Live Without a Net

by Lou Anders

  He was dead when they laid him on the floor.

  Maryanne curled herself into a ball and tried not to cry, her first etheric creation all but forgotten.

  Maryanne watched Lord William with disdain as he stood at the ready with a pair of ceremonial scissors in hand, eager to cut ribbon. The air around the Scarborough Hotel was bleak and heavy; distant rains threatened from the north. Nearby, the shelled remains of a chemist’s shop wavered in the fog, ghostlike, a bitter memory of the Blitz. A light drizzle had already begun to collect on the collars and hat brims of the assembled crowd. Last night’s downpour had already reduced the new car park adjacent the hotel’s Cicero Pavilion annex to a swath of muddy brown pools. All this and the wicked November wind twisting the lapels of Maryanne’s suit, flapping her skirt, breathing into the microphone as if in mockery of her. She wanted this to be over.

  This was the eighth franchise in England to bear the Palace de Cicero logo. In the five years since the end of the war, Lord William had made a habit of purchasing the hulls of buildings bombed out during the Blitz and transforming them into the receptacles of his dreams. Satellite franchises were springing up in America, Australia, France; one in British Berlin and even one in Tokyo. And they were making him rich.

  The photographer shrugged and urged someone to kill time while he wrestled with his equipment. To the right of the ribbon-clad glass doors that led into the Pavilion was a raised platform decorated with bunting, upon which sat members of the board and some of Whitley’s luminaries, including Maryanne. Lord William kicked the platform with his boot to get her attention and waved her toward the microphone. She made a face at the thing, but gamely stood and cleared her throat, casting her eyes about the assembled crowd. Colorless, gray and beige and brown they sat, notepads in hand, their faces identical.

  She knew how she looked to Lord William: too thin and unpretty, too clever and ambitious to be desirable—a schoolmarm with aspirations. She stood before the microphone in her floor-length twill skirt and a matronly blouse, her hair pulled severely back from her face; she felt schoolmarmish, and the realization angered her. In the years she’d known Lord William, he’d maintained a balance of contempt and admiration for her that seemed to both confuse and arouse him. He had no appreciation for her gifts, but he knew their cash value; that was enough for her.

  She cleared her throat and spoke. “Before Lord William cuts the ribbon and we all venture inside, are there any questions?”

  A reporter from the Mirror stood, balancing against the wind. “Mrs. Spenser, one of the most frequent concerns voiced about the Palace de Cicero is the radical nature of its technology. Quite simply, is it safe?”

  Maryanne had answered the question numerous times already, before potential investors, the Commerce Ministry, and countless other reporters. “In short, sir, the Palace de Cicero is safe as houses. More safe than that, actually. During the experience, the visitor is kept firmly secured in place while the mind travels. Nothing that the visitor experiences can produce harm to the body. In fact, even if you were killed in the ether, by falling off a building, or by being run through in a duel, you would awake back here at the Pavilion feeling right as a trivet. Anyone else?”

  The same reporter continued, “What I’m referring to is the danger of the machines themselves. I’m thinking of the case of Lt. Andrew Parker?”

  Lord William leapt into the fray, nearly overrunning Maryanne. “We’ve been instructed by our solicitors,” he said, solemnly, “not to discuss the details of Lieutenant Parker’s tragedy. I can say only that both the British Navy and Ashcroft Laboratories, while saddened by his death, are convinced that there is no causal relationship between it and the EAM machinery. I should add as well that the technology in use today is far more advanced than that used during the war.”

  Maryanne cringed inwardly, praying that the photographer would finish his machinations and take the bloody picture already, before the specter of Parker added a second overcast to an already ugly day. It was easy for Lord William to be glib about the young lieutenant; he hadn’t watched the man die.

  A man from the Times stood. “What do you say to the allegations by members of Parliament that it is improper for the military to license this technology to the private sector?”

