‘Maybe,’ Goscil said, brushing hair from her face. ‘But the rocket people hate being reminded their fancy computers are going to catch chaos too.’
‘Their precautions have worked so far,’ Rasfline said.
Goscil snorted. ‘They’ve only been up and running properly for the last year, and even then with minimal real input until two months ago. I give them three months, maximum, before something gets them.’
‘You seem quite an expert in data contamination,’ Rasfline told her, smiling at her and then at Consistorian Austermise’s attaché, who was talking to a high-rank civil servant.
Goscil ignored the insult. ‘There are nanotechs you can exhale, Ras; chaos-carriers that can float in an aerosol or crawl out of a skin pore.’
‘Still,’ Rasfline said, ‘Ogooué-Maritime has avoided such infection so far; perhaps it will continue to do so.’
‘Three months,’ Goscil said. ‘Want to bet on it?’
‘Thank you, no. I believe gambling to be a pastime for the weak-minded.’
Gadfium looked round the various groups of people in the antechamber, the feeling of frustration building up inside her again. ‘Oh, let’s just go,’ she said.
Rasfline smiled. Goscil scowled.
‘Madam wishes a copy of herself made?’
‘That’s right. A construct, for the crypt.’
Gadfium had given herself, Rasfline and Goscil the rest of the day off. Rasfline had probably gone to socialise with some of the people they’d left in the Hall of Mirrors’ antechamber. Goscil was doubtless crypting fresh data on some arcane subject. Gadfium had gone to change from her court clothes into something less formal in her apartment and then made her way to the Palace’s Galleria, a shopping complex modelled after part of twentieth-century Milan where the court elite could indulge themselves. She had been here only once before, five years earlier, when she had first been summoned to the Lantern Palace to be Adijine’s tame white-coat. She had been slightly disgusted by the snooty opulence of the place and its too-obviously perfect clientele then and felt no different now, but she had a plan to execute.
She sat in the subtly lit boutique - a traumparlour by any other name - sipping coffee over an antique onyx table.
‘With what purpose in mind, might one ask?’ asked the sales girl.
‘Sex,’ Gadfium told her.
‘I see.’ The shop assistant had called herself a sales executive and was probably the daughter of some clan chief; this would be her societal apprenticeship, Gadfium expected; the equivalent of one of the genuinely shitty jobs young people from the lower orders were expected to take on before they were allowed to enjoy themselves. The girl looked fashionably delicate and stainlessly steely at the same time. She was dressed in red, wearing what looked like a one-piece swim suit, large boots and wrist muffs. Her skin glowed like polished chestnut, her body was flawless and her ice-blue eyes looked out over cheekbones Gadfium fancied a chap might cut himself on.
‘I’m too busy for a real affair,’ Gadfium told her, ‘and anyway the other party is also Privileged and physically distant, so we want constructs made which can have fun on our behalf and then download the rosy afterglow, or whatever.’ Gadfium smiled and slurped her coffee deliberately. The girl winced, then smiled professionally and patted her tied-back black hair, held in place by a red comb which - assuming the girl was Privileged - was probably a receptor device.
‘Madam does realise that there are potential recompatibility problems, over time, with constructs made from Privileged persons.’
‘Yes I do, especially with the kind of full-mind construct I’d like. But I am decided, and that is what I want.’
‘Full-mind constructs are particularly prone to developing independence and becoming incompatible.’
‘It only has to last a few weeks in crypt-time; a couple of months, maximum.’
‘The contiguity-expectancy may indeed be of that order,’ the girl said, looking troubled and recrossing her long legs with what Gadfium could only think of as a flourish. ‘Most people would not be happy with a self-construct becoming independent over such a time-frame, especially in a romantic context.’
Gadfium smiled. ‘Most people aren’t realists,’ she said. She put her coffee down. ‘When can we do it?’
‘Madam has the permission of her clan?’ the girl asked, sounding dubious.
‘I’m seconded to the Palace; I think you’ll find I have all necessary authorisation.’
‘There is also the question of ... discretion,’ the girl said, smiling thinly. ‘While of course not illegal, strictly speaking, the service madam is requesting is not one it is generally thought best to publicise widely. Madam would be requested to make an undertaking to the effect that she would restrict knowledge of her acquisition strictly to those of her own standing whom she is certain could have no objection to the process involved.’
‘Discretion is the whole point of this,’ Gadfium said. ‘Only myself and the other party would know.’
‘The process will utilise the neuro-lattice which would normally only be activated on madam’s quietus. This is the device which—’
‘Yes, I know what it does.’
‘I see. There is some danger ...’
‘I’ll risk it, dear.’
Another Gadfium woke, looking out through the eyes of the original. This must be a bit how old Austermise feels, they both thought, and experienced the other’s thoughts as an echo.
The view was of a gently lit booth lined with curtains of intricate design. She was in some reclined seat, her neck and head held firmly but comfortably. There were two people standing looking down at her; a serious-looking older woman in a white coat, and the young lady in red.
‘Madam’s very first memory, again?’ the older woman said.
