by John Meaney
Then the door to Room 17 opened. The doctor who looked out was slim and bearded, maybe a few years older than Alexa.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you Dr. Gamarlov?”
“Sure. And you're Alexa.” He glanced toward the plainclothes man, then winked at Alexa. “I'm just guessing.”
“Good guess, Doctor. So where would you like me?”
“Come on inside.”
She entered a room filled with apparatus. There were several distinct brass frameworks, each big enough for a person to clamber inside. A bone-and-metal chair sat in the center, its feet set into narrow rails laid in the floor, ready to move into any of the scanning frames.
“Cozy.”
“Not really. Perhaps I should get some tips from you on how to lighten up the place.”
“Why, yes.” Now Alexa's smile was brilliant. “I'd love to help you, Doctor.”
“Um.” Dr. Gamarlov rubbed his dark beard. “Why don't you start by taking a seat?”
“Why not?”
She gave a little giggle as she set her handbag down, and then she climbed onto the seat.
“It's a little cold, Doctor.”
“Hmm.”
“I notice you're not married.”
“No.” He smiled, and held up his hand. “Not married.”
Several certificates on the wall identified him as T. Gamarlov, M.D.
“And no nurse in the room to chaperone us, Doctor? I'll submit, on one condition.”
“I'm not—All right. What's the condition?”
“You tell me what the T stands for.”
“Oh. It's Troy.”
Alexa liked that.
“Well, Troy, what are you going to do with me?”
“I'd like to start”—he gave a fake cough—“with a highly sophisticated diagnostic technique. I've been working with this one for years.”
He reached for a tiny rubber-ended hammer.
“You've got to be kidding.”
“Uh-uh. It's a cliché, but it's still a real test, you know?”
“Do I have to cross my legs?”
“Please. Here we go.” Dr. Gamarlov—Troy—tapped once, twice, on her knee. “Um.”
“Oops.” Alexa giggled. “How would you like me to react?”
“Well, not everyone responds the same way. Perhaps we'll abandon that one, shall we?”
“All right.”
Troy picked up a metal wand connected to a silver box by spiraling cord. Graph paper stretched between two rollers. He thumbed a button on the wand, and the graph paper began to move.
As he ran the wand over Alexa's torso, ink-needles inscribed jagged graphs on the moving paper. When the wand passed above her skull, the needles went crazy, swinging through ever-wilder amplitudes, until Troy ended the scan. Then he stared at the graph and blew out a breath.
“Is everything all right?” asked Alexa.
“It's widespread.” Troy shook his head. “You've got apoptosis throughout your body.”
“Oh. Is that serious?”
“Millions of cells are dying.”
Alexa shivered. “Are you sure?”
“The tests are accurate.” Troy grinned. “Which is just as well, don't you think?”
“What do you mean? How long do I have to live?”
“Well, if your cells continue to commit suicide … maybe sixty years, is my guess.”
“I—Did you say sixty years?”
“Sure. It's when your cells stop suiciding that you have to worry. That's when they form tumors. Didn't you know?”
Alexa blinked.
“You mean I'm all right?”
“Full of health. I'm sorry. Just a little doctor humor.”
“Thanatos.”
“So what I need you to do next, Alexa, is put your feet flat on the floor—”
“Okay.”
“—and relax, because this is going to be fine.”
Anklets and bracelets snapped into place, fastening Alexa into the chair.
“Are you sure about this, Doctor?”
One of the brass frameworks began to hum.
“Perfectly.”
The chair gave a slight jerk, then began to move along the floor rail, heading for the apparatus. The hum became louder.
“I don't like this, Troy.” She had to raise her voice almost to a shout.
“It's going to be all right.”
And now the sound became an overwhelming vibration in her bones, her teeth, her nerves, her arteries. Even her vision blurred, as if her eyes were being shaken into jelly.
“No …”
Her whimper was lost in the torrent of force.
The protective outer walls ringing Möbius Park were ancient, over three thousand years old. Smooth gargoyles were etched against the outer battlements, faint outlines of entities that had not detached themselves and moved for centuries, perhaps millennia. Whether they were almost faded from existence or might someday reconstitute themselves from the strange stone of the defenses, no one knew.
The roadway that ringed the park rarely suffered traffic jams, for drivers preferred to find other routes through this part of Tristopolis. The old residential towers in the surrounding area were uniformly gray, with black windows, occupied by ancient families with wealth. Inordinate levels of secrecy surrounded their occupations and their social circles.
As for the park itself, despite the warning notices set in the flagstones of the sidewalk beneath the outer walls, police cruisers still occasionally found melted puddles in which a few bones or teeth might remain, along with the untouched ladder or rope or other equipment the unfortunates had thought might help them scale the walls. There were rumors, never confirmed, that sometimes a lone person might be walking alongside the wall, not attempting to break in, who suddenly disappeared in a swirl of dark movement. Seconds later, a howl might sound from inside the grounds, accompanied by flashes of white-and-crimson light.
