I sat down at my deck and prepared to jack in. Then I remembered. "Tansy! I almost forgot Tansy!" I lifted the pretty little feline up and set her on my deck as I always do.
Emily was watching, a smile in her eyes. "Jack, what is the deal with that cat, bud?"
I looked at her seriously. "Preparation for battle."
"What?"
"Emily," I said, "Have you ever heard of the language of flowers?"
"I’ll bite," she said, twisting a strand of her beautiful chestnut hair.
"In the middle ages, it was a form of nonverbal communication. Flowers were like . . . icons for different things. A pink rose given to someone was a message of friendship."
Emily grinned and made strange, bird-like gestures with her hands. A perfect pink rose popped into existence before my face, glowing like fire and turning on an invisible axis. It was slightly transparent.
I raised an eyebrow. "The red rose," I continued, "was a message of love." The pink rose slipped up the spectrum into an intense ruby red. It looked so real I wanted to touch it. I didn’t.
"And the wild Tansy," I concluded, "was a declaration of war." Emily looked blank for a moment, then the rose mutated into a bouquet of weeds with tiny black-cat heads. They blinked their twelve golden eyes at me once, then vanished as Emily collapsed on the bed laughing. I love to see her laugh.
"It's going to be a tough one. Em," I said, scratching Tansy between the ears.
"I know, Grimley," she said, her eyes still sparkling. "I’m right behind you."
Without another word and with absolute confidence in her. I jacked in. The Matrix unfolded before me, beautiful as ever. It is Seattle, but not the gray, filthy streets of cement and stone where I grew up. Every building is in its place, but appears as a pristine and smooth work of art edged in living neon. Each one has its own personality in color, pulsing in a thousand subtle, lovely hues and reflecting a rainbow of unearthly beauty onto the glossy black of the street. It is an incredible sight, and one that I have come to love more than life.
Its beauty is deceptive, however, and becoming too entranced with it has led many a fine decker to his death. For the Matrix is cold, and its hard-edged, luminous geometry is no place for men of flesh and blood. We are intruders, the virus in the body. Often I have fancied that I could feel the hostility of cyberspace, its desire to be rid of me. But I cannot stay away. The Matrix is a woman, beautiful and intoxicating, who kisses you urgently while easing a knife to your throat. Exciting, certainly, but incredibly hard on the nerves.
That is why. ever since I was a raw apprentice, I have worked every run I could get and saved my money like Ebeneezer Scrooge. I was only a lad when I learned that with enough money, one can purchase a device to bend the Matrix to his will. For all its beauty, I will never be at home in the world of light and reflection. Beneath its surface, I can see another reality, one through which I could glide like a shark in deep water, one in which I would be in total control . . .
I began. Out of the corner of my eye. I saw a glittering cyberpython slither gracefully around a building. It paused to look at me for an instant before disappearing down a storm drain. I raised a hand in greeting, silently wishing Yasmine luck. I suspected that being a freelance datathief is only one of her secrets. I have often wondered about her tattoo, for instance, it takes a lot of guts to go through life with the portrait of a wizworm on your leg. One never knows what motivates such powerful creatures, or even the reason behind the magics they work.
I had wasted enough time gawking. It was time to get down to business. My stomach fluttered. I was about to work some magic of my own. My hands flew over the keyboard, activating the device I had worked for so many years to attain, it has a name. They told it to me when I purchased it, but I prefer to think of it in my own special terms as something else entirely. It had already begun to work, spinning in front of my eyes, a tiny black cube that grew larger by the second. When it had reached the size of a large door, it settled down gently on the gleaming asphalt. I allowed it to grow to the size of a small building before I melted my Persona through its seamless wall.
The interior was dark, illuminated only by a gas lamp of deep blue glass. Sighing with satisfaction, I approached the complex arrangement of polished lenses and brass tubing that were the heart of my camera obscura. Looking through the sight. I panned the Matrix right and left, and finally centered on a likely looking spot. I stepped away, and turned to the wall behind me.
There, on a circular screen of white silk, was an image of the Matrix in full color. It was, of course, somewhat washed out, and the edges appeared in a bizarre, fish-eye perspective.
