Chasm City

by Alastair Reynolds

  "What?"

  "Reivich. I just saw him; for a moment I thought I might be imagining him. But I wasn't, was I?"

  Zebra opened her mouth to say something-a denial, quick and fluid, but it just didn't come. Her veneer had cracked. "Everything I told you is true," she said quietly, when words returned. "I'm not working for him any more. But you're right. You did just see him." After a pause, she said, "Except that isn't really Reivich."

  I nodded; I'd half guessed the truth already. "A lure?"

  "Something like that, yes." She consulted her tea. "You knew there'd be time for him to change his appearance as soon as he arrived in the city. In fact, it would be the only sensible thing for him to do. And that's exactly what he did. The real Reivich is out there now, somewhere in the city, but you'd need to take a tissue sample, or get him under a Mixmaster scanner before you'd know for sure. And even then you might not be certain. They can change everything, you know, given time. Even Reivich's DNA might not betray him, given enough money." Zebra paused. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the man, still hovering at the fringe of the crowd gathered round the big fish. It was him, yes-or at least an extremely good facsimile. Zebra said, "Reivich knew his cover was good, but he still wanted to flush you out. That way he could sleep at night and-if he wished-revert to his old appearance and identity."

  "So he persuaded someone to assume his shape."

  "There was no persuasion involved. The man was more than willing."

  "Someone with a death wish?"

  She shook her head. "No more than any other immortal in the Canopy. His name is Voronoff, I believe, although I don't know for sure, since I was never that close to Reivich. You won't have heard of Voronoff, but his name's fairly well-known in Canopy circles. He's one of the most extreme Gamers; someone for whom the hunt was always going to be too tame. He's good, too-or else he wouldn't still be alive."

  "You're wrong," I said. "I have heard of Voronoff."

  I told her about the man I had seen jumping into the mist in the Chasm, when Sybilline had taken me to the restaurant at the end of the stalk.

  "That makes sense," she said. "Voronoff's into anything involving extreme personal risk, provided there's a large element of skill involved. Dangerous sports, anything which gives a genuine adrenalin kick, and which forces him to confront the thin border between mortality and his own longevity. He would never stoop to hunting now; he'd just regard it as an amusement, not a real game. Not because of its unfairness, but because there's no personal risk to the participants."

  "Except for one participant, of course."

  "You know what I mean."

  She was silent for a moment before continuing, "People like Voronoff are extremists. For them the usual methods of controlling boredom just don't work any more. It's like they developed a tolerance for it. They need something stronger."

  "And putting himself in the firing line was just the ticket."

  "It was controlled. Voronoff had a network of spies and informers keeping track of you. When you first thought you'd seen him, he'd already seen you." She swallowed. "The first time, he kept Methuselah between you and himself. It wasn't any accident. He was more in control than you ever realised."

  "It was a mistake, though. He made it too easy. He made me wonder what was going on."

  "Yes," Zebra said, knowingly. "But by then it was far too late to stop him. Voronoff was out of our control."

  I looked into her faintly striped face, not needing to prompt her further. She said, "Voronoff liked his role too much. It suited him too well. For a long time he acted the way he was meant to-keeping a discreet distance; never letting you see him. The idea was that he would plant a trail of clues which would lead you to him, but in such a way that you thought you'd done all the work yourself. But he wanted more than that."

  "More danger."

  "Yes." She said it with deep finality. "Laying down clues and waiting for you to follow them wasn't enough for Voronoff. He started to make himself more prominent-placing himself at ever-greater risk, but always maintaing an edge of control. That's why I said he's good. But Reivich didn't like it, for obvious reasons. Voronoff was no longer serving him. He was serving himself; finding a new way to stave off the boredom. And I think it worked, being in that role."

  "Not for me it didn't."

  I stood up, almost upsetting the table as I did so. And one hand was already beginning the journey to my pocket.

  "Tanner," Zebra said, quickly, reaching for the hem of my coat as I stepped away from her, "killing him won't change a thing."

