Wait.”

  Devony turned back.

  “Change,” Mundilfoere said. “I want to see you change, before you go.”

  Surprised again, Devony subvocalized instructions to her sensenet’s CPU. She watched as the change spread up her hands and arms in a rippling wave, until her skin was the exact shade of the Ondinean’s—knowing, without needing to see it, that her face had transformed into the perfect image of Mundilfoere’s.

  Mundilfoere stared at her with amused fascination. “Very impressive.…” she said. “Thank you.”

  Devony bowed, already becoming an anonymous Winter clanswoman again. She left the room, and the palace, as quickly as she dared.

  11

  Tree shut down the port and rubbed his eyes, fighting the urge to rip the layer of bandageskin from his itching face.

  If only he knew half what Staun had known—about data searches, or about human nature—he would have found his key by now. But he didn’t even know what he was looking at, any more, let alone what he was looking for.…

  He got up slowly, stretched tentatively, trying to ease the tightness of his muscles—gasped and doubled over as the movement impaled him on a red-hot spear of agony. He leaned on the desktop, swearing helplessly until the worst of it passed.

  Pressing his arm against his side, he shuffled out of the office and back down the hall. He stopped at the dispatch desk, where KraiVieux was still on duty.

  “How did it go?” KraiVieux glanced up from the report he was inputting on his terminal. “Did you find anything that helped you?”

  “I don’t know.” Tree shook his head. The more he studied the data, the less sense it seemed to make … the less he understood why Jashari had put him through an emotional hell to match his physical one. The circumstantial evidence said he’d never even seen what hit them; and that none of them had been guilty of anything more than common vandalism. “I can’t…”

  “Go home. Sleep on it,” KraiVieux said gently. “Ye gods, Tree, I don’t know what the hell you’re doing out of bed at all.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re a walking wound. I took the liberty of checking your medical records—” KraiVieux gestured at the screen as Tree frowned. “Nisha’s cooked up a pot of tapola for you; it’ll do you good. I’ll send somebody over with it tomorrow. Meanwhile, for the love of All Saints, just get some rest.”

  Tree looked down, nodding. “Thanks, Sarge.” He left the dispatch desk, heading for the exit; he tried not to limp too badly where the others could see him.

  “Take it easy, boy,” KraiVieux called after him. “It’ll all come out in the wash.”

  Tree looked back over his shoulder. Unless it’s a whitewash—

  He staggered as a chink in the wall of his inner vision suddenly opened on the monstrous, bloody-eyed face of Truth, and it struck him blind.

  A cold flood of panic swept through him, sweeping his vision clear. Shaken, dazed, he reached for the double doors, for the way out—

  “Hey, LaisTree.” Someone caught his arm, pulling him back around. “Congratulations!”

  He found himself staring at TierPardée. “What—?” he said stupidly. “For what?”

  “Getting that bloodsucker Jashari off your back. Getting out of the hospital. How come you didn’t call anybody?”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I just … couldn’t. I—” H
e looked down at TierPardée’s uniform, waved a hand at his own clothes.

  “Look, that’s okay,” TierPardée said, easing off. “We’re just glad you’re out … you know. Come on down to the rec room. We got some major new entertainment that’ll cheer you up.”

  Tree shook his head, groping for an excuse that would let him refuse; he was too stupefied even to think about a drunken evening of playing interactives in the rec room. But all his burned-out brain would give him was the memory of his apartment: empty, wreckage-strewn, haunted by his brother’s unshriven ghost. “Sure,” he mumbled. “Sounds good.”

  He let TierPardée lead him down the hall to the room set aside for social gatherings, and endured the noisy welcome of the off-duty Blues already there. He was relieved to see that they were all Newhaveners. The Kharemoughis tended to go to the Survey Hall further down the Street. There was something about Kharemoughis and Survey: they acted as if they’d invented it, and maybe they had—it was dull enough, from what he’d seen.

  From what he’d seen … he’d seen something … he knew something, about Survey, and Kharemoughis.…

  “Shit!” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as memories flickered like heat lightning at the borders of his consciousness.

