But the three women had things in common, too. They were all in their midtwenties and unmarried. They were all educated, with degrees in art and music. Which led me to wonder—
“Not through any of these networks,” she said. “I wonder about the paper network—but I suspect a friendship would cause their paths to cross in some recordable fashion, and there’s no evidence of that.”
Then we found something that could be quite helpful. Both Miriam and Halka had degrees, and their dissertations were in the public library database. Miriam had written about Russian illustrators, and Halka had written about the composer Gustav Holst.
By then, the old cycle had expired and a new one marched through its early hours. But my encounter with Gennady had ensured I wouldn’t feel sleepy anytime soon. So I read both dissertations.
I thought they would be tough going—dry and academic. But both were engagingly written. Lavish illustrations accompanied Miriam’s text, and Halka included a soundtrack with many snippets of music I knew from my father’s database.
I breezed through them. Then I composed the first message:
Miriam, we have not met formally, but our circles have overlapped in many areas, and I believe we have interests in common. I have just read your dissertation on Russian illustrative art, and I loved it.
Please forgive the late hour of this communication. I often find that I have far too much to think about in the lonely hours. Your dissertation made the time pass much more pleasantly this evening.
I’ve attached a little presentation of art from the Koto collection and set it to scroll along with some of my favorite music, from Anatoly Lyadov’s Russian Folksongs suite. I hope you enjoy it.
Best Wishes,
Sezen Koto
When Miriam opened my message, she would see an image of me that looked very much like the one she used for her own public profile.
My approach to Halka was a little different. I selected a piece of music by Alan Hovhannes, from the Kotos’ private collection (and not in the Chavez collection), then put together a short presentation of some of the illustrations from Miriam’s dissertation.
Halka, I said, we haven’t met, but I was up late this evening and needed some happy distractions, so I read your dissertation about Gustav Holst, who is one of my favorite composers.
I’m sending a link to another dissertation that may interest you, written by Miriam Khan.…
The Khans and the Chavezes did not normally overlap in political or social circles. In order for Miriam and Halka to become acquainted, they would have to be invited to do so by someone of higher rank. Sezen fit that bill.
Once I had dispatched the messages, I had answers within half an hour.
How I would love to see the beautiful Koto screens! said Miriam. Am I terribly rude to assume that, like me, you’re still awake?
I have never heard of Alan Hovhannes! said Halka. Mysterious Mountain is lovely. I shall message Miriam Khan about the wonderful Russian illustrations. I feel as if the door to another world has opened before my eyes.
Now that I had a chance to really contemplate what I had done, it filled me with wonder.
“You will make enemies just as easily,” warned Lady Sheba’s ghost.
True, but I was actually better suited to dealing with enemies than I was to managing friends. Though if I were going to be honest with myself, some people could easily fit both bills. In fact, I had just spent the evening with one of them. I called up Edna’s image and studied her.
Sheba’s ghost smiled. “Contemplating revolution, in general, is madness. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be practical in how you plan it.”
Then it would be impractical to give Edna a powerful weapon at this juncture. She would almost certainly use it to kill Gloria. And Lady Constantin was a fulcrum—she balanced the Executives in ways I had yet to decipher.
Before Sheba’s ghost could answer, another voice demanded my attention.
Her beautiful visage filled my mind, forcing me to acknowledge the loneliness I had felt when I couldn’t speak to her.
I waited for Medusa to finish her sentence, but instead, a silence filled my head. I had never felt anything like it.
My front door opened. Gennady marched through it with several Security personnel in tow.
“I’ve activated a null zone,” said Gennady. “I’m afraid I can’t let you speak to anyone, Anzia. You’re under arrest.”
21
Pavane for a Dead Princess
A null zone. Now, there was a term I wish I could have heard before it was forcibly demonstrated to me.
I felt blind and deaf. Technically, I was only half so; my physical eyes and ears were functioning. But I couldn’t use my secret pathways at all. My virtual hallways and the ghosts who inhabited them were gone. I couldn’t speak to anyone around me using virtual communication.
And I couldn’t call Medusa—who was waiting for word about when to rescue me from the air lock—not to mention which lock I would be in.
“Anzia Thammavong,” said Gennady, “you’re coming with us. You won’t be returning to these quarters.”
That was the moment when Sezen truly died. Nothing would be left of her at all. A normal person would have cried.
But I can’t. My eyes were dry as they led me away.
