In any case, as he watched Heldi watch the flames, Emerson wanted to comfort her.
That was weird, because he knew that she was just an NPC. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that she was real. A living, breathing soul.
He wanted to take credit. He wanted to believe he’d actually created a general intelligence capable of spawning other sentient lives.
That was a hefty claim. The greatest conceit.
It would be like calling himself God.
And the truth was, that was hard. Emerson had grown up Episcopalian, and he still considered himself part of the flock, more or less. Was it right to feel pride in what he’d created? Was it okay to have aspired to create life?
“You seem lost in thought,” Hezbek said as she settled down beside him on the long, fireside bench.
Emerson smirked. Lost in ridiculous pseudo-religious musing no less. Moving direction from his hours in a coding flow state to this full-contact immersion in another reality had really done a number on his noggin. “I was. Thank you for rescuing me from myself.”
Hezbek smiled, her face creasing like crumpled paper. “There are some who go through their lives just reacting. Taking events as they come, and never worrying about the big picture. Then there are others who can’t help but muse on this or that, wondering after the meaning, chasing some notion of a grander design.”
And if that design had been created by the person sitting beside you?
Emerson was struck with the near ridiculousness of the situation.
But then he realized: it didn’t matter if he’d indirectly created the woman sitting beside him. Why should it make her experience any less valid? From what he could tell, Devon had a bond with Hezbek that verged on mother and daughter. And he could see why: they were both remarkable.
“Which do you think is better? Should we only pay attention to what’s happening in front of our noses?”
Hezbek’s eyes twinkled. “I have a sense that, with you, that strategy would be impossible. At least, that’s how it’s been for me, unchanged after seventy-two years.”
Seventy-two years. The concept baffled him, because the development of Relic Online had taken five. But it worked, he supposed, because the simulation hadn’t been time-bound until players had entered the game. Veia had grown this world from nothing, breathing life in ways that were hard to understand. When NPCs spoke of long lifetimes or even thousands of years of their history, those events had happened in this world. The thought made his head spin a little.
“So what brings you here after seventy-two years of life?” Emerson asked.
Hezbek chuckled. “Well, the recent part is no secret. I followed a foolish ogre and an even more foolish dream into a jungle. Fortunately, a friend, Devon, saved me and proved that, while age sometimes begets wisdom, the most foolish thing of all is to believe that without question.”
If the woman hadn’t been half laughing at her own expense, Emerson wouldn’t have smiled, but he sensed that she appreciated the irony. Especially since Devon had likely come into the game completely ignorant of how this world worked.
As ignorant as he felt now.
“Before that,” Hezbek said, “my history is long and full of more joy and more strife than most. The short answer is I was raised on a remote coast where the cold wind scoured the shore day and night. I became a sorceress to escape, and at first, the power and the circles I moved in were intoxicating. But I lost a lot of people in a war that I had a hand in starting.” At this, she turned her eyes away from him and stared into the fire. “Some that I lost were very dear indeed. So I gave up fighting long ago and scratched out a living in unskilled trades for the better part of two decades before, in my middle age, I found some redemption in learning the art of medicine.”
Emerson had so quickly become wrapped up in her story that he hadn’t noticed the flashing icon of his messenger app. Shaking free of his trance, he glanced from the icon to Hezbek’s face.
“Sounds like a full life,” he said.
Hezbek laughed sadly. “The truth is, I’ve been thinking about my past lately because Devon asked. I refused to tell her until she finished a quest to get to know our neighbors. But now…” She pressed her lips together after her voice broke. “But now, I wish I’d taken her aside and told her right there. Because what if she never returns?”
Emerson swallowed as another message flashed. He couldn’t bear to interrupt the woman; he also couldn’t afford to ignore the notification.
Hezbek glanced at him and smirked. “You have that look…”
“What look?”
“The same Devon gets. The same all starborn get when they are called by something in their realm. Don’t worry, young man. Your ways don’t offend me. We can chat more in a while.”
With relief, Emerson pulled open the messages. His eyes widened as he read the text.
I’ve got the governor’s confession. Handheld recorder. I’m working on formatting, but you need to get any PR people you can contact on the line. We need to be able to blow this wide open if he doesn’t respond to my demands.
Another message had followed a second later.
Emerson? We had a deal. I need your attention right now.
He quickly fired back, subvocalizing a response. “I’m on it. Let’s make this worthless sack suffer.”
Chapter Forty-Two
IN THE MOVIES, even recent productions, the characters always seemed to have a license for manual drive cars and a ready supply of mega-horsepower exotic machines—whether stolen or part of their personal collection—just waiting for the hero and villain to pilot. Car chases were high-speed, tire-squealing, adrenaline-pumping adventures.
Using an autocab to follow a private ambulance was about as far from the Hollywood version as things could get.
But at least she’d been able to snag the waiting cab before the ambulance drove out of sight. Either the hospital security people had been primed by Noah to do the very minimum required to keep order, or they shared her opinion of Governor Calhoun’s treatment of his son. Either way, they’d released her from their office just moments after the governor’s party had filed out the door.