What Donal knew for sure was that ectoplasma wraiths did float among the trees, with license to feed upon intruders. According to the rumors—which he sometimes believed, but mostly didn't—the innocent people who disappeared were never identified, never reported missing by family or colleagues or neighbors. In his skeptical times, Donal considered that proof that the people had never existed; but at other times he wondered.
Lamis drove up to the forbidding mass of the North-East Gate, and stopped. In the back, neither Donal nor Commissioner Vilnar said anything. The air grew very cold inside the car. Then the faintest of wraith shapes passed through, and the temperature dropped further. Condensation gathered inside the windows, and the commissioner's breath steamed. Donal merely smiled.
Then the gate rolled open, and the limousine moved forward.
“We drive along Widdershins Walk,” said Lamis, “then take a sharp turn, back along Clockwise Crescent.”
Donal rubbed condensation from his window.
“You can hardly see out there. And we're driving on gravel.”
The trees were black. He could see no sign of the ectoplasma wraiths.
“I think I can find the way,” said Lamis.
“I've heard that the leaves of those trees can slice through metal.”
Lamis shook his head.
“If I drive off the road, the trees would be the least of our worries.”
“Welcome,” said the commissioner, “to high society.”
Donal said nothing as they continued for five slow minutes through dark parkland, until they came out into the landscaped area before City Hall.
“It is quite something, isn't it?”
“Yeah,” said the commissioner. “I get blasé, but it really is.”
Lamis took the car to a controlled stop.
“Have a nice time.”
“We will.” Commissioner Vilnar opened his door and stepped out. “Riordan?”
“Yes, sir.”
Donal got out, and pushed his door shut, looking around. They were early, but two dozen limousines
and several sporty saloons were already parked here.
He followed the commissioner to the foot of the broad, bone-stone staircase leading up to the open maw of the great skull, the main entrance to City Hall. Flamewraiths danced in place along each side of the staircase, their orange glow failing to illuminate the dark parkland. Colored light spilled from inside the great stained-glass windows of the skull's eyes. The noise level was rising as a group of men and women—mostly men with their ties loosened and top shirt-buttons open—approached Donal and Commissioner Vilnar.
“Remember what I said about not shooting them.”
“Hades,” said Donal. “You won't change your mind?”
A magnesium-white flashbulb popped, and then another.
“Say, Lieutenant, how does it feel to get a commendation?”
“And what about having your colleague's heart inside your—”
“Is it true what they say about you and Commander Steele? Were you and she—?”
Donal felt a strong hand take hold of his elbow, and allowed the commissioner to steer him through the pack of reporters, climbing the steps at surprising speed, until they reached the entrance.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You're welcome.”
Some three minutes later they were inside the main hall, having been announced by someone in a white-and-gold uniform: a majordomo or maître-d’ or some such. Thinking about it, Donal wasn't sure he knew what a majordomo was.
Chandeliers with blazing flamesprites in diamond holders hung from the ornate ceiling. Rows of long tables with white tablecloths filled the place, gleaming with polished cutlery that bore the civic Tree Frog symbol. Black daffodils in crystal vases added a piquant tone to an atmosphere filled with expensive fragrances and aftershave. The buffet was at the rear, providing stand-up snacks for those who'd missed breakfast or needed a second. In an hour, formal lunch would be served directly at the banquet tables.
This is awful.
A press of bureaucrats separated Donal from Commissioner Vilnar. Donal took the opportunity to move sideways through the crowd until he came to a vacant area of floorspace. He wasn't sure what he hated most: the fish-tank greed, or the appalling security context. The surrounding park made a terrific outer defense, but in here, the geometry was wide open, the crowd careless and unaware of the dangers of self-absorption.
Forget the dignitaries. Let's check the setup.
From the commissioner's briefing in the car, Donal had an idea why so many people were here, and frantic to do some kind of business. This was the peak time for lobbying, with local elections imminent, and new budgets to negotiate for city departments, in particular for subcontracting work to local companies.
And check things better than the last time.
He remembered the diva's corpse, splayed on a cold stone floor.
“Lieutenant Riordan?” Behind him, a woman spoke, her tone nicely modulated. “So you're here.”
Closing his eyes, Donal tried to recognize the voice.
“Jo Serranto.” He turned to face her. “Has the TG made you managing editor yet?”
Serranto's laugh was pleasant yet controlled.
“The Tristopolitan Gazette,” she said, “needs all the good street reporters it can get. Even me. Even”—with a flickering glance toward a group of dark-suited men—“in times like this, when unbiased reporting is so hard to achieve.”
“You mean, to get past the advertisers.”
“That's very cynical, Lieutenant.” Serranto touched his sleeve. “So, is there any juicy gossip from the Department that I should know about?”
Donal squinted, trying to identify the people Serranto had glanced at. He recognized no faces, but the tiepins and lapel badges were familiar. The Unity Party were here.
Those bastards.
But there was another puzzle. Why was Serranto being so friendly? They'd met each other, but the personal warmth was new.
“No gossip,” he said. “You don't seem to like the Unity Party.”
“They're spreading like a rash. That's what we wordsmiths call a metaphor. It's also”—a faint whiff of alcohol was on her breath—“one of the nicer things I might say about them.”
“Say, but not write, is that it?”
