by Lou Anders
Maryanne threaded her way through the crowd in the hall, noticing imperfections in the scrollwork of a few of the columns. Some of them could be repaired, but others would have to be torn down and redone. Lord William could never understand why the stone couldn’t simply be built in place, as though carved marble could simply be extruded perfectly from the mind. It was always more realistic to start with an untouched slab of raw material stolen from the memories of a stonemason, then worked with hammer and chisel, polished with grit and sand. Likewise, Whitley couldn’t understand why the chefs at Chez Tomas couldn’t simply fabricate entrees directly onto the plate. Maryanne had tried to explain it over and over: even in the ether, the dictates of nature could not simply be ignored. Nature did not create steaks; she made cows. And as difficult as it had been for the team of biologists under Cicero’s employ to generate a template for Jersey cattle, the fabrication of a genuine, bloody sirloin from scratch was a thousand times more difficult.
While she stood frowning at the columns, she suddenly felt a presence beside her.
“I need to see you.” It was the dark stranger. Up close he was even more desirable; his features were strong, his eyes wistful and endlessly deep; a romantic hero, Heathcliff in the flesh.
“Yes,” she said, flushing. “Yes. We can go to my office. We’ll be alone there.”
The dark stranger nodded and, taking her hand, led her toward the bank of lifts.
“Wait,” she said, gasping. “This is too much. Too fast. I need to think.”
“What is there to think about, love?” said the dark stranger. “Only your eyes and your lips, for in my world nothing else exists.”
“Can you … just tell me who you are, really?” said Maryanne, pulling away from him slightly. “It doesn’t have to matter. It doesn’t have to be anything more than this.”
The dark stranger glared at her, disappointed. “I think you already know the answer to that question,” he said. “Do not toy with me, love. My heart burns for you, and within that flame there is madness.”
Maryanne let him pull her along. His directness and his violent poeticism should have alienated her. In the waking world she would have laughed at a man who spoke to her that way. But here, in the ether, it only made her want him more.
The waves of etherites, in their gaily colored costumes and handsome personae, parted before him when he moved. His bearing was outrageously regal; he carried himself as though he were some kind of prince, or demigod.
They got a lift to themselves. The doors slipped shut, and Maryanne felt at once giddy and nervous to be alone with him. She entered the number of her office into the lift’s panel, and the sensation of motion kicked in.
The dark stranger took her shoulder and spun her around. He pressed her against the wall and kissed her, drowning her in the strength of his presence. She moaned, barely struggling, fighting more to maintain consciousness than against him. The power of his kiss spread through her in a succession of waves, leaving her knees unsteady.
“Oh, my,” she said.
“I’ve been longing for you,” the dark stranger said, lowering his eyes. “I find it difficult to wait.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m beginning to find the waiting impossible.”
Maryanne’s office within the Palace was a museum of unfinished works, half-made costume designs, unfinished and botched templates for a new cornice on the fourth floor. On the wall was a faithful though incomplete reproduction of Gérôme’s Pygmalion et Galatea that Maryanne had done from memory using etheric paints and brushes. Into the fragmentary atmosphere of the office, Maryanne and her lover fell, bodies entwined.
When the lift door closed, the dark stranger removed her Faery Queen robes and beheld the porcelain perfection of her persona’s skin. She fell into him, letting herself be taken, letting go. It was dizzying, maddening, terrifying. She didn’t know what she was doing with him, or why she did it. But these past weeks she’d kept doing it, again and again. They made love twice, first on the floor by the lift, and again on the settee near the fireplace. Their lovemaking was surreal and tantalizing; Maryanne’s body, a world away in Cicero’s Pavilion, struggled to keep up with what her senses were telling it. Time swirled and vanished like smoke. It was almost as good as making love in the waking world. Almost.
They were still there, lying naked in each others’ arms, when Lord William burst into her office unannounced, his persona matched precisely to his waking-world appearance.
“What the devil!” he demanded. “Who is this man?”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your concern,” said Maryanne. “Would you please just go?” She scrambled for her clothes, wishing that Whitley would do the gentlemanly thing and vanish. Ogre that he was, however, he continued to stare. The dark stranger neither moved nor spoke, only watched Whitley with apprehension.
“I should say that it is my concern,” said Whitley. “You’ve been missing for hours. All the pavilions are closed, and the only ones currently registered in the ether are you and me. So again I ask, who in the bloody hell is this man?”
The dark stranger said nothing.
“Don’t play games with me, boy. Whoever you are, you can be traced, and I’ll see to it you go to jail for messing about in my ether.” Lord William’s face was red.
The dark stranger stood, looking more than ever like a stone carving of Hellenic virtue. He grasped Maryanne’s wrist and pulled her to him, brushing her neck with his mouth. “I will go,” he said to her, gently. “But I will return.”
Maryanne said nothing. She watched him walk to the lift, still unclothed, still smiling. No one spoke until the lift doors had closed and Lord William and Maryanne were alone.
“I demand an explanation, Mrs. Spenser,” said Whitley. “That man is not registered. He could be a thief, or a spy.”
