by Gary Gibson
He stared down at the tiny darkened bead, a mixture of dread and excitement churning inside him.
Then he thought back to his meeting with Offenbach, when he had been unable to bypass the security settings on a number of files. Would his lattice, unwelcome as it was, now enable him to access those same files should he try again?
Luc dropped the darkened bead in the recycling, then headed out.
One of de Almeida’s mechants guided him to a tiny private cubicle in a walk-in office complex close by Chandrakant Lu Park. He didn’t have long to wait before de Almeida’s invitation arrived in the form of a tiny point of light that hovered in the air before him.
He reached out. The star-like point puffed into mist the moment his fingertips brushed it, and –
– he was on Vanaheim.
Looking down at his hands, he flexed them, stunned at how perfectly real they looked. He could feel a breeze touching his cheek, as if he were really, actually physically present. The haptics alone were on a whole order of sophistication beyond anything he’d ever experienced before while data-ghosting. It had to be because of his lattice.
It was like actually being there.
He was sitting on a long stone bench near the middle of an auditorium cut into the side of a hill. The benches formed steps that led down to the foot of the hill, and seated on them at different points around the auditorium were maybe forty or fifty men and women, the majority of whom he did not recognize. Sitting at his side was de Almeida, who glanced towards him out of the corner of her eye, giving him the tiniest nod to let him know she could see him.
The auditorium was large enough that it looked almost empty. Clearly, few amongst the Temur Council had felt inclined to come and pay their respects to their dead compatriot. Most of those present were clustered together near the base of the auditorium, but a few, including de Almeida, sat conspicuously apart from the rest. Mechants sporting a variety of liveries hummed through the air.
Before the steps stood a low, wide platform, and beyond that a sloping grassy plain. Luc could see a meandering river a few kilometres away. Tall columns were arranged haphazardly around the edges of the auditorium, a few bearing broken-limbed statues, as if the auditorium were the remnant of some long dead civilization. Close by a bend in the river stood an imposing-looking ruin, moss growing up its sides, a partly caved-in roof open to the elements.
Luc held his breath, half-convinced someone would see his electronic phantasm despite de Almeida’s reassurances.
He spotted Surendra Finch, Overseer for Temur’s security services, and the man to whom Lethe reported directly; Rosabella Dose, who had fired the fatal shot that killed Lewis Finney when Coalition forces stormed the judicial headquarters on Darwin mere months after the Abandonment; Alexander Maksimov, famous for negotiating the surrender of Yue Shijie’s transfer gates to the Sandoz; and many less familiar faces that nonetheless had in their own ways influenced the course of the Tian Di over the centuries.
It was intimidating company, to say the least.
He saw Father Cheng stand up from a gathering at the front of the auditorium, and step towards the platform, trailed by several mechants and a small entourage that included Cripps. A projector had been set up on the platform, and as Luc watched, this device unfolded broad panels made of thin metal wafers.
After a moment, the air above the panels shimmered, then darkened to reveal a sprinkling of stars, in defiance of the afternoon light. A grey, cylindrical shape floated in the foreground, occluding many of the stars. The curved surface of a world was clearly visible, revealing that the cylindrical object was in orbit.
As Luc watched, brilliant light flared at the rear of the grey cylinder, and it began to recede from the fixed viewpoint above the planet, dwindling within seconds to a tiny point of slightly flickering light almost indistinguishable from the steady brilliance of the stars. Before very long it had vanished entirely. Luc guessed it was Sevgeny Vasili’s coffin.
‘Sevgeny would have liked it this way,’ said Father Cheng, his voice carrying clear and sharp across the hillside. ‘He used to wonder what might lie at the heart of our galaxy; well, in a way, he’ll get to find out now. That ship we placed him on board – the last one he’ll ever travel on – is a modified version of the same craft that carry the seeds of transfer gates to new worlds. I can’t think of a better farewell for a man who worked so hard towards reuniting the two disparate halves of the human race.’
Luc watched with interest as Cheng pointedly cast his gaze around those gathered, and recalled what Offenbach had told him: Vasili had been given the job of Reunification not as a perk, but as a kind of punishment duty.
‘We all know how hard Sevgeny worked towards that goal,’ Cheng continued. ‘He may not have lived to see it fulfilled, but his body, if not his soul, will journey where his heart and his mind often did, to the mystery at the heart of our island universe. God speed, Sevgeny,’ he said, glancing towards the dark projection hovering in the air. ‘We’ll miss you, but you’ll always be with us, in spirit at least.’