  “Tree, you all right—?”

  “—you okay?”

  “You need something—?”

  He blinked the room and its occupants back into focus, shaking his head. “Just need to sit down.…”

  Abruptly he found himself in a chair, and somebody was passing him a bowl of fried rinds. He stuffed a handful into his mouth, chewing, swallowing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.

  He sat eating rinds and drinking hot, overbrewed tea, watching from a distance that had nothing to do with the size of the room as the others unloaded a crate of new interactive gear.

  He felt his curiosity stir as he satisfied his hunger, and saw them unpacking headsets, gloves … other equipment a lot more expensive and sophisticated than anything he was used to seeing, or using.

  And yet he had seen gear like that somewhere, recently. Not here, and not at someone else’s place … not even at a gaming hell in the Maze, because he never went into those places off-duty anymore; it had always cost him too much of his pay—

  “What the hell is this thing?” someone asked, holding up a cobweb of filament. “Some kind of jerkoff device?” Laughter.

  “That is a piece of shit,” TierPardée announced. “Doesn’t interface with any system I’ve ever seen. RigaNaren, you never took that back to the storeroom, like I told you?”

  “No. You just said to forget about it.”

  “Pardée?” Tree pushed up out of his seat. “Where did you get this stuff? You got this from the storeroom? Is this evidence from the warehouse massacre—?” The others turned to look at him as he crossed the room toward them. He saw them glance at each other, heard somebody mutter “Fuck.…”

  “Tree—” TierPardée intersected his trajectory, slowing him down. “Ye gods, I didn’t realize … it was just seized contraband; you know we borrow that stuff from the storeroom all the time. We never stopped to think that maybe it was—”

  “—from the massacre?” Tree felt his disbelief curdle into fury. “You sons of bitches!” he shouted, shoving his way forward. TierPardée caught him again, keeping him away from the crate of equipment. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with that? Did you remember to wipe off the blood before you used it? Was the blood still wet?”

  “Tree, take it easy, for gods’ sakes,” TierPardée said desperately, as two other men grabbed Tree’s arms, trying to hold him back.

  Tree wrenched free, driven by the goad of his pain. He elbowed his way through the men who were hastily throwing contraband gear back into the crate. “Get your fucking hands off that.” He picked up the unidentifiable piece of mesh from the tabletop, and tried to toss it into the box. It clung to his hand like cobweb, until finally he stuffed it into his pocket. Clutching the fabric of his jacket he pulled his hand free, swearing. He picked up the box, shoved his way back through the ring of embarrassed and guilt-stricken faces, and left the room.

  He took the crate through the halls directly to the storage annex. As he entered the check-in area he saw someone already waiting there, a Kharemoughi sergeant.

  The other man glanced up as he dropped the crate heavily on the counter.

  “Gundhalinu—?” Tree felt the resentment and unforgiving grief inside him harden into a knot of hatred. “What are you doing here?”

  Gundhalinu looked at the box on the counter, and back at him. “I could ask you the same thing, LaisTree,” he said, his eyes filling with suspicion. “And with a lot more reason.” He reached for the crate.

  Tree blocked his motion, shoving the crate out of Gundhalinu’s reach. “KindaSul!” he shouted. The property clerk’s name echoed and reechoed through the high-ceilinged storeroom.

  “Keep your shirt on!” an aggrieved voice bellowed, from somewhere deep in the interior.

  “Move aside,” Gundhalinu said, his eyes cold. “I want to look at what’s in that crate.” He stepped forward.

  “Get out of my face, Tech.” Tree shoved him back.

  “Hey! Hey—” KindaSul emerged from the storage area and laid claim to the crate. “What do you think you’re doing? You damage any evidence, I’ll throw you both in a cell. Together!” He leaned across the counter, glaring at them.

  Gundhalinu subsided and backed off; he looked relieved.

  Tree shook out his fists, propped his shaking body against the edge of the counter. “Try keeping this locked up, instead.” He jerked his head at the crate of equipment.

