Dreaming Metal

by Melissa Scott

  Which probably meant he was basic grade, I thought. “Sergeant Koleva,” I said, and drew a startled look from the man. “I’ll run the tape on the main screen, but I doubt the camera will have caught anything useful.”

  “I was hoping you had more than cameras,” Koleva said. She looked around at the worktable, the still-open cabinet with the ranked parts and boxes filling the shelves, the karakuri parts hanging in the shadows. “There’s a lot of expensive equipment here.”

  “I do have more than cameras,” I said. “But they’re concentrated in here. There’s a secondary package focused on the door, but my assumption was that any break-in attempt would be a little more complex.”

  #Sensor one’s records are ready,# Celeste said. I wasn’t sure why she was keeping such a low profile, but I was grateful for it. #Shall I display it?#

  I nodded, looked at Koleva. “The records are cued. Go ahead, Celeste.”

  Koleva leaned forward a little as the screen image shifted, the first sign of eagerness—of any emotion—I’d seen in her. The picture steadied on my entranceway, the dark slate of the doorstep drifted with a haze of sand. A secondary halo of false color surrounded it, signaling the working sensor package. The basic cassette could hold up to twenty hours of data before the system recycled it, and I glanced at the start numbers. Sure enough, the cassette had reset to zero at 0323 this morning: over twelve hours of tape to search.

  “Celeste,” I said. “Search for any anomalous behavior, display anything you find.”

  “Confirmed.”

  For a second, I thought Koleva would protest, but she said nothing. The screen dimmed for an instant, became mere shadows, while the counter vanished completely. Occasionally shadows flickered, people passing on the street, too fast to be recognized, but Celeste didn’t pause.

  “I’ll want to go over this myself,” Koleva said, not a threat but a warning.

  “You’re welcome to do that,” I answered, “but Celeste knows I went out a couple of times this morning, and then there was a delivery. I thought she could eliminate those shots, at least from the prelminary viewing.”

  Koleva nodded, but before she could say anything more, the image brightened.

  “I have found an anomaly,” Celeste said, and added, for me alone, #I think it’s what you’re looking for.#

  “Run it,” I said.

  A shadow fell across the doorstep, and then three figures appeared. They were young, dressed normally, workcloth trousers and unmarked, unremarkable shirts pulled up to hide their faces. They were dark-haired like most of Persephone’s population, and probably dark-eyed, but that was all you could say for sure. Certainly I couldn’t recognize them as any of my neighbors. They stood huddled together for a second—verifying the address? I wondered—and then one reached into his belt. I flinched as blue paint covered the focus bead.

  “That’s the last coherent image,” Celeste said.

  I sighed, unable to hide my disappointment for all that I hadn’t been expecting anything conclusive. Koleva shook her head.

  “Well, that’s that. Did you see the way the halos skewed?”

  I hadn’t noticed, but Celeste whispered, #I have no reliable electronic record. I believe a jamming device was in use.#

  I said, “Was it jammed?”

  Koleva nodded. “I’d say so. I’ll need to go over the cassette, though.”

  “Make free. What are you doing about this list?”

  Koleva ignored that question. “I’ll want the original cassette.”

  “Sorry?” Over my dead body, I thought, but curbed the impulse. Koleva was Security; she could get it, one way or another, but I might be able to get some concession for it.

  “I want the original cassette.” She fixed her eyes on me, and I realized they were pale, an odd, unnerving bluish grey. “We have tools you don’t; we might be able to pull something out of it.”

  That was true, and I made myself relax. “I’ll want to make a copy,” I said, “And you didn’t answer my question. What are you—what is Security—doing about this list of Realpeace’s?”

  The man—Maser—made a choked sound. Koleva glared at him, and I realized it had been laughter. “What we can do,” she said aloud, and Maser laughed again.

  “Which isn’t much.”

  Koleva gave him another look that boded ill for his career. “We’re keeping a file of the listed locations, and are offering extra security for them. Where vandalism has occurred—like here—we’re going all out to catch the people responsible. You should know that Realpeace itself is urging its members to stay calm.”