Cheng stepped down from the platform, and someone new stepped up to say their piece. Luc meanwhile found his attention drawn to a figure that stood alone on the far side of the auditorium, and felt his skin prickle as if he had just been doused in ice-water.
Whoever they were, their face was entirely invisible beneath a mirrored mask. The mask formed part of a suit of cloth and metal that was covered in turn by a loose, flowing coat that billowed gently in the light breeze flowing down the slope of the hill.
The same figure he’d seen in his dreams, with Antonov’s angry face reflected in it.
De Almeida glanced towards the masked figure, then regarded him with an expression of amusement before turning her attention back to the man delivering his eulogy on the stage.
Luc insisted.
She gave him a sidewise glance full of irritation.
Luc felt a shiver run through him at the sight of the masked figure.
‘Zelia.’
Luc realized with a start that Ruy Borges had come over to join them. He stiffened with apprehension before remembering Borges could neither see nor hear him.
De Almeida’s response was filled with bored exasperation. ‘Whatever it is, can’t it wait, Ruy?’
‘I was just thinking,’ said Borges with a lopsided grin, ‘of what Javier might say if he was here. He’d have a few words to
say about Sevgeny, wouldn’t he?’
Javier. He could only be talking about Javier Maxwell.
De Almeida scowled. ‘This really isn’t the time or the place.’
‘I almost forget sometimes how much those two men hated each other,’ Borges continued, his grin growing wider. ‘If it wasn’t for Javier being locked up in that prison of his, I’d have thought he was behind Sevgeny’s murder.’
‘I’m serious, Ruy,’ de Almeida growled. ‘Go away.’
‘Now if Javier were the next to be assassinated . . . well, it’s not like there’s a lack of volunteers when it comes to pulling the trigger.’
De Almeida stared at him with baleful contempt. ‘What, exactly, are you saying?’
Borges shrugged. ‘Just that if the security systems around that prison of his were to fail and something were to happen to him as a result, well . . . we’d be free of a serious thorn in our side, don’t you think?’
Luc saw some heads towards the front of the auditorium had turned away from the latest eulogy, and were keenly watching Borges’s confrontation with de Almeida instead.
She stood. ‘You’re suggesting I killed Vasili, and I should do the same to Javier. Is that it?’
Borges’s grin grew wider, his voice slightly louder, easily carrying across the auditorium. ‘It’s not like everybody doesn’t already think you did it. But if something were to happen to Javier, then it might help tip the balance in your favour a little.’
De Almeida stared at him with undisguised loathing. ‘Am I on trial?’ she demanded.
‘All I’m saying,’ Borges continued, ‘is that were you to allow the security on Javier’s prison to slip at the right time and place, there are a few people who might be prepared to take care of Javier the way you took care of Sevgeny.’
‘Would you be the one who pulled the trigger, Ruy?’ A cold smile twitched the corners of her mouth. ‘No, of course not. You just like to make speeches and threaten people. And let’s be clear on this: the one thing I don’t control is the security cordon around Javier’s prison. You know that just as well as I do. The Sandoz handle it under Joe’s direct supervision.’
Ruy’s hands twisted at his sides. ‘You know I’m not the only one who wants nothing to do with that thing masquerading as a human being,’ he spat, stabbing one finger in the direction of the masked Ambassador. ‘Joe’s hand is being forced when it comes to Reunification. He doesn’t say it, at least not to anyone outside of the Eighty-Five – but we all know it. Something’s going on that we aren’t being told about.’
Zelia’s expression became incredulous. ‘What the hell does Javier have to do with any of that?’
‘Because that’s what Javier’s always wanted, isn’t it?’ Borges’s voice was rising again, and even the woman delivering her eulogy had paused to listen. ‘To expose us to those . . . those monsters in the Coalition.’
Luc glanced towards the Ambassador, wondering how he felt about being described in such terms.
De Almeida waved one hand in dismissal. ‘You’re a fantasist, Ruy. Show some respect for Sevgeny’s memory and sit the hell back down.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Luc saw Cripps moving rapidly up the steps towards them.
‘Somebody has to say it,’ Borges spat. ‘Those people in the Coalition have all been changed by the Founder Network. For God’s sake, Zelia,’ he continued, a pleading tone creeping into his voice now, ‘how can we possibly know there’s anybody left alive on Darwin who’s truly human anymore, even in all of the Coalition? How do we know they weren’t compromised, even replaced by whatever it is that’s lurking in the Network?’
‘Stop this now.’
Borges turned to stare at Cripps, his nostrils flaring. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head adamantly. ‘There are things that have to be said.’