  “Improper in what way?” said Lord William. “If you’re referring to the value of the EAM as an intelligence tool, I might remind you that secret meetings within the ether became a thing of the past even before the war was over. Hitler had the plans for the thing in January of ’45, and we know now that the Soviets have it, as well. If, on the other hand, you refer to the financial relationship between Ashcroft Laboratories and the British Navy, I would argue that such a relationship is only fair considering the circumstances of the technology’s creation during wartime, and the current economic state of the military.”

  Lord William and Mrs. Spenser traded off answers for a few more minutes. Finally, the photographer flashed a thumbs-up, and Lord William cut through the red ribbon with a vengeance.

  Inside the Cicero Pavilion, drinks were poured, and reporters were allowed to mingle with the carefully rehearsed technicians and supervisors who hovered by the EAM chairs, checking their levers and dials.

  The pavilion contained a full bar and restaurant, and a circle of forty-six EAM chairs. A company that made salon chairs manufactured the plush leather seats, and the design was similar. The EAM apparatus connected to the chairs might be mistaken for a ladies’ hair dryer, and more than one joke was made at the chairs’ expense while the journalists were settling themselves. Maryanne had always felt that the pavilions were tawdry and unseemly; she much preferred to visit the ether from home.

  “How many of you have experienced the ether already?” said Lord William. A few hands went up. “Just a few of you, then? In that case we shan’t dispense with the formalities. Jerome?”

  Lord William ceded the floor to a thin man with a prominent bald spot, who wore a lab coat with his name stitched above the pocket. He read from a printed card with a deep basso voice. “Thank you for joining us in the bold scientific revolution of the Palace de Cicero. Please listen closely to the following instructions; if you have questions, please speak to your technician after this briefing.”

  The man scanned the room briefly, flashing a quick, polite smile.

  “In a moment, you will be connected to the ether via the Etheric Amplification Module, or EAM. First, however, you will receive a dose of EAM cocktail, which is a combination of common pharmaceuticals intended to ease your entry into the ether. These include a mild hypnotic, an antinausea drug, and a muscle relaxant. Please drink the entire dose. As always, we ask that you not drive a motorcar or operate any heavy machinery for at least an hour after your stay in the ether. Keep in mind that those with heart conditions and women who are with child are strongly advised against visiting the ether.” The technicians produced tiny paper cups and distributed them to each of the seated journalists.

  “If you find yourself feeling nauseated, or experience a tingling sensation in your fingers and toes, do not be alarmed. The sensation will soon pass. Within a few moments, your perceptions will be reoriented to the EAM, and you will find yourself within the Palace de Cicero. Thank you for your attention, and enjoy your stay.”

  As he spoke, the technicians began to fasten the blue transceiver units over the heads of those seated. Turban and shower cap quips were made. Then the technicians began to activate the machines, and the room fell silent except for the low electric hum of the chairs.

  “I suppose I’d better go in and meet them,” Maryanne said to Lord William. “Where are you putting them?”

  “I thought the palace courtyard would be best,” he said.

  “Will you be joining us for the tour?”

  Lord William tipped back a glass of scotch. “No, I have business to attend to here in the real world. But you go and play.” He turned his back on her and strode away.

  Maryanne found an empty cha
ir and let herself be strapped in, downing the cocktail in a single swallow.

  “Raise the amplitude,” she said, fixing the transceiver over her temples. “Put it all the way up. I like things sharp.”

  As the EAM began its humming initiation sequence, Maryanne closed her eyes and began opening her mind to the trance. She let her senses fall away, reorienting her sight on the patterns of red and blue that filtered across her closed eyelids. Somewhere, deep within and around her, the Palace was waiting, waiting to receive her back into itself, to place itself back within her breast, where it belonged, where she belonged. She felt the EAM begin to align her perceptions, began to hear birdcalls and smell lilac. When she opened her eyes, she was standing in the front courtyard, staring up at the azure towers of the Palace de Cicero.