  I made a noncommittal noise, and she went on, “But we’ve still had incidents, which is why I want this cassette.”

  “Celeste, make a full-range copy of this cassette,” I said. “Then store the copy and return the original.”

  “Confirmed.”

  I looked back at Koleva. “And what is Security recommending for those of us who are on the list?”

  She sighed, the belligerence draining away. “We will be doing our best to keep you under surveillance. We have twenty locations just in Angelitos, and Elvis alone knows what the total is for the full district. But we’re going to try.”

  “Things have been quiet so far,” Maser said, and couldn’t make it sound reassuring.

  “What’s the point?” I asked, and Koleva shook her head.

  “Bi’ Fortune, your guess is as good as mine.”

  That was all I could get out of her. I gave her the cassette and let them out the main door, then stood for a moment in the hall, considering my options. I’d been living here during the Manfred Riots, and I had some hardware left over from those bad days, a couple of dead bolts—not locks, but shockfields—and some tangleware that would work with the overall system golem. If the night show was still on—and if it wasn’t, Binnie would already have called to warn me—my first priority was to protect the hardware that would have to stay in the flat. I looked down and sideways, calling up the time. Two hours before we had to leave, which was probably enough time to get everything at least crudely installed. In any case, it would have to be enough.

  In the end, I got it all done, the dead bolts and the tangleware to clog any attempt to break into the flat’s internal system, and the arm fuse replaced and the whole assembly repacked to bring it back to the Empire—and I even found time to pay Zibette Laor’s daughter to scrub most of the paint off the door—but as a result I was late to Tin Hau. The house system flashed red at me as I came in the stage door, and a message appeared at the bottom of my vision, warning me that I had incurred a twenty-five-wu fine. I waved that away, and hurried on into my dressing room. More glyphs flared, messages jostling each other, and I waved away everything except the emergency and urgent codings. There were enough of them—two from Muthana, stating that the Empire was on the Realpeace list and that precautions were being taken; another from Hasker asking for new passwords from everyone; two from Terez, giving new node marks, and finally one from the stage manager wanting to know where Celeste was. That at least I could deal with, and I looked up to lock eyes with the nearest node.

  “George,” I began, and then remembered that the program was still down. “System, connect me with the stage manager’s console.”

  For a moment, I thought the patchwork system wasn’t going to recognize that command, but then Terez’s voice sounded in my ears. “Fortune! Thank God. I was beginning to sweat.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “My flat was on the damn list, and I had to rustle up some quick-and-dirty security.”

  “Damn.” Terez paused. “You know we’re listed, too?”

  “I got Binnie’s messages when I came in. I’m kind of surprised we’re performing.”

  “I think he’s sick of catering to these scares,” she answered. “I can’t say I blame him.”

  “No,” I said, but somewhere deep inside I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it. The karakuri weren’t exactly portable, but they could be duplicated
elsewhere; maybe it was time to think about trying somewhere else—one of the Urban Worlds, for a start. I killed that thought—this was not the time—and heard Terez’s voice change.

  “Anyway, I need Celeste on-line right now. Where is she?”

  The headbox was sitting at my feet, and I hadn’t even begun to dress, much less retrieve the karakuri. “Can she link from here?” I asked. “I’m sorry I’m late, Bixenta, truly.”

  Terez sighed, a ghost of air in my ear. “I was worried. Yeh, go ahead, there’s a high-speed node in your room. She can start bringing up the karakuri once she’s on.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and looked away from the pinlight. “Did you hear that, Celeste?”

  “I heard.” The voice from the box was softer than her usual one, but perfectly confident. “Link to the house, and then bring the karakuri to ready.”

  “We’re a little short of time,” I said, and reached for the cable links. “Anything you can do to speed up the process would be a help—as long as it doesn’t interfere with Terez.”

  “I understand,” Celeste said, and I could have sworn I heard the ghost of laughter. “Linking now. Do you want me to hold the karakuri for you, or will you go with the spare arm?”