  "Voronoff," I said, at the top of my voice-not actually shouting it, but projecting like a actor of great renown. "Voronoff-turn around and step away from the crowd."

  The gun gleamed in my hand, and now people began to notice it for the first time.

  The man who looked like Reivich met my gaze and managed not to look too surprised. But he was not the only one who met my gaze. I had managed to get everyone's attention by now, and those who were not trying to read my expression were fixated by the gun. If the hunt was as endemic amongst Canopy dwellers as I had been led to believe, many of these people would have seen and handled weapons of far greater potency than the pistol I hefted now. But never in a place as public as this; never with such crass vulgarity. Judging by the looks of shock and bewilderment and revulsion I saw, I might as well have been pissing on the ornamental lawn which fringed the koi pond.

  "Maybe you didn't hear me, Voronoff." I sounded sweetly reasonable to my own ears. "I know who you are and what this is all about. If you know anything about me you'll also know that I'm fully capable of using this." I had the gun aimed in his direction now, double-handed stance with my feet slightly spread.

  "Drop it, Mirabel."

  It was not a voice I had heard recently, nor had it come from the crowd. I felt a touch of soft metallic cold against the nape of my neck.

  "Are you deaf? I said drop the piece. Do it fast or your head'll be following it down."

  I started lowering the piece, but that wasn't good enough for the speaker standing behind me. He increased the pressure against my neck in a manner which strongly suggested it would be in my best interest to let the gun drop.

  I did.

  "You," the man said, evidently addressing Zebra. "Kick the gun to me, and don't even think about trying anything creative."

  She did as she was told.

  I saw a hand reach out in my peripheral vision and snatch the gun from the ground; the pressure of the weapon against my neck changed slightly as the man knelt. But he was good; I could tell that, so-like Zebra-I wasn't tempted to even think about trying anything creative. That was good, because I was all out of creativity.

  "Voronoff, you fool," said the voice. "Look what you nearly got us into." And then I heard clicking sounds as the gun was inspected, followed by a tut of amusement from the hidden speaker, whose voice I almost recognised. "It's empty. The damn thing was empty all along."

  "News to me," I said.

  "I did it," Zebra said, shrugging. "You can't blame me, can you? I had a feeling you might end up pointing it at me, so I just took a precaution."

  "Next time, don't bother," I said.

  "Not that it exactly mattered," Zebra said, doing a poor job of masking her annoyance. "You never even tried to fire the fucking thing, Tanner."

  I angled my eyes upwards, as if I was trying to look behind my own head. "Are you involved with this clown?"

  That got me an acute stabbing pain between the ears. The man said, projecting his voice out to the people who were staring at us, "All right; this is Canopy security; the situation is under control." I saw a flash of identity in my peripheral vision; a leatherbound card embossed with scrolling data which he waved at the crowd.

  It seemed to have the desired effect; about half the people drifted away and the others tried to pretend that they had never really been interested in what was going on. The pressure eased and the man sidled around to my front, pulling
up a seat for himself. Voronoff had also joined us, the exact facsimile of Reivich disporting himself opposite me with a scowl of displeasure written across his face.

  "Sorry for spoiling your little game," I said.

  The other man was Quirrenbach, although he had changed his appearance since our last encounter, looking meaner, leaner and a great deal less patient and bewildered. The gun in his hand was small and dainty enough to have been a gimmicky cigarette-lighter.

  "How's the symphony coming on?"

  "That was a very sneaky thing you did, Mirabel; leaving me like that. I suppose I should thank you for returning the money that you made on my experientials, but you'll excuse me if I don't overwhelm you with a flood of gratitude."

  I shrugged. "I had a job to do. You didn't figure in it."

  "How's that job looking now?" Voronoff said, still sneering at me. "Time for a rethink, Mirabel?"

  "You tell me."

  Quirrenbach flashed a quick grin at me, like an aggressive ape. "Tough talk from someone who didn't even know his gun wasn't loaded. Maybe you're not quite the professional hotshot we've been led to believe." He reached over and helped himself to my tea, maintaining eye contact all the while. "How did you know he wasn't Reivich, by the way?"