Cynthia’s vision swam from lack of sleep as she stared at the map on her phone screen. “New destination,” she said. “Intersection of Peyton and…” She squinted and zoomed in, comparing the blip of her position to the ambulance driving two blocks ahead. “Peyton and the I-20 on-ramp.”
“I’m sorry. This vehicle cannot stop on an interstate on-ramp. Shall I halt the vehicle at the next safe stopping location?”
“No! Keep going!” The stupid cab had no mode for “follow that car,” so the best she could do was try to predict the ambulance’s route, continually supplying new destinations.
“Resuming route to highway 139.”
Ahead, the ambulance veered onto the on-ramp. Shit. She was almost certain they were heading to the new airport west of town, but if she set that as a destination, the cab’s software would no doubt take a different route. Especially since the ambulance was probably broadcasting its location, causing other vehicles to avoid streets it chose. She couldn’t risk losing sight of Owen’s transport.
Stupid fricking programmers and their obsession with automating everything.
If it weren’t for Owen’s love of VR and games, this cab ride would probably make her a convert of his father’s technophobia. “New destination. Collier Heights Park.” Looking at the map and the traffic overlay—even at this hour, there was a bit of a snarl on MLK JR. Drive—it would be borderline insane for the cab to avoid the interstate while routing to the park.
“Destination confirmed. Please present payment identification and assure that your seat restraints remain fastened.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes as she waved her wrist over the sensor. Flicking away the map, she pulled up the footage from her recorder. So far she’d spliced together the audio from her earliest recording of the governor�
�s conversation with his parents’ reaction when she played it. She just needed to add on the final, outraged statements from the governor when he’d explicitly admitted to the plans to use Owen for political purposes.
Cynthia paused on a frame from that segment and zoomed in on Owen’s mother’s face. The woman looked pale as milk.
It seemed like she really hadn’t known the truth. The question was, would she cave and go along with her husband’s plan now that she truly understood how deplorable the man’s actions were?
Or would she attempt to stand up to her powerful husband?
Either way, unless they turned around and delivered Owen back to his hospital room, retribution was coming to both of them.
And it would be very very ugly.
Cynthia glanced up and jerked. Damn. Her foggy brain was making it so hard to keep track of multiple tasks. Less than a quarter mile away, the ambulance was veering onto an offramp.
She yanked up the map again, eyes struggling to focus. Where in the heck were they going?
Abruptly she realized. There, near the freeway, was a small private helicopter company. She could see the intense floodlights and the markings for a pair of helipads. On one, a helicopter stood ready, its rotors swishing slowly through the air.
Shit. Cynthia had counted on having at least another twenty minutes, interspersed with breaks to deliver new directions to the idiotic cab, to stitch together the video.
“New destination. Birdman Helicopter Services.”
“That establishment is closed. Would you like me to search for aviation services open at this hour?”
“No. Set the destination.”
Time stretched out while the cab seemed to contemplate this. Cynthia clenched her fists, shoulders creeping toward her ears.
“Destination confirmed. Please present payment identification to confirm funds for the new drive time and assure that your seat restraints remain fastened.”
As Cynthia waved her wrist over the sensor, she clicked on Emerson’s messenger conversation. She dragged in files that still needed to be spliced together.
“Emerson. I’m out of time to finish this. At Birdman Helicopter Services in Atlanta trying to stop them from lifting off with Owen. This is our only leverage. I need you to figure out how to use it.”
The autocab made a smooth turn onto the interstate offramp and stopped at the signal where the ramp intersected the surface street. Cynthia bounced her knee as she watched the ambulance halt at the chain-link gate guarding Birdman’s lot. A guard stepped from a small station room and approached the ambulance door. The driver extended a phone, which the guard grabbed and laid against some sort of tablet. After a moment, the guard nodded, returned the phone, and headed back to his booth.
As Cynthia’s cab pulled onto the street, the gate slid open. The ambulance rolled into motion.
“Stop here,” Cynthia ordered.
“Stop confirmed. Would you like to prorate the latest fare to account for a foreshortened trip?”
“I don’t care. No. Just let me out.”
“Thank you for your patronage,” the autocab said as the door slid open.
Cynthia hit the cracked sidewalk at a run. The ambulance was fully through the gate by the time she reached the driveway. She glanced at the security booth. The guard was staring at a tablet, the play of light from a video reflecting off his face.
Heart in her throat, Cynthia sprinted onto the lot as the gate swung shut.
Breath rasping her throat, she ran for the relative darkness beside the establishment’s office building. Just a single light shone through a window facing the helipad with the waiting copter.
The ambulance stopped flush with the edge of the pad, and doors opened on all sides. Governor Calhoun climbed out of the passenger seat while the driver stepped down and circled the rear of the vehicle.
Cynthia clenched her jaw. The absence of security around the governor while he’d kidnapped his son had seemed a lucky stroke. Apparently, the only reason for that had been because the guard had been waiting in an idling ambulance.
Well. He probably wouldn’t shoot her, especially if she made it known that she was recording.
As the hired medics unloaded Owen’s gurney and his mother stepped down from the rear of the ambulance, Cynthia straightened her shoulders and stepped from the shadows into the daylight glare of the floods.