“You're pretty sharp, aren't you?” Serranto stared at him. “I'm not sure I'd realized that.”
“I've always had the highest opinion of you, Ms. Serranto. So, is there any street scuttlebutt that you know and I don't?”
“Off the record?” she said, and laughed.
“That really has to be my line. But whatever.”
“Well.” She touched his upper arm once more. “Watch your back in the Department. Those UP bastards are everywhere.”
“Is there anything I should know specifically?”
“You think I wouldn't warn you if I knew details?”
Donal looked at her carefully, processing her stance—the center of gravity too high up for a fighter, but just fine for a woman trying to look good—plus her fast, shallow respiration, and the splotches of color on her skin.
“I think you're a good person,” he said. “And probably courageous.”
Her eyes widened as she ducked her head back, just a little.
“Thanks.”
“Look, I'm going to take a walk around by myself. Just checking the security.”
“Aren't you supposed to be a guest? Mayor's commendation and all that?”
“I'm still a cop.”
“Hmm. I guess you are.”
Her lips remained slightly parted, and Donal didn't need zombie acuity to understand the signals she was sending.
A contact on the Gazette could be good.
Wondering whether he was manipulating her or being manipulated, he said: “We should talk more often. I'll call you next week. Maybe take supper in the Obsidian Gull?”
In his case, that meant picking at food, maybe taking one or two bites.
“The diner on Fifty-seventh and Eighth?”
“That's the one.”
“I'm sometimes in that neighborhood.”
“Some time next week then. I'll ring you, and we'll have an omelet together.”
“You might have a deal, Lieutenant.”
She turned away before he did.
At the buffet, Donal saw plates of lizard legs, trays of still-moving segments of eel and foamworm, dark-blue pastries filled with white cheese, apples baked in tangwood resin, and sandwiches made with pink bread.
“Singularly unappetizing,” said a cold voice, “even if you needed to eat.”
“Yes.” This time Donal didn't have to work at identifying the speaker. “How are you doing, Dr. Thalveen?”
“The same.” The black-coated medic gestured toward several men who were scarfing down lizard-salad sandwiches. “The UP are out in force.”
“Someone's already pointed that out to me.”
“Ha. I noticed you talking to Jo Serranto. And was she friendlier than you expected?”
“Why should she be?”
“Well”—the curvature of Thalveen's lips was too unfriendly to be called a smile—“I wonder if you've ever heard the term zombie -fucker?”
Donal stared at him.
“Sorry,” Thalveen added. “Was that offensive? I'll tell you what should offend you: those manipulative bastards over there.”
Several UP men, glasses of Altrinian champagne in hand, were talking to a man who wore no tiepin or lapel badge.
“What about them?”
“Another fish on their line, see? Lower city taxes for corporations, the hint of a promise of a future contract. That's all it takes.”
“His arms are crossed,” said Donal. “Defensive.”
“Don't believe what you learned about body language in the police academy, Lieutenant. What matters is the dynamic, the ways in which the speakers match one another, or not.”
“Shit.” Donal could see that Thalveen was right. “And they're doing it deliberately.”
> “Now you're getting it.”
“Is that a compliment, Doctor?”
At that moment, Thalveen turned on his heel, with no word or change of expression, and walked away from Donal.
For Hades's sake.
Was Thalveen deliberately trying to unsettle him? Acting in a way no living man would? It was enough to drive anyone into the arms of the Unity Party. Donal wondered what the reaction would be if he turned up at a UP office and tried to take out a membership. Perhaps if he got bored, he might try it.
For now, he walked along the hall's perimeter, along the right-hand wall as he stared at the stage with its empty podium, and the table of honor spanning most of the stage's width. White doors in the side wall obviously led to the kitchens. Donal could tell as much by the scents and faint sounds. Two uniformed cops stood at the doors, hands clasped behind their backs, watching the growing crowd of glad-handing politicos and businessfolk.
“All secure?” asked Donal.
“Yes, sir. Nothing interesting going on.”
The other cop nodded toward the civilians. “I'll second that.”
“Me too.” Donal looked back to the rear of the hall. High overhead were ornate balconies, looking unoccupied. “Someone checked them out?”
“Uh-huh. Got plainclothes guys in the corridors too. I mean, at the balcony entrances.”
“And the kitchens?” Donal gestured to the white doors beside him. “They been given the once-over?”
“Sure.”
In the crowd, Donal could see the pale, black-clad figure of Dr. Thalveen heading this way.
“Perhaps I'll take a look myself.”
One of the cops glanced at the approaching doctor.
“Don't blame you, Lieutenant.”
“No civilians allowed through, except catering staff. Right?”
“You got it, sir.”
Donal went through. There was a long, curving corridor that he followed to its end, and came out into a white-tiled kitchen that reminded him of the Janaval Hotel. In an instant he knew that there were twenty-three people here.
Twenty-four.
It took a further three seconds for Donal to understand what he'd just experienced: the immediate knowledge that twenty-three zombies were present—my own kind—and then the visual confirmation of the living human, who appeared to be the head chef. Two more living people came through from a back room. All of them, human and zombie, were dressed in white.