  "Have a guess," Zebra said.

  "I could kill you for betraying us," Quirrenbach said to her. "But right now I'm not sure I can muster the enthusiasm."

  "Why don't you start with Voronoff, dickhead?"

  He looked at Zebra, then at the man disguised at Reivich, as if weighing the idea seriously. "That really wouldn't do, would it?" Then his attention returned to me. "We caused quite a stir back there, Mirabel. It won't be long before what passes for authority here comes to take a look, and I really don't think any of us want to be around when that happens."

  "So you're really not Canopy security?"

  "Sorry to shatter your illusions."

  "Oh, don't worry about that," I said. "They were shattered quite some time ago."

  Quirrenbach smiled and stood up, the tiny little gun still nestling in his fist, as if with one spasm of his fingers he might crush it to shreds. He danced the barrel between Zebra and myself, holding his fake ID in the other hand like a talisman. Voronoff, meanwhile, produced a weapon of his own; between them they had us comprehensively covered. We walked through the crowd, Quirrenbach daring anyone to pay us anything more than glancing interest. Neither Zebra or myself made any attempt to resist or escape; it would not have been worth it.

  Only three vehicles were parked on the landing ledge, cowled dark shapes glossy with rainwater, roof-mounted arms partially extended in readiness for flight, like three upturned dead spiders. One was the car in which Zebra and I had arrived. I recognised one of the other cars as well, but not the one to which Quirrenbach was leading us.

  "Are you going to kill me now?" I asked. "Because if you are, you could save yourself a lot of trouble by throwing me over the edge here. There's no need to spice up my last moments with a ride through the Canopy."

  "I don't know how I've managed without your brilliant shards of wit, Mirabel," Quirrenbach said, with a long-suffering sigh. "And, incidentally-not that you care-the symphony happens to be coming along rather splendidly, thank you."

  "That wasn't a cover?"

  "Ask me about it in a hundred years."

  "If we're going to talk about people who hesitate to kill others," Voronoff said, "you might crop up in the discussion, Mirabel. You could have dropped me when we first met around Methuselah. I'm rather puzzled that you didn't at least try. And don't say there was a fish in the way. You may be many things, Mirabel, but sentimental isn't one of them."

  He was right: I had hesitated, much as I preferred not to admit it to myself. In another life-at least on another world-I would have dropped Reivich (or Voronoff) almost before I had mentally acknowledged their presence. There would have been no ethical debates about the value of an immortal fish.

  "Maybe I knew you weren't the right man," I said.

  "Then again, maybe you just didn't have the nerve." It was dark, but I caught the quick flash of Quirrenbach's grin. "I know your background, Mirabel. We all do. You were pretty good, once, back on Sky's Edge. Trouble was, you just didn't know when to pack it in."

  "If I'm so washed up, why the special attention?"

  "Because you're a fly," Voronoff said. "Sometimes they need swatting."

  The vehicle readied itself as we approached, a door opening in one side like a drooling tongue, plush steps set into its inner surface. A pair of heavies shadowed the door, packing indecently large weapons. Any lingering thoughts I had entertained of resistance vanished at that point. They were professionals. I had a feeling they wouldn't even allow me the dignity of jumping over the side; that if I tried it they would put a pair of slugs in my spine on the way down.

  "Where are we going?" I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know the answer, or if I could even expect an honest reply.

  "Space," Quirrenbach said. "For a meeting with Mister Reivich."

  "Space?"

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Mirabel. But Reivich isn't in Chasm City at all. You've been chasing shadows."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I LOOKED at Zebra. She looked at me. Neither of us said anything.

  The vehicle into which the heavies escorted us had the reek of newness, leather trim sweating sumptuousness. There was an isolated rear compartment with six seats and a moundlike central table, with soft musak filling the air and elegant neon designs worked into the ceiling. Voronoff and one of the heavies sat opposite us, weapons still at readiness. Quirrenbach and the other man entered the front compartment, visible only as smoky shadows through the partition.