“You should know I am streaming video to an Internet repository. I’ve left instructions with a trusted friend to broadcast what happens here if I am injured or worse.”
Governor Calhoun stopped in his tracks, his face purpling. “Christ!” he shouted. “Do you have any concept how much trouble this puts you in? My lawyers will eviscerate you.”
“On what charges? Trying to save your son’s life?”
“Trespassing. Harassment. Libel and slander.”
Cynthia shrugged as she continued forward. Her phone vibrated, and she glanced down at the message from Emerson.
On it.
“Trespassing, huh?” she called. “I saw no signs. And anyway, we’ll have to see what the property owners say about that. I wonder how they’ll feel to be featured in a recording of a middle-of-the-night operation by our state’s leader to secretly remove his own son from medical care.”
“Actually…” The governor glanced at the building as a door opened. Bearing a microphone boom, a handheld video camera, and the control unit for a set of drones that lifted off from the building’s roof, a camera crew stepped out. Peter followed, a smug expression on the aide’s face.
The man’s lip twitched as he glared at Cynthia. “I suspect Birdman will be pleased to be featured in the governor’s efforts to stop the insidious spread of society-destroying technology. They’ve even agreed to fit the helicopter with special wireless shielding so that Owen can be removed from the influences that have likely taken his precious mind from us.”
Cynthia opened and closed her mouth, mind struggling with her lack of sleep and the rapidly changing circumstances. Peter’s words slammed home a moment later. A helicopter with wireless shielding. Was it a bluff? Part of the production? Or did Owen have just minutes remaining?
“Go ahead and start recording,” the governor said, turning his eyes to the camera. “We’ll do what we need in post-production to deal with her intrusion.”
Chapter Forty-Three
“SO WHEN RAAZEL’S forces finally make landfall—”
At the other demon’s tone, Raazel—Owen, Devon reminded herself—roared and slammed a claw-fist on the table. “My army is four times the size of your pathetic force and they represent ten times the power. I will tolerate no more criticism, veiled or open. Zaa may desire cooperation between us, but if a choice must be made over which leaders remain on the council, there’s little question which of us will be shackled to the wall and left for the vultures.”
A deep red glow flared in Raazel’s eyes, and with a wave of his muscular arm, the demon summoned a blazing map on the tabletop, lines of flame sketching a continent and coastline, mountains and cities.
Devon’s eyes tracked to the dot marking Ishildar, the craggy ridgeline to the north and east. In her mind, she estimated the spread of the ancient city, judging its borders based on her recollection of the extensive ruins. Her gaze wandered a few inches south to the smaller marking that she guessed represented Stonehaven.
With another wave of Raazel’s arm, a fleet of ships sprang from the obsidian table, hundreds of vessels cutting across the sea to crash upon the southern shore. She spotted the notation for the swamp where she’d delved into the Fortress of Shadows. The march from Stonehaven to the ruined fortress had taken about a day. As best she could guess, that meant the coast lay less than three days from her settlement.
Three days plus however much time it would take for the demon army to set sail and cross the Noble Sea.
She glanced at Raazel. If she succeeded in guiding Owen from this place, would the
army still come?
Maybe not.
All the more reason to succeed here.
She took a breath. “Tell me, Raazel, do you ever wonder why you were chosen? What was your life before Zaa plucked you from the horde?” She hoped to plant just the faintest doubt, to give Owen the first thread of what would become his lifeline.
When the demon’s body tensed, wings rising as his brow lowered, she took an unwitting step back. Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been the best tactic.
“Do you dare question my place here?”
Devon scrambled for a response, her heart thudding. The archdemon took a step toward her, wings stretching wider.
“Owen,” she said. “It’s Devon. You remember, right? Wildsense Ranger with an annoying habit of breaking your stealth by jumping onto the crate you were hiding behind?”
With a roar, Raazel summoned flame in each of his fists and threw lines of fire across the room, the blaze leaping up to form walls on either side of her.
“Raazel,” another of the demons growled. “We’re wasting time.”
Owen’s demon self kept coming, his body seeming to enlarge as his eyes glowed a deeper red. He loomed over Devon and growled.
“You’re not indispensable,” another of the council said. “Anyone can be sent to take command in Jiankal.”
“Listen to them, Raazel,” Devon said loudly, fighting the urge to raise her claws in defense. “Your rashness does you no service.”
With a low growl, Raazel dismissed the fire, puffs of acrid smoke billowing to the ceiling.
As he started to turn back toward the table, Devon spoke in a low voice, “I never got a chance to give you shit for hoarding those Phials of Deification. Remember? You only coughed them up once Avatharn Online was shutting down.”
She watched the muscles of his shoulders, desperate for some hint of an internal struggle. All she detected was rage.
From the edge of the room, Chen spoke in a rather squeaky voice. “Cynthia.”
The single word caused the demon to halt. Raazel slowly rotated back to face her and the cowering imp.
Citadel of Smoke: A LitRPG and GameLit Adventure (Stonehaven League Book 4) Page 31