I smiled, finding this strangely appropriate.
Beneath my feet, the black floor began to hum and vibrate. The machine was doing its job in earnest. I watched the image of the Matrix blur and shift into something entirely different. Neon became gaslight, black space became moonless night sky. The black walls melted around me, and the image on the screen became my own reality. A road of wet cobblestone unrolled itself at my feet. Victorian London.
I have only possessed the equipment to warp the Matrix to my own perception for a few months, and it is still a rush more intense than any BTL chip. Breathing in the damp, heavy air, my Persona laughed softly. Feeling confident and dangerous, I headed for the Natural Vat building construct.
My Persona is a work of pure arrogance. It is more or less a simulation of myself, a blackened-steel Jack the Ripper with eyes of glowing red. In my left hand, I carry a Victorian doctor’s black bag.
I perceive Natural Vat as a cross between a classic nineteenth-century mansion and an insane asylum. It is tall and brooding, with worn mauve siding and dull green shingles on its many-peaked roof. The windows are numerous, but small and barred. The whole building is surrounded by a baroque wrought iron fence, decorated with fanciful beasts and the faces of demons. Standard corporate Ice. I stood looking up at it for a moment. Lights flickered on and off inside, and the occasional shadowy figure flitted in silhouette past the windows. Somewhere far away, a dog gave a strange, ululating howl.
Throwing back my head, I joined my voice with his. Wandering around to the back of the building. I ran a finger along the fence, causing the iron to quiver and hum. Just pulling the tiger’s tail, I suppose. I reached the back of the manor and set down my black bag. It was a simple matter. In a few moments, I watched a section of the iron rust and crumble away under the assault of one of my simpler programs. I slipped through the fence like a ghost.
The back courtyard was filled with towering geometric shrubbery, joined at impossible angles like an M.C. Escher drawing. A topiary maze. Grinning. I walked lazily around its perimeter until I found a narrow opening. The path was long and straight for some ten meters, and then split off in four directions. Intuitively, I made a hard right turn, then two lefts. I hit a dead end. I thought I had gone back the way I had come, but I encountered a strange fork in the pathway. I went right. Another dead end. I was getting irritated. I stood still for a moment while my abandoned flesh punched some serious deck. And then I was running. I flew through the maze, the green walls becoming a blur as I went faster and faster. In a shower of leaves, I was out.
I stood in front of the back door. It was huge and carved of dark wood, with two enormous topiary lions standing on either side of it. Cautiously, I approached the doorway. The lion’s heads turned toward me with a leafy snap, their eyes glittering emerald. They reached their front legs across the doorstep. Their paws touched, grew together, then sprouted thorny vines that began to obscure the doorway.
I was through fooling around. I reached into my black bag and withdrew a scalpel. I twirled it in my hand, letting the chrome Hash blindingly. Then I went to work, in a matter of moments, I had reduced the lions to salad. Reaching out with one finger. I gave the door a push. It swung open with a groan of protest.
Laughing softly, I crossed the threshold of Natural Vat. I had come in through the "servant’s entrance," an
d I was now in a dimly lit hallway papered with abysmal yellow wallpaper. The gas lamps on the walls were blackened and ill-cared-for, and the whole place smelled of mildew. I suppose they weren’t expecting visitors. One end of the hallway ended in darkness, and the other led to a fantastic and delicate spiral staircase. I had a good idea of where to go. Padding eagerly down the hallway toward the staircase, I got careless and stepped on a bump in the carpeting that I should have seen a kilometer away. A pack of tiny gray terriers came racing around the corner, yapping in horrid little metallic voices, I froze for an instant, then dashed off a deception program to get them away from me. A little black rat. It leapt from my bag, landing just in front of my boots. Glittering angrily, it stood up on its haunches, then ran past the terriers and down the hall. They whirled around and raced after it I made good my escape, and started up the stairs.
They appeared to be fashioned of black marble, and the banister was seamless ivory carved into the form of a sinuous anti beautiful serpent. The staircase seemed to ascend forever, up to the very top of the manor. I easily avoided the occasional missing step. Once I even paused to drop a "rat" through one of the gaps onto a patrolling terrier far below. The little rotter ran howling down the hall like the very devil himself was on its back.