* * *
I should have kept track of how long the interrogation lasted. But it was too fascinating. Two Security officers stood in the room with us, so we couldn’t have the frank conversation I would have preferred. But maybe that was for the best. Because Gennady always seemed to have me at a disadvantage.
“You watched the Executive class on surveillance,” he said, “and envied what you saw. You decided you wanted the things we have.”
That seemed more like stage direction than a question, so I followed it. “I’ve studied you for six years. I know your habits very well.” The truth, if Gennady could read between the lines.
“I admire your skill with the Security records,” said Gennady. “Anyone else would have pretended to take a nap and then looped the footage. But you designed a whole suite of activities. And your locator backed you up.”
“I’m a stickler for details,” I said.
He leaned forward. “What did you need to know, Thammavong? What was worth risking your new, comfortable life?”
I leaned forward, too. “Well, as you can imagine, there are things Executives know that I could not, since I wasn’t raised among them.”
“I’m sure,” he murmured.
“So what I needed to learn was how to wing it. Otherwise, every time I interacted with Executives, I was at risk of exposing my ignorance.”
“And so you spied on us,” said Gennady. “But I’m not an Executive, Thammavong. To me, your behavior looks just like that of the highest Olympians. In fact, I think you outshone them.”
“Well,” I sighed, and fluttered my hands. “You know. Makeup and pretty clothes.”
His smile was more subdued than the one he had shown me in private. “And under it all, you’re just a guttersnipe?”
“A worm,” I said. “Because of all the tunnels.”
He nodded. “Tell me the process you used to make the false surveillance recordings.”
What I told him, in great detail, is how I would have done it with my skills as a Security officer. What I told him was plausible. It wasn’t anything close to the truth, but it sounded true.
And he liked what he was hearing. “Brilliant. The Devil really does seem to be in the details.”
My father used to say that God was th
ere, but it seemed like a bad moment to argue.
We spent quite a lot of time discussing the details of the falsified Security recordings, but little on Sezen Koto’s suicide. In my peripheral vision, I could see that the Security officers would have approached the process differently. They frowned a lot. Gennady must have seen it, too, but he didn’t change tactics.
“You are a smart woman,” he said at last. “I regret that you must face the harshest penalty.”
This caused the Security officers to relax again. Did they fear he would say otherwise?
I nodded. “The tiger screen belongs to the Kotos. I hope you’ll make sure he gets home.”
“I’ve already done so,” said Gennady. “But I’m surprised to learn that you care.”
I was surprised, too. But I had an answer ready. “When I became Sezen, I took on her concerns as well as her persona. I find them hard to set aside.”
“Perhaps she is more like you than you realized,” said Gennady.
That was a notion I had already contemplated. But like it or not, I was about to move on.
* * *
I felt grateful that Gennady walked ahead of me in the execution procession, because I was able to watch him the whole time—and I couldn’t seem to get enough of it. I admired his athletic figure, the set of his shoulders, and his confident-yet-solemn pace. I was able to do that for quite a while, because our walk was a long one, to the very farthest lock in this section. Did he do that for me? To buy me more time? What a romantic gesture!
As we rounded a bend in the corridor, I thought I saw something twitching near a vent, withdrawing out of sight. Was it a tentacle? Was that wishful thinking? The longer I thought about it, the more uncertain I felt.
Generally, I have a good internal clock, but that doesn’t seem to be the case when I’m being marched to my death. We reached our destination long before I was ready for it. Gennady halted in front of Lock 129 and turned to face me. His face was composed. I stood facing him, watching for any flicker of anger or malice in his expression. I saw none.
I had hoped he might tell me when he had figured out I was an impostor. I like to think he had known since that first supper we had together. But I’m still wondering.
“I liked you better than anyone,” he said. “I’ll miss you.”
“I like you, too.” I didn’t smile, though I wanted to. He wasn’t smiling, and protocol really does rule my life.
We stood there for a long while, gazing into each other’s faces. Then someone touched my elbow, making me start. A Security officer indicated the open inner door of the lock.
“Oh.” I walked inside. I turned to face Gennady, and the door closed between us. We stared at each other from either side of the observation window.
Gennady didn’t look happy, but what did that mean? Did he care for me? Did he admire my pluck? Why didn’t he ask harder questions? Did he wonder why I wasn’t afraid?
Did he know there was no such person as Anzia Thammavong?
I was still deaf to any virtual communications. I had no idea if anyone was waiting outside the air lock to rescue me. It should have been a matter of great concern to me. Yet I could not stop looking into Gennady’s eyes and trying to read what I saw there.