  The car rose very smoothly, with a soft snicking from the roof arms, like someone crocheting at great speed.

  "What did he mean, space?" I asked.

  "A place called Refuge. One of the high orbital carousels," Voronoff said. "Not that it makes any real difference to you. I mean, it's not as if you're just tagging along for the ride, is it?"

  Someone had mentioned Refuge since my arrival in the city, but I could not quite place the reference.

  "What happens when we get there?"

  "That's for Mister Reivich to know and you to find out. You might call it negotiation. But don't expect to take too many bargaining chips to the table, Mirabel. From what I hear, you're all cleaned out."

  "I've still got a few surprises up my sleeve." But I sounded about as convincing as a drunk tramp boasting of his sexual prowess. Through the side windows I watched the hovering crystalline mass of Escher Heights recede, and-not inconsequentially-I saw the other car, the vehicle which did not belong to Zebra, unfurl its arms to maximum extension and commence following us at a polite distance.

  "What now?" I asked, ignoring the heavy. "Your game's up, Voronoff. You're going to have to find a new mode of pleasure."

  "It isn't about pleasure, you idiot. It's about pain." He leaned forward, imposing his bulk across the table. He looked like Reivich, but his body language and manner of speaking was all wrong. There was no hint of a Sky's Edge accent and his physicality would have been alien to Reivich's aristocracy. "It's about pain," he repeated. "Because pain is what it keeps away. Do you understand?"

  "Not really, but go ahead."

  "You don't usually think of boredom as something similar to pain. That's because you've only been exposed to it in relatively small doses. You don't know its true colour. The difference between the boredom you know and the boredom I know is like the difference between touching snow and putting your hand in a vat of liquid nitrogen."

  "Boredom isn't a stimulus, Voronoff."

  "I'm less sure," he said. "There is, after all, a part of the human brain which is responsible for the sensation we call boredom. You can't argue with that. And it must logically be made active by some external stimulus, just like the brain centre for taste or sound." He raised a hand. "I anticipate your next point. That's one
of my talents, you see-anticipation. You might say it's symptomatic of my condition. I'm a neural net which is so well-adapted to its input that it hasn't evolved in years. But to return to the point in hand. You were doubtless going to say that boredom is an absence of stimulus, not the presence of a particular one. I say there is no difference; that the glass is both half empty and half full. You hear silence between notes; I hear music. You see a pattern of black on white; I see a pattern of white on black. More than that, in fact-I see both." He grinned again, like a maniac who had been chained in a dungeon for years and was now having a meaningful conversation with his own shadow. "I see everything. You can't help it when you reach my-what shall I call it?-depth of experience?"

  "You're quite mad, aren't you?"

  "I've been mad," Voronoff said, apparently not taking it as an insult. "I've been through madness and come out the other side. Now being mad would bore me as much as sanity."

  I knew he was not mad, of course-at least not screamingly insane. If he had been, he would have been no use to Reivich as a lure. Voronoff had to have some residual grasp on reality. His mental state was almost certainly unlike anything I had ever experienced-and I had certainly known boredom-but it would be lethal to assume he was in anything other than absolute control of his faculties.

  "You could end it all," I said, helpfully. "Suicide can't be the hardest thing to arrange in a city like this."

  "People do," Zebra said. "People like Voronoff. They don't call it suicide, of course. But they suddenly take an unhealthy interest in activities with a very low survival-probability, like diving into the gas giant or saying hello to the Shrouders."

  "Why not, Voronoff?" And then it was my turn to smile. "No, wait. You almost did it, didn't you? Posing as Reivich. You were hoping I'd kill you, weren't you? A way out of the pain with something approaching dignity. The wise old immortal gunned down by the out-of-town thug, just because he happened to take on the persona of a murderous fugitive?"

  "With no bullets? That'd be a trick worth dying to see, Mirabel."