When I finally reached the upper floor, I looked around cautiously. I had come to the mouth of another hallway, which was long, narrow, and dark. Slowly I began to traverse it, looking for traps and triggers. It seemed to be smooth sailing.
I heard it right behind me. A low, malevolent growl, deep and chilling. It definitely did not come from a terrier. I turned slowly, easing my hand into my bag. Confronting me was a huge hound, black and hairless and deformed. The end of its elongated snout was peeled back, exposing long, jagged steel teeth. The thing was slavering, its viscous brown drool staining the ornate floral carpeting. I had to be careful. It was most probably Black Ice. Lowering its head, it stalked toward me. I backed away slowly, creating something deadly.
I tossed it a virus. It left my hand a spiky metal ball, but the hound's jaws closed on a bloody chunk of meat. The beast quickly devoured my offering, keeping its slitted eyes on me every second. Having finished this tidbit, it wanted more. With a bone-chilling howl, it sprang at me. I sidestepped it easily, knowing it was already being destroyed from within. I watched with no little satisfaction as it collapsed convulsing and died. I turned away and started down the hall, when I was taken with a horrible idea. I turned back around with a grin, withdrawing my scalpel . . .
A few moments later, I was walking jauntily down the corridor, whistling Liszt. The hellhound's ears and tail were tucked into my little black bag.
The corridor ended abruptly. What I had taken to be a darkened chamber was actually a wall of black stones. I frowned, for what I wanted had to be behind that wall. It would take time to get through, and time was short. I began trying different routines, exploring the cracks in the mortar with my scalpel.
Then I spotted something, a purple quill, glowing softly where it lay on the intricate rug. I picked it up with a chuckle. I was genuinely surprised that Porky Pryne could have gotten this far into NatVat. He must have had help. As I twisted the quill feathers around my finger, a wonderful thought struck me. Porky is a notoriously messy decker, who almost always gets scared and leaves himself a back door. Soon after I began to search, I found it. It was a little round porcupine hole in the floor. Still laughing. I ventured into Porky's not-so-secret passage. It glowed with a sickly purple light, and the carpeting on the stairs was a truly hideous chartreuse. Typical Porky style.
The passage dipped down sharply, running perhaps five meters through a strange, hidden section of the manor. Then it surfaced on the other side of the wall. I had reached my destination. I stood before a small, simple door with cherubs painted on the doorframe, as though it were the entrance to a child’s bedroom. I reached out for the crystal doorknob. It was locked. They probably installed that after Porky’s little raid, I thought with amusement. Well, they had more to deal with now than an incompetent hedgepig. I remembered with malicious glee that the porcupine was a popular Victorian house pet, devouring dinner scraps and insects with equal relish. Still thinking about this entertaining fact, I withdrew a long dissecting needle from my bag and easily jimmied the lock.
I was no sooner through the door than something seized me by the throat, lifted me high in the air, and shook me like a wolf with a hare in its jaws. Through spotted vision, I could see it was a hulking bobby. He raised his spiked billy club to smash my head in, a smile on his smooth gray plastic face. His eyes glittered black, and red veins pulsed beneath the surface of his corpse-like skin. With a snarl, I plunged the dissecting needle into his wrist. His grip loosened, and I twisted away from him. He grabbed me by the left arm and twisted it. I managed to hang on to my bag, but in a moment or two my bones would snap.
He was way too late. My right arm flashed out with the scalpel, slashing his throat nearly to the spine. He stared at me as his blood sprayed all over my clothes, which I was glad were not my real ones. With an unsavory gurgle, he dropped like a rock. I would have liked to rearrange his internal organs, picturing the dataslaves’ reaction to their neatly mutilated Ice. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time. Stepping over the "meat," I darted into the room.