“Don’t be daft, William,” said Maryanne. “He’s not dangerous.”
“Maryanne, you don’t know who’s dangerous and who is not. I know you’ve been lonely; it’s not right for a woman to be without a husband. But really! How you choose to comport yourself in your private matters, especially in my ether, has an effect on my business.”
Maryanne slumped onto the settee, looking into the fire. “It’s not your ether, William. It belongs to everyone.”
“Spare me the dramatics.” He poured himself a drink from the decanter on the mantel. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and figure out a way to get me drunk from this stuff.”
“It’s not possible,” said Maryanne.
“Well, I’ll tell you what is possible, Mrs. Spenser. I will trace that man’s connection and have him hauled off to prison unless you tell me who in the blue blazes he is.”
Maryanne groaned. “William, are you jealous?”
“You try my patience, Mrs. Spenser. Now, I’m walking out that door at the count of three, and if you don’t tell me who that man is, I’m calling Stewart and having him traced.”
“I don’t think that will do you any good,” said Maryanne, defiant.
“Oh, and why not?”
“He isn’t like you or me,” she said slowly. “He’s different.”
Whitley cleared his throat. “Mrs. Spenser, your naïveté has reached new depths. I’m calling Stewart.”
“Go ahead,” she said, sullen. “Though I’ve a feeling he’ll be wasting his time.”
The next afternoon, Maryanne left her office in Chadwick Street, in the waking world, without saying good night. She walked the half-mile to her Chelsea flat and entered into the building adrift in her private thoughts. She nearly ran headlong into George Carmichael, who was taking out his garbage.
“Oh,” he said coolly. “Hello, Mrs. Spenser.” He swung the can around her and continued down the hall.
“You could still call me Maryanne, you know,” she said, following him. “Just because things didn’t work out between us …” She trailed off.
He turned on her. “Funny,” he said. “I thought things w
ere working out between us. I suppose, though, being so famous these days you can’t date just anyone, though, can you? No, wait—I can date you, I just can’t touch you. Is that right?”
“Is that what you think, George?” she said.
He continued down the hall, ignoring her.
She had her tea in silence, only switching on the ether station in her living room when she couldn’t stand to be alone a moment longer. To hell with George Carmichael. She had something better now.
Her dark stranger was waiting for her in the lobby of the Palace Theater. He took her hand and kissed it, he in a dashing white tuxedo and she in a custom-made gown that fit her Faery Queen body perfectly. The lights dimmed, and they went in to find their seats.
The play was a new farce by Ionesco; it was wildly popular, but would never be performed in the West End. It was a piece conceived and produced expressly for the ether. Titled Apotheosis, it told the story of a drunken Daedalus and his loutish son Icarus, a pair more akin to Laurel and Hardy than mythology. In the third act, father and son donned wings of wax and feathers and soared across the theater, without the necessity of wires. At the play’s climax, a brilliant orange sun, conceived and constructed by Ionesco himself, dropped from the rafters, and Icarus swooped directly into it, his glittering wings bursting into violent flame. While the ceiling of the theater was consumed in fire, a technician in the waking world disconnected the actor playing Icarus from the ether, and his persona shimmered and vanished, appearing to be incinerated in the roiling sun.
During Daedalus’ bathetic closing monologue, the dark stranger placed his hands between Maryanne’s legs and rubbed there.
“I want you,” he whispered in her ear, as Daedalus wept onstage.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s go back to my office.”
“No,” he said. “I want you in the real, in the waking world.”
“Then tell me who you are,” she whispered.
“You know who and what I am.”
“But are you? Are you really?”
“You know as well as I. You know what must be done for us to be together in the waking world.”
“I want to,” she admitted, feeling weak. “I want to, but I don’t think you understand the consequences. Here, there are no consequences. Out there … you’re talking about murder.” She wrung her hands, looking around to see if anyone was listening. “Sometimes this feels wrong, you know?” she whispered. “Sometimes I feel as though I’m an addict and you’re my needle.”
“That is no way to speak about love,” he said.
“Is it love?” she said.
“The only reason I exist is to love you,” he said.
“I can’t bring you out.”
He pressed harder with his palm. “But you can do it. I can see it in your mind.”
“It’s not safe. Lord William knows about you.”
The hand stopped. “I thought we agreed not to tell him.”
The play ended. The audience was applauding.
“What choice did I have?” said Maryanne. “He would have found out eventually, anyway.”
“Then I am in danger,” the dark stranger said. “You must find a way to bring me into the waking world. Now.”
“Lord William won’t do anything, not until he’s found a way to profit from your existence. Don’t be like this,” she cooed. “Let’s go back to my office. We can figure something out. You can scare him. He’s frightened of you.”
“He ought to be frightened of me. He crosses you at every turn. He belittles you. Do you know how I found you? How I found my way through the darkness to you?”
“How?” she said, frightened.
“I heard you weeping. I was drawn by your anger, your hatred.”
“I don’t hate Lord William,” she said. “I don’t hate anyone.”