  There was a brief shock upon entering the ether, not just from the sense of physical dislocation. There was an emotional component, as well, a surge of feeling that left Maryanne momentarily stunned. Others had encountered it, as well. Auden wrote,

  When a man opens his eyes onto such a place, he has two reactions, and they are simultaneous. The first is an exquisite joy, the notion that innocence and tranquility are nigh, that the utopian dream of the poet has been realized in the flesh, and it is felt in the heart. The second is an equally exquisite pain, the contrast of those gleaming white towers to the jagged edges of Britain’s rubble. It is the fear that renewal can take place only in this sphere, away from the empty apartment blocks and the silent weeping of mothers and wives, and it is felt in the gut.

  The reporter from the Times was at her side, retching on the ground. His persona was one of the random Caucasians, but she recognized his movements, even in his current predicament. It was difficult to fool Maryanne within the ether.

  “The sensation will pass presently,” she said. “Your inner ear is trying desperately to reconcile the prone position of your physical body with the very convincing proprioception of the ether. Don’t fight it—you’ll adjust soon enough.”

  “Thanks,” the reporter said. He stood up on shaky legs. “I don’t know about the castle, but the vomit is damned convincing.” He looked down ruefully at the puddle between his legs.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Donner. You’ve done your first bit of etheric creation. How does it feel?”

  “Like hell,” he said. He glanced around the courtyard, at the other journalists who were still finding their feet, as well. A number of etherites, many of them in elaborate costume and persona, lingered in the courtyard. They walked its garden paths, sat on benches gazing at the clouds, stood in groups of twos and threes, talking in hushed tones.

  Donner glanced sideways at the bronze statue in the center of the courtyard. “Who’s the bloke on the pedestal?”

  Maryanne glanced at it. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of course. He’s the patron saint of the ether.” She waved to the reporters. “Come along, everyone, and we’ll start the tour at the feet of the Palace’s spiritual founder.” She took Donner’s hand and led him to the base of the statue, the long skirts of her Faery Queen ensemble trailing after her. The other reporters followed as well as they were able.

  “It was Doyle’s writings on spiritualism that led to our experiments during the war,” said Maryanne. “When the Germans cracked Ultra, the ether became Britain’s primary source of intelligence gathering.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Donner. “I recall reading some of Doyle’s writings on the subject of spiritualists. Something about the ghosts of loved ones really being nothing more than ‘cold impressions sunk in the waxy strata of the ether.’ Do I have it right?”

  “I’m impressed,” said Maryanne. “Most people find the original texts rather dense and hard to follow. They’re a far cry from Sherlock Holmes.” She smiled.

  Donner smiled back. “Well, you’re a fair sight more charming than that clammy number up on the platform outside,” he said. “You ought to have her job. You’re a fair sight more attractive, as well.”

  Maryanne tried not to frown. “Mr. Donner, I am the clammy number up on the platform outside.”

  Donner blushed. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Spenser. I—”

  “No apologies necessary, Mr. Donner. You’ve now learnt the very valuable lesson that appearances in the ether can be deceiving. But I have a tour to lead.” She twirled on the balls of her feet and sent her skirts swishing about her, daring the newspapermen to follow her.

  She led them around the gardens and down into the cellars, where the architects and builders toiled, working the raw stuff of the ether on the anvils of their imaginations. All of them had been handpicked and trained by Maryanne. The journalists were especially impressed by the botanists, who plucked roses out of nowhere, fully formed, and arranged them in bud vases.

  Up into the castle proper they went. She showed them the crystal chandeliers and the intricate mosaics on the floors of the great dining rooms. She took them to the aquarium where they nodded in appreciation at the sharks and jellyfish that swam there. She took them through the Hall of Windows, where each rounded archway looked out over a scene from life: here was the Ponte Vecchio in Venice at sunset; next to it was the Great Wall of China, its parapets shrouded in mist; beyond that, the half-built pyramids of Giza glinted in the noonday sun of Egypt, dusky workers rolling mammoth blocks of stone up the slopes of the monuments. They were tricks of light and perspective, mere dumb shows, but impressive nonetheless for their verisimilitude.

  “Are those real people down there?” said Donner, pointing at the workers.

  “No,” said Maryanne. “We don’t create people in the ether. Those laborers are the etheric equivalents of pasteboard cutouts.” Her voice was cold.