  “Damn.” I’d managed to forget all about the repair, despite the neatly bundled package sitting on the counter with my makeup. “Hold the karakuri. I want to replace that arm.”

  “Very well,” Celeste answered, and I felt her withdrawing from the room. She was still present, but attenuated, not quite distanced, but her attention stretched thin, and for a second I considered turning down my suit. I needed it, though, especially as late as I was, and I left it up, feeling the rhythm of the preshow washing through my bones.

  Luckily, my own preparations have become pretty much automatic over the years. I dressed quickly, first the illusion tunic with the sleeves that were wider than they looked, then the hanten coat that matched the first karakuri’s costume. The makeup didn’t take much longer, just the basic mask and the lines that emphasized my yanqui eyes, and then I collected the arm and my tool kit and hurried back up the long corridor that led to the true backstage. I could feel already that the show was running behind, and it was the sort of delay that only got worse.

  #Celeste. Where’s the silver karakuri?#

  Her answer was reassuringly prompt. #Backstage left, beside the second fly control panel.#

  #Thanks.#

  The backstage area was more crowded than usual, but there didn’t seem to be nearly the normal number of stagehands. I frowned, trying to figure it out from the data coursing under my skin, but it was a tangle of sensation and half-heard orders and complaints, the sense of it filtered away by the selective channels that didn’t recognize me as part of this conversation. For a second, I considered asking Celeste to patch me into it, but decided against it. Not only would my presence annoy Terez, it would distract me from the work at hand. The area around the karakuri seemed clear enough, and I stripped off the hanten coat, hanging it across the bronze karakuri’s shoulders.

  #Celeste. Let me know if anyone needs this space, or if there’s anything else I need to worry about.#

  #Of course. You should know that five of the junior stagehands and the lead hand did not come to work tonight.#

  “Shit.” I opened the tool kit, and tugged out the worklight on its long, stiff stem.

  #Terez is compensating with automatics and has sent the assistant stage manager to replace Innari#—that was the lead stagehand—#and is now managing the show herself. However, without George to coordinate in virtual, she predicts that the show will run behind tonight.#

  “Shit,” I said again, and wound the worklight around the silver karakuri’s neck, tilting the cone so that the light fell squarely on the shoulder assembly. #All right. Keep me informed—and if you can, make sure all the presets are clear for our act.#

  #I’m unable to access that volume at this time,# Celeste answered. #As soon as I’m able, I will confirm the settings.#

  #Thanks.# Without the settings, I could easily lose the virtual dimension of the act. I put that worry aside—the act would play without it, though I’d always prided myself on making my illusions work in both worlds—and concentrated on the karakuri’s arm. The arm in place was a generic replacement, hastily sprayed an unmatching silver; I released the bolts and tugged the cap free, then decoupled the internal systems. I kept spares at the theater, of course, and could work with them in a pinch, but I always preferred to use the originals as much as possible. The repaired arm lay in its padding at my feet, and I unwrapped it, then brought the karakuri’s other arm around to support the elbow while I reattached the fine motor cables. I’d designed the system to allow just this sort of quick fix, but I couldn’t help feeling a touch of pride as the nervewires slipped neatly into their designated sockets. I tightened them down, then reached into the wrapping for the pauldron that would cover the point of the shoulder. Shadowed except for the white glare on its shoulder, it looked more human than usual, a slim figure cradling its injured arm. I heard a gasp behind me, and looked back to see one of the stagehands retreating into the shadows. The glimpse of his open mouth and wide eyes was reassuring; I slipped the pauldron into place, and tightened the tiny screws, feeling perversely better.

  #Places,# Celeste said, and a moment later Terez’s voice repeated the same message aloud. I gave all the karakuri a final appraising glance, and then headed back down to the dressing rooms. The way things were going already, the last thing anyone needed was an extra body backstage.