The seconds ticked away, and then the outer door opened.
And Gennady winked at me.
Aha! I thought, and then he seemed to fly away from me. But it was I who flew into darkness.
* * *
“Mmurph,” I said aloud.
“Yesh.” I opened my eyes. I saw stars, the surface of Olympia’s hull, and then tentacles.
I slid into Medusa’s suit, and her face settled over mine. I showed her Gennady’s wink, and how he had seemed to fly away from me.
I took a deep breath of air, glad that my lungs still functioned properly, though my mouth and throat were painfully dry.
Medusa moved like lightning across the hull of Olympia—the landscape rushed under us. I had seen her move that quickly at a sustained pace only once before, when she had rescued me the first time we met.
I remembered what the ghosts had guessed about Lady Sheba’s diary—how it may not be the journal of toileting it appeared to be.
Who would have guessed it? Lady Sheba’s diary wasn’t about poo, after all. Unless it’s the kind that hits the fan.
PART FOUR
ALIENS AND HUMANS
22
My Mother the Ghost
Alarm klaxons sounded inside Lock 177, but this time I was the one who had activated the OPEN function.
I felt ready. Sort of ready. At least I had on my pressure suit, and it was fully charged.
I was also hurt, bleeding, and unable to contact Medusa. Everything hung in the balance; everything I had done might be for nothing if I couldn’t stop Sultana from reaching Aft Sector and accessing Lady Sheba’s Escape. I had to fix this, even if it cost my life.
The alarm died, the doors opened, and I launched myself into the void.
* * *
One year to the day before my adventure in Lock 177, I floated in a void of another sort. My mother the ghost enfolded me in her arms. “Think of Debussy’s ‘Sirènes,’” she said. “Hear them inside your head. The images you see will show you the beauty of nature.”
Truthfully, the music that suggested itself to me was another selection from Nuruddin’s database, Temple Abady’s score for Miranda, a movie about a mermaid. But if my mother’s ghost wanted Debussy, who was I to refuse her? “Why not?” I said. “I’m not doing anything else right now.”
I missed Gennady. I missed Sezen’s pretty clothes and the fastidious tiger. I missed chocolate. I missed seeing Ryan Charmayne turn purple every time he saw me.
I missed having a job. And having a life. I almost wished I hadn’t discovered what Lady Sheba had built and hidden among Olympia’s engines.
“Your death was beautiful,” said my mother the ghost. “I’m so proud.”
“Yes.” I sighed. “But the only way I can top it is to actually die, and that would be counterproductive.”
We floated together, I in the observation bubble of Lucifer Tower and she inside my head. We let Debussy’s sirens lure us into the sea.
* * *
I like to think that I’m resilient. Learning that the enemies who have been chasing us for a hundred years are called the Weapons Clan hadn’t upset me. Even learning that we Olympians aren’t entirely human hadn’t rewired my grasp of who we were that much. But finding out what Lady Sheba had secretly built was quite another matter.
It took us a while to get to the Aft end of Olympia. Though we started in the middle, we had kilometers to go.
The terrain blurred beneath us as Medusa hurtled aftward.
Exposure to void wasn’t so bad as I’d thought it would be. Though it had felt weird when the moisture evaporated off my tongue. I was glad I didn’t have to speak aloud. I was also glad that the air vented out of my mouth instead of exploding my lungs.
The firing sequence of our engines was something we all learned in basic education. Theoretically, burners facing the opposite direction of our progress would be fired to slow us down once we entered the solar system harboring our new homeworld, but the Big Boys would probably not need to be fired again—at least not all of them at once. And all of that was not supposed to happen for another hundred years, so why not hide stuff inside those nozzles? You could build a city in there.
I had never been so close to the engines, and the sight of their nozzles triggered Vaughan Williams to start playing in my head as default majesty music. This time it was a film score he wrote for a movie called Scott of the Antarctic, written for full orchestra. The music ascends in scale in the first movement—I always imagine Scott and his exploration team climbing a mountain of ice. It felt perfect for the terra incognita of the engine section. I think Medusa must have been inspired by it, too, because she paced herself as we hurtled up a cliff-sized rim and over the top so Lady Sheba’s secret project came into view just as the crescendo’s devastating, mind-blowing blast was played on the pipe organ.
Medusa Uploaded_A Novel_The Medusa Cycle Page 22