‘Earlier I said it was the blue swing,’ she said (and heard herself say it, and thought: oh yes, the blue swing, but what about the—), ‘but actually I think it must have been the time when my father fell off his horse into the river.’ (- horse? Ah ...)
The woman nodded. ‘Thank you. Do you still wish your construct to be released into crypt-time now?’
‘Please,’ Gadfium said, trying to nod but failing.
The woman in the white coat leant forward and reached out one hand to touch something on the side of the unit restraining Gadfium’s head.
The man slipped in through the curtains behind the two women as the older woman’s hand disappeared from Gadfium’s field of view. He was tall, slim and dressed conservatively in a light suit. His face did not look quite right. He held something thick and black and curved in his hand. Gadfium only recognised it as a gun when he brought it up towards her.
Gadfium felt her eyes widen and her mouth start to open. The girl in the red swimsuit began to turn round. The man saw her turn towards him; the gun moved quickly to one side so that it was no longer pointing at Gadfium’s face but at the girl. The man shot her first.
The noise was minimal; the girl’s head jerked back and she fell instantly, a delicate fountain of blood spraying up and back onto the tented ceiling. Gadfium watched it all in real time
/and in crypt-time, as the older woman began to turn, her hand still somewhere behind Gadfium’s neck.
Gadfium felt her other self, the construct, drop away from her like a bomb from a plane, producing an instant of vertigo as the girl hit the floor and the man - his face too straight, too unmoving - turned the black tube towards the woman in the white coat. The shot hit her in the temple, whirling her round so that she pirouetted as she collapsed. More blood, Gadfium felt, as she tried to move her head but still could not, still trapped, still held, as though her neck and head had been fixed in concrete, bored through and bolted with steel.
The man’s face turned impassively to her and the gun came up. She beat her feet on the reclined couch, brought her hands up to scrabble over the surface of the helmet unit trapping her, feeling desperately for some release mechanism.
He t
ook a step forward and pointed the gun at her forehead.
/ Quickened, she fell away from the scene in the traumparlour an instant before the man shot the woman in the white coat.
Gadfium had visited the crypt many times, through receptor devices in helmets, chairs and pillows; she was less adept than the average person in navigating its complexities - the sort of natural ease that came with immersion from childhood would never be hers - but she was no stranger to the medium.
It took her new self only a few seconds of crypt-time to realise that she was effectively free within the system, at least for now. Existing initially within the traumparlour’s grey-zone hardware she had not yet been given an official crypt identity.
She checked the immediate surroundings for clues to why one woman had been murdered, another was about to be and a third - herself - soon going to be.
Everything seemed normal; no security blanket thrown over the local data corpus, no obvious gaps in local traffic, no closed-off circuits. Certainly the Palace crypt-space was supposed to be completely unrestricted - once you were in, which was the hard bit - but she had half expected to find some sort of crypt presence linked to the assassin. Perhaps the Palace’s private channels really were inviolable; perhaps that was why simply sending in a man with a gun was considered the best way of dealing with a problem. She wondered briefly why all this was being done, what had triggered this ghastly, murderous act, but decided to leave investigating that for later.
She looked into the hardware surrounding her head. You turned off the restrainer field . . . well, just here . . . but she hesitated. Perhaps she could save her base-reality self.
She glanced back through Gadfium’s eyes. The view was still, like a photograph. Running her own vision round the picture in Gadfium’s mind exposed both the weakness of the human sight system and its cleverness. Looked at closely from inside with an independent ability to focus and concentrate on different parts of the view, you could see the lack of clarity and colour at the edges of vision; the view was grey and smeared everywhere about the lucid central portion. And so slow! What torture to watch somebody being killed and know your turn was next; the woman in white was still turning, the gun in the man’s hand still moving to point to where her head would be in a moment’s time . . .
She sucked herself away from the view. First she had to double-check the headset release mechanism, then decide what her physical self ought to do next, then work out the right moves to get her out of this situation, then form it into a plan that could be dropped instantly into her base-reality self’s head and be acted upon without the slightest flicker of hesitation . . . she had less than a second, real time; a couple of hours, in here. It might be a close run thing . . .
The gun came up to point at the middle of her forehead. Gadfium watched it, helpless.
Then it was as though the bomb she had felt dropping away from herself earlier had somehow slammed straight back into the top of her head.
Move!
Her head was free and suddenly there was a whole choreographed pattern inside her head; a slotted-in four-dimensional sculpture in which all she had to do was follow the tunnel-shape her body made through that sculpture.
The lights in the booth would go out now. They went out.
It was almost as though the pattern moved her body for her. She ducked her head and flicked it to one side as the shot cracked into the head unit. She levered herself forward with her elbows while drawing her right leg back. She snapped it forward and up just here ...
The impact was appreciably two-fold, as both the bones in the man’s fore-arm broke. She added to the momentum of her still swinging leg with a two-handed push off the couch and landed already swivelling on the floor. She punched upwards but the man hadn’t reacted quite as she’d expected; cloth brushed her fist as he fell away, a sudden soughing noise coming from his mouth.
Something thudded into her head and for an instant she thought he had clubbed her, but the blow was light and the thing that fell from her head and bounced off her hip was the gun; she caught it on the floor.