‘This is a difficult enough time as it is,’ Cripps growled. ‘You’re making a scene, Ruy.’
‘Everyone knows she—’
‘Ruy.’
Borges’s lips quivered, but he went silent and walked back down the steps without another glance at de Almeida. Luc followed him with his eyes as Borges stalked past the platform, giving Horst Sachs a wide berth as he made towards a group of fliers parked a short walk away.
‘Thank you,’ de Almeida said to Cripps.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Cripps replied curtly. ‘It wasn’t for your benefit; he was disrupting the proceedings.’
De Almeida nodded wordlessly as Cripps turned on his heel and headed back down to rejoin Father Cheng, who hadn’t so much as turned around throughout the altercation. Luc had little doubt he was nonetheless aware of everything that had just taken place.
Luc said as de Almeida took her seat next to him once more.
She allowed herself a brief sideways glance at him.
She nodded, very gently.
On the stage, the final eulogy came to an end. People were already sharing muttered conversations as they began to move out of the auditorium and towards the parked fliers.
De Almeida stepped away to speak to one or two people, but it was clear from their uneasy expressions that they were disinclined to spend too much time speaking with her.
He glanced towards Ambassador Sachs, who was now in conversation with Cripps. Something about that perfectly reflective mask made his skin crawl. When he followed de Almeida down to the front of the auditorium, he had the uncanny sense the Ambassador was watching him, but with that mask it was impossible to tell exactly where his gaze fell at any moment.
He glanced back over at de Almeida.
She sighed.
‘We’re free to talk out loud now,’ she said, switching away from script-speak. ‘No one’s going to overhear us.’
She glanced around with a furtive expression. ‘I never feel comfortable using script-speak, even if I have to.’
Luc activated his data-ghost’s audio circuits, but kept the volume dialled down to not much more than a whisper. ‘Go on, then.’
‘There are rumours,’ she explained, ‘of secret negotiations between the Coalition and some members of the Eighty-Five. Negotiations that none of the rest of the Council were ever told about.’
‘And that’s what Borges was referring to just now?’
She nodded helplessly. ‘For all I know it’s just a rumour and nothing more, but once you put an idea like that in the head of a man like Borges, no matter how tenuous, it becomes dangerous.’
‘But what kind of negotiations?’
She shrugged. ‘I have no idea, assuming the story is even true.’
‘All right, then what about Javier Maxwell? Why would Borges want him dead so badly?’
She scowled. ‘It doesn’t really have to do with Maxwell at all, it’s more to do with what he represents. Borges is scared because Cheng’s hand is being forced over Reunification.’
‘Forced? How?’
‘By the same tide of popular opin
ion that originally made it possible for him to seize control of the Temur Council – a tide that has now turned the other way, in favour of Reunification.’ She kept her voice low as she spoke. ‘Even without access to instantiation technology, people throughout the Tian Di are living better and longer lives than at any time since the Abandonment. The days when the colonies had to struggle to survive, when desperately stringent measures were needed – those days are long gone, and everyone in the Tian Di knows it. Now they want the same things we in the Council have – and Father Cheng hasn’t given them any adequate reasons why they shouldn’t have the same things sooner rather than later.’
‘Then why doesn’t he just give them to us?’
‘Cheng is old. We all are. The mistake was believing that as long as things stayed the same, we’d have stability. Instead, we have stagnation, but Cheng doesn’t seem to understand that. He had to be forced into agreeing to Reunification.’
‘What forced his hand?’
‘There are plenty of indicators showing that without radical social change, the Tian Di might break up. There might even be civil war. The evidence was convincing enough to persuade the majority of Councillors to agitate in favour of Reunification. And for all his power, Cheng can’t do anything without the vast majority of us backing him.’
‘And Borges?’
‘Men like Borges would be more than happy to maintain the current status quo forever, even if the rest of the Tian Di burned. He doesn’t want change, and neither, I think, do most of the Eighty-Five.’
‘In that case, given Vasili was actively working towards change, surely Borges would make a good suspect for his murder?’
‘Our mutual cup overflows with potential suspects, wouldn’t you say?’ she said.
‘That’s why I’m going to need full access to Vanaheim’s security records, Miss de Almeida.’
She stared at him like she hadn’t quite heard him right. ‘You’re not actually serious, are you?’
‘Quite serious. I need access to any and all data relating to the movements of everyone in Vanaheim over, say, the last few days – and preferably the last several weeks. I also need access to the personal records of everyone on the Council.’