  “What is this?” KindaSul asked, frowning.

  “And what are you doing with it?” Gundhalinu added sourly.

  “It’s part of the contraband seized at the warehouse massacre.” Tree kept his voice steady and his gaze fixed on KindaSul. “It was in the rec room.”

  “The rec room?” Gundhalinu repeated, in disbelief. “For how long?”

  KindaSul took in Gundhalinu’s expression, and turned back to Tree. His annoyance was visible. “Didn’t happen while I was on duty,” he said.

  “Give me that container.” Gundhalinu reached for the crate.

  KindaSul shoved it at him without comment. Gundhalinu tipped it on its side and began to empty it out like a man digging for treasure.

  “You lose something?” KindaSul asked.

  “Yes,” Gundhalinu murmured. “Something I saw at the warehouse that night. I know it went in with the rest of the evidence, but it wasn’t catalogued in the files.” He dumped out the last of the interactive gear, swearing under his breath. He hit the empty crate with his hand. “This is everything?”

  Tree nodded, meeting his stare. “What was it you saw?”

  Gundhalinu hesitated, looked back at KindaSul. “A piece of meshwork. It looked like it could be a headset, but nothing like these—” He waved at the equipment strewn across the counter.

  Tree slid his hand into his pocket, touched the alien texture of the mesh he had picked up from the rec-room table. “What’s so important about it?”

  Gundhalinu’s mouth thinned. “Whether it’s important or not, it’s no business of yours, LaisTree. You’re off the force.”

  “Suspended. It’s temporary—”

  “Don’t bet on that.” Gundhalinu turned back to the property clerk.

  Tree listened as Gundhalinu began to question KindaSul about missing equipment. Then, pushing the mesh deeper into his pocket, he left the room.

  * * *

  Devony entered her townhouse, struggling with the armload of bundles she carried as she made her way through the living room and into the first bedroom off the hall. She dropped the half-dozen packages onto the bed, with a sigh that was more weary than satisfied.

  Hearing the sigh, she forced herself to smile, out of habit; her hand moved unthinkingly toward the drawer of the bed
side table. Rummaging through its assortment of drugs, she found a mood-enhancing neurotransmitter and inhaled a dose.

  She tore open the wrappings of her parcels with more force than necessary, spreading out her purchases on the satin bedcovering: the stunning vase that had caught her eye in the window of an expensive import shop … the rainbow array of clothes with their sensual textures and sophisticated design … all the things that she could never get enough of, and that the offworlders seemed to have in endless supply.

  A trip through the Maze always made her senses sing, always distracted her from her moods, no matter how difficult or unnerving the day had been. An armload of offworld treasures could fill the empty places inside her just as easily as they had filled the empty spaces of this townhouse.…

  She imagined the faces of the family she had left behind when she had run away to Carbuncle, tried to picture their expressions if she were to bundle up these purchases and ship them to the outback. She wondered fleetingly whether a single person in her family—in their entire community—would feel his or her imagination begin to stir. Whether anyone might question, for even a moment, the way they had always lived … the traditions that had denied her every yearning, and punished her every dream.

  But, no. Any reminder that a Hegemonic presence even existed on their world would be met with virulent hatred of the Other—fear of the alien, even in human form. Generation after generation they had followed the same bitter, self-defeating way of life, clinging to traditions that were old when the Snow Queen had been young. Because to do anything else—to accept the Change—was to admit that all the hardship and the suffering they had endured, generation upon generation, had been pointless.…

  Arienrhod had embraced the Change, instead; had made herself its Queen. Her love affair with the technology the offworlders brought back with them had only grown stronger over time … while time stood still in the outback.

  No one there would even think of changing now; because they believed that within their lifetime, it would all change back. Already the even more ignorant and superstitious Summer clans were beginning to arrive in the north, ready to take the place of the offworlders who would abandon the city, and their world, at the Departure. High Summer would prove to her people that they had been right all along; prove the futility of everything Devony had ever believed, or tried to make of her life.