“Perhaps you believe that in the waking world,” said the dark stranger. “But here, I know, you hate.”
“Stop all of this,” said Maryanne, breathing hard. “Let’s go back to my office.”
“There’s no time for that,” he said, standing. He straightened his tie.
“Please,” she whispered. “I need you.”
“Then you know what you must do.” The dark stranger turned and walked away without another word. Maryanne sat, worried, biting a thumbnail that did not exist.
Two days later, at the Chadwick Street headquarters of the Palace de Cicero, in the waking world, Lord William called Maryanne into his office. The space was enormous, taking up the entire south wall of the building’s top floor; outside the high arched windows, the Thames lay gray and distant.
Lord William was speaking with a British Navy officer when she entered. They were seated in a pair of upholstered armchairs by the windows, smoking cigars.
“Ah, Mrs. Spenser,” said Whitley. “You remember Captain Weaver from High Street, during the war?”
“Of course,” said Maryanne, hesitant. “How good to see you again, Captain.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Weaver. “It seems only yesterday that you were content being Lord William’s secretary, and now look at you.”
“I was never content to be Lord William’s secretary, Captain. My husband was killed in Italy, and it was either that or work in a munitions factory.” She kept her face blank.
“Of course,” said Captain Weaver, after an embarrassed pause. “Well, it was fortunate for all of us that Lord William discovered your true talents in the ether.” Lord William’s eyes looked nearly ready to pop from their sockets, which was exactly what Maryanne had intended.
“Well,” said Lord William, “since we’ve apparently dispensed with pleasantries, we’ll get right to it.” He rose, coughing, and gathered a sheaf of papers from his desk, presenting them to Captain Weaver. They were registration logs from the several Cicero’s Pavilion and Personal Ether Station outlets, consolidated from around the globe in the ether, and hand-transcribed by copyists working with their eyes in the ether, and their hands on their adding machines in the waking world.
“I’ve confirmed the nonexistence of your nameless suitor,” said Lord William. “And as I’m sure you know, certain protocols must be observed according to our generous agreement with Her Majesty’s Navy. As a result—”
“Captain Weaver,” interrupted Maryanne. “I hope you’ll take what Lord William is about to say for what it is. He’s been trying to remove me from the business since it began. Since I’m on the board, the only way he can get rid of me is by convincing you that I’ve broken protocols.”
“As I was saying,” said Lord William, raising his voice, “Mrs. Spenser has shown gross negligence by failing to notify the board of a direct threat to the public from within the ether, as specified in Article Seven.” He sucked on his cigar.
“He’s not a threat to anyone. This is ludicrous!”
“Mrs. Spenser,” said Captain Weaver. “What Lord William has told me is most serious. If a consciousness has formed independently within the ether, then a risk has been posed. Your personal feelings notwithstanding.”
“I see,” said Maryanne. “And what do you propose?”
“As we did with Axis operatives during the war, I’m recommending that we capture the persona and erase it.”
“He’s not a persona. You’ll kill him if you send one of your bloody mediums in after him.”
“This consciousness is not a person, Mrs. Spenser,” said Lord William. “It is an aberration of the system, an unconscious reflection of God knows what. If we allow it to continue, it could push itself into a visitor, and we’d have another bloody Parker on our hands.”
Maryanne nodded. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You don’t really care about me one way or the other. You just don’t want to risk a scandal.”
“Really, Mrs. Spenser,” said Captain Weaver. “We’re talking about human lives here.”
“The person you’re speaking so cavalierly of murdering is just as human as you are, Captain. If not more s
o.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Spenser,” said Lord William. “The decision has been made. We need your help bringing this … thing … into custody. If you wish to assist us, your breach of protocol can be overlooked and you can continue with your work here at Cicero. If not, however, and we’re forced to make a scene …” He let the alternative hang in the air.
“I need to think,” said Maryanne. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You have twenty-four hours,” said Lord William. “Then a naval psychic is going into the Palace and terminating this man, with or without your help.”
“Mrs. Spenser,” said Weaver, speaking cautiously, “it may be that you don’t understand how important this all is. The ether is more than just an entertainment; it’s a balm for the wounded spirit of this land. If the public learns that there are bogeymen in its midst, unknown spirits inhabiting the machines, then we’re back to the days of Messerschmitts and cowering in tube stations. I’m asking you to think this through very carefully.”
“You should remember that speech, Captain,” said Maryanne, reaching for the door. “It would make a lovely wireless advert.”
Maryanne left the office and ran home, switching on the chair the minute she walked in the door. She let herself fall into the ether and ran through the Palace looking for her dark stranger.
She found him at the foot of the statue of Cicero in the Palace’s sculpture garden.
“You’re in danger,” she said.
“Of course I’m in danger,” said the dark stranger. “What did you expect from a man such as Lord William? Do you think I have not looked in his mind, as well? Given the chance, I would kill him. He is but an obstacle to be overcome.”
“Don’t say that,” said Maryanne. “Listen, I’ve been thinking. I want to bring you out.”