The lights went on again. She turned the gun towards the man. He was crouched entangled within some of the room curtains, holding his broken arm and looking at her. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over on his side.
She started over towards him.
‘. . . Gadfium,’ said a voice, whispering.
She turned and stared in horror at the white-coated woman on the floor. Blood was still flowing from the dark hole in her temple; her eyes stared straight up. Her jaw moved again, looking stiff and mechanical, like a puppet’s. ‘Gadfium!’ the voice croaked.
She spared the collapsed man a glance then went over to the woman, kneeling so that she could still see the man crumpled in the corner.
‘This one’s still not quite dead,’ said the voice. ‘She’s been crypted, but she’s still alive. It’s me; you,’ said the voice. ‘Listen; he’s faking a faint; the man. He’s faking it. You must kick or cosh him in the head; now. Use the gun if you must, but if you want to avoid killing him do it now.’
Gadfium felt she was going to faint. The room was spinning, or her brain was. ‘I can’t,’ she said to the woman, watching in horrified fascination as the rich, dark red blood oozed slower and slower and the jaws and tongue moved beneath the open, staring eyes.
‘You must; now,’ the soft voice said.
‘But he might just have—’
‘Too late,’ sighed the voice.
The man was whirling round, bringing his good hand back. Gadfium reached out with the gun and squeezed, closing her eyes. The gun shuddered once in her hands.
When she opened her eyes again the man was sprawled face down in front of her, a small thin knife still clutched in one hand.
She wasn’t sure she’d hit him until the blood started to well blackly from beneath his hidden face.
She dropped the gun, then started when the woman said, ‘. . . I’m losing her. The girl’s comb . . . quickly, Gad . . .’
She could not do it immediately. Gadfium sat against the curtain-concealed wall of the room for a few minutes, shaking and staring at the three bodies in the room, watching the blood flowing slowly across the tiled floor.
When the blood from the fallen man reached the pool spilled from the woman who’d spoken after her death, something broke within Gadfium, and she cried.
She had not shed tears since she’d been a teenager.
Then she sniffed, wiped her nose and went to the girl in red. She pulled the comb from the dead girl’s tied-back hair. There were flecks of blood on it. She ignored them and shoved the comb into her own hair at the back of her head.
—. . . can you hear me? said her own voice.
‘Yes,’ Gadfium said, her voice trembling.
—Just think it, Gadfium; no need to vocalise.
—I can hear you. Are you me?
—I am. I’m the construct.
—You planned . . . all that?
—Yes. Are you all right?
—Oh, far from it. But what do I do now?
—Take the knife, its sheath, which is in his pocket, the gun and any extra ammunition and equipment the man has, then leave the shop. If you do exactly as I say I think I can get you out of there.
—Wait. Why was he trying to kill me?
—Because the conspiracy’s been betrayed and you were about to enter the crypt. Please; there isn’t much time; hurry.
Gadfium went shakily back to the young man. She fought the urge to vomit as she caught sight of her face reflected in the dark pool of blood. She felt in the man’s pockets.
—Is he from Security? she asked her crypt-self.
—Yes.
—How did they know?
—I told you, you were betrayed. I don’t know by whom.
Gadfium stopped, her hand clasping the bullet magazine.
—Betrayed? What about the others?
—I don’t know what’s happened to them. I haven�
�t dared to try and contact them in case I’m being watched somehow and my movements are being traced. Look, hurry up, will you?
—Betrayed. Gadfium stared at the intricate pattern on the curtain in front of her. Betrayed.
—Yes; now please; you must hurry now. Take what you can and leave. Turn left when you leave the shop.
—Betrayed, Gadfium thought, pocketing the knife, sheath, gun and ammunition. Betrayed.
—Yes, yes, yes; betrayed. Now move!
3
Sessine was dressed in plain, utilitarian clothes and carried a light rucksack across his shoulder. He stood on the last ridge of the hills, where the land sloped away like some huge wave powering towards a beach. The dusty plain extended before him, the colour of a lion; not featureless, but almost so. Hints of hills lay upon the horizon, and patches of reflection promised water that probably was not there. The trees behind him, above him, made giant shushing noises.
The light came from every part of the sky, shining without a sun. The sky was light blue to the glance, darker blue then purple on closer inspection, and utterly black when stared at. On that blackness — just by willing it into existence — a network of shining lines appeared, and what looked like brightly coloured stars and fat planets shone beyond, in constellations and patterns never seen from the real Earth. He knew what these meant without having to think about it. He looked away, and the sky was light blue again.
He stared at the broad expanse of tableland, and in an eyeblink the plateau filled with a grid of tracks, roads and paths so densely packed and interlaced they created their own solid surface, overwhelming the plain. The network of trails and lines radiated away to the horizon, filling the view with blurred, flickering movement; vast broad highways buzzed and glittered with complex articulations travelling too quickly for any individual element to be discerned, but creating a conglomerative impression of streamed solidity. Elsewhere, on narrower routes, long trains of material flashed past, just glimpsed, while an unseen myriad of paths specked and sparkled with solitary packets of traffic.
Feersum Endjinn Page 17