  In a side hallway, rain fell from the ceiling. A man sat naked in the midst of the downpour, weeping into his hands. A flamingo in a top hat stood over him, shaking its wing in disgust.

  “Why must you always do this when we go out?” the flamingo said, scowling at the naked man through a monocle.

  Maryanne watched the falling rain seep into the carpet and run along the baseboards. She would send someone in to clean it up later.

  She left the journalists, blinking and staring, in a restaurant on the mezzanine level of the Palace and returned to the front courtyard through a side exit, waiting.

  She began to walk toward the main gates of the palace and stopped short. He was there, her dark stranger, looking at her. He stood out from everything else in the ether; he was more real, more perfectly formed than even the most expensive persona. His long black hair flowed and glistened in the artificial sunlight. His eyes were soft and warm, shining for her and her alone. He leaned against a stone column with a grace that was more beautiful than anything she’d conjured within the ether. She devoured him with her eyes.

  “Hello, my dark stranger,” she whispered to herself. He watched her move, smiling at her, keeping his distance.

  She was about to go greet him when the reporter from the Mirror appeared in the courtyard, chasing after her, weeping.

  “Shut it off!” he cried. “I can’t take it! Shut it off!”

  “The technicians can’t hear you,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’ve got to find an exit and go through it.”

  She took the weeping man by the shoulders and led him to a doorway in the hedgerow marked EXIT. He continued weeping as she pushed him through, back into the waking world. Once that was done, she looked all over the courtyard for her dark stranger, but he was gone.

  Maryanne wandered the gardens, thinking of him. Since Paul’s death, she’d let her thoughts of men sink down beneath her surface. She had no time for them. She had little patience for their clumsy advances and their ridiculous games. Paul had been neither attractive nor charming, but he’d been honest, and deeply kind. And he’d died in an heroic fashion, stepping in front of a German machine gun to protect his fellow soldiers. She’d been prepared to nurse her safe memories of Paul unto death, but her new love had other plans. She was helpless to resist the dar
k stranger; the more she tried, the weaker she became in his grasp.

  She found herself at the edge of the palace proper. There, at the corner, was a solid black stone, sticking out like a sore thumb. Eerily dark, and perfectly cubic, it was the first thing she’d ever created in the ether, and she’d insisted that it be the cornerstone of the building, against Lord William’s mewling objections. Its perfection was compromised only by the inscription she’d later placed on it, which read, THE STONE THAT THE BUILDER REFUSED, AUGUST 13, 1948. Lord William hated the inscription and had demanded that it be removed, but so far none of the other architects had been able to alter it in any way. Whitley had finally given up and had a rosebush planted in front of the thing. She touched the stone with pleasure, remembering the day she’d created it; in so doing she’d become the first person in history to create a lasting conscious impression upon the ether. Let Whitley stew about it until his dying day; she’d never remove it. Sneering, she withered the rosebush with a touch of her hand; it turned black and sank into the damp earth.

  She strolled up a side path to the massive iron gates of the palace, watching the personae wander in and out. Some of them she recognized, though more and more often they were strangers, anonymous visitors to Lord William’s pavilions; they stood and gawked and made nuisances of themselves. But it was their money that kept the Palace alive. So be it.

  The sad part of it was that each visitor, whether conscious of it or not, made a mark on the ether, and so it would never remain the thing that Maryanne had created. A jilted lover’s sadness could make the flowers droop and stir damp drafts in the hallways. The wide-eyed enthusiasm of schoolboys left cartoonish drawings on the walls that were difficult to remove and put cotton-candy smells in the carpet that lingered for days. If she could have them all banished, she would.

  Inside the main entrance, the great hall was bustling with activity. Tour guides led awestruck tourists from six countries about the space, pointing out its architectural marvels, many of which Maryanne had designed and built herself. She passed the restaurant, Chez Tomas, where diners sat and feasted on perfectly braised cuts of lamb, pâté de foie gras on toast, seared duck in reduction sauce. The restaurant patrons gorged themselves, knowing that the food would never make them fat, could never make them full. They could sit and eat all day long if they wished; some of them did.