It was immense, appearing to be a sort of grand ballroom. The floor was of beautiful, dark, polished wood, set in an intricate spiral mosaic. A crystal chandelier of enormous proportions was suspended high above the dance floor. It sparkled with a thousand colors, reflecting the light of the hundreds of candles that lit every corner of the room. Portraits hung all over the walls, covering every possible empty space. They were all painted in different styles, as diverse as the people they depicted. I smiled, looking at a Renaissance portrait of what appeared to be a vain, arrogant young Spaniard. Right next to it was a glowing Elizabethan portrait of a handsome, older woman with stunning blue eyes. I laughed outright at an early Medieval painting, ill-proportioned and flat, depicting a grave young fellow who stared out at the world over an excessively large nose. I could have stayed for hours, studying these images. Instead, I regretfully ran a quick search for Nadia.
There she was, a beautiful woman with emerald-green eyes. Her portrait was in the style of Botticelli, always one of my favorites. She wore a deep green velvet gown in the style of the high Italian Renaissance, which suited her wonderfully. I lifted the painting down by its delicate gold filigree frame. Green code skittered across her face and leaped into my bag like so many insects as I began to download the file. Soon it was complete, and I carefully replaced the portrait and began to plot my escape.
I didn’t have to plot for long. Porky strikes again. Between two portraits of stuffy-looking old men was an open window, its iron bars ripped away in what could have been a frenzy of rage, but was most likely undiluted panic. I peered out, and saw that there was a drainpipe running down the wall less than a meter from the window. I laughed, delighted with my luck. I had expected this to be much harder. After sliding down the drainpipe with ease, I dropped the final four meters down into the garden at the side of the manor. Slipping through the crocus and gladiolus, I reached the wrought iron fence, quickly made a hole in it, then ducked through into the alley. Looking over my shoulder, I thought for a moment that I saw the terriers barking soundlessly behind a large window. Too late, little mongrels. I strolled down the rough cobbles, savoring my success a moment before jacking out.
That was a fatal error.
I didn’t hear it, because it made no sound at first. But I felt it coming in my gut. and I turned around. It came down on me with a roar, a Neapolitan hearse drawn by six screaming black horses. I watched it all with horrible clarity. The coachman smiled down at me, his visage straight from the Pit. He had row upon row of long, needlelike teeth, and his dead gray skin was drawn tightly across his skull, splitting his mouth into a cyanide grin. His eyes were black and sunken, gleaming wetiy in their sockets. From
the depths of each one came a pinprick of hellish red light. The horses were monstrous, their bodies strange and misshapen, thick with freakish muscles and writhing tendons. Their eyes were white and sightless, rolling with rage and insanity. They tossed the black plumes on their heads and bared their jagged teeth as they bore down on me. Red sparks flew from their pounding hooves. The coach’s ruby lantern swung crazily, throwing crimson light across the horses like convulsions in a fever dream. Here was Black Ice of the deadliest caliber.
It ran me down. Sharp hooves struck my chest, and I went under. I heard bones crack as the horses trampled me, and I screamed as one of the carriage wheels crushed my left arm. Lying there bleeding in the alley, I watched as the hearse slowed, then turned around for another pass. I waited for death, the memory of Emily’s face warming my mind like mild summer sunshine. Far, faraway, I smelled burning electronics and skin.
Then it was gone.
I was looking up at Emily. She held my face in her hands. Her own face was drawn and exhausted, and there were tears in her eyes. Was she crying for me? Don’t cry, sweet Emmie.
She slugged me, her hard little fist snapping my head sideways. I found myself staring into the worried face of Tansy. Emily was shaking me. "You there, Jack? Jack?"
"I'm here, Emmie," I murmured.
"Frag it!" she yelled. "You stupid, slotting deckhead! You nearly fried what passes for your brain! You nearly died and I almost killed myself putting you back together!" I touched her hand. "Is the file O.K.?" For a moment, I thought she would hit me again.
"Yes, your stupid drekky file is fine. Was it worth half your brain cells? Why don’t you have a fragging phase loop recourser on your deck!"
I tried to smile at her. As woozy as I was, I realized that if I told Emily I had bought my camera obscura instead of a recourser, she would most likely beat me to death. I sighed. "Because I was born good-looking, not rich, precious."
Into the Shadows Page 14