  The first half of the show went well enough, though Terez had to override the system twice to keep things moving cleanly. At the interval, I went back up to the stagehouse, dodging the sweaty dancers who’d closed the first half, and waited in the wings while the stagehands changed the hard set for the second act. There were only three of them to haul the heavy platforms, and they were straining in spite of the light-haul units positioned beneath the most massive pieces. I glanced sideways, letting the suit bring up the full display—the stage systems at standby, auditorium and hall systems steady green, the give-and-take of communication between lights and sound and air, all normal, except for George’s absence, and George’s absence made it anything but normal. You really needed a Spelvin construct to translate between the house golems and the daemons that managed each subsystem and the stage and house managers; without one, it was hard to tell whether the occasional spikes of static, the flickers of warning orange at the edges of my sight, were problems, or ordinary stresses. But Terez would know, I told myself. She knew the system inside out, would know what signaled a problem.

  #Celeste,# I said, and instantly felt her presence stronger, closer at hand. #Can you tell if we should place the karakuri, or can they handle it?#

  #One moment—# Before she could finish, there was a cracking sound from the flyspace, and my vision turned red.

  “Clear the stage.” Terez’s voice came loud over the speakers. “Clear stage immediately—now!”

  I was well clear. I froze where I was, hearing the confused drumming of feet, and then one of the junior stagehands darted past me, his face contorted in panic. He fetched up against the nearest fly board, and stared at it in blank panic.

  #Celeste?# I said, and craned my neck to see onto the stage itself. It was empty, except for the set frames not quite into place, but there seemed to be a shadow that I’d never seen before.

  #One of the lights has fallen,# Celeste said, without apparent emotion. #Grid four, point 22AY. The house system is unable to compensate.#

  “What?”

  The stagehand looked at me, and I realized I’d spoken aloud.

  #The lighting subsystem will not accept the house override,# Celeste said. #It needs a code from George.#

  “Lights, go to manual,” Terez’s voice said. She sounded as calm as ever, and I had to envy her. If the light fell, there would be damage, not just to the light and the cables, and probably to the electrical syst
em, but to the stage itself and to any part of the set that was underneath it; repairs would mean a serious delay, if they could be made at all. At least she’d managed to clear the stage. “Fly station L3, it’s on your board. Bring it down.”

  The stagehand looked back at the fly board, and I realized with a chill that his was the controlling station. “Which key?” he asked, and I heard metal groan from the stage.

  “Key 14,” Celeste said, and for an instant her voice sounded very much like Terez. “Winch at three.”

  “Fourteen at three,” the stagehand answered, his voice steadying, and I saw his hands move on the controls. “Bringing it down.”

  Machinery whirred to life in the flyspace, paying out cable. I took a cautious step forward, hearing metal creak again, but didn’t dare look out. The keys controlled sections of the grid, not individual lights; I had no idea what else might be coming down. The shadow was growing, and then I caught my first sight of the light. It was one of the big ones—I still don’t know exactly what they’re called—and it hung at an angle, turning slowly. It looked as though the clamp had released, left it to hang by its power cables, maybe a meter and a half below the rest of the grid.

  “Easy,” I said, but someone, Celeste or Terez, I couldn’t tell which, spoke over me.

  “Half power.”

  The light’s descent slowed, but there was another ominous creak from the clamps holding the cables. It was amazing they’d held this long, but I wondered if they could hold it for another minute. I could see it clearly now, a massive matte black cylinder a meter long and nearly half a meter wide at the lens. It was still turning, and every time it swung, blue sparks flashed at the cable connection.

  “A little more,” Terez said, and this time I was sure it was Terez. “Keep it coming—haya, brake.”

  The stagehand flipped two switches, and the machinery cut out, leaving the light suspended a hand’s-width, maybe six centimeters, above the boards of the stage.

  “Right, move,” Terez said. “Bring it down.”

  The rest of the crew rushed the stage then, carrying pads and cable and clamps, and I allowed myself a sigh of relief. I heard the same sound echo from the junior stagehand, and gave him my best smile.