Mountain of Black Glass, Page 78

  VO: Obolos, a children's entertainment giant, has weathered storms in the past to remain a leader in its category, but many observers are privately wondering whether the ship can stay afloat through a storm of this magnitude. . . .

  Paul and Renie found Fredericks crouched next to Orlando's body, weeping.

  The Achilles sim had collapsed facedown across the legs of dead Hector, whose head was a bloody ruin that Paul could not look at for long. Instead, he tipped Orlando's face to the side, then bent over and held the polished surface of one of his arm-guards to the mouth of the fallen hero. "He's still breathing," Paul told Renie. "So what do we do?"

  "Do? We have to get inside, find the others. I guess we carry him." Only a few hundred meters away the Greeks had already forced their way into the city via the gaping Skaian Gate. Paul could hear howls of anguish above the shouting of the victors, and the first flames were beginning to rise from the houses just inside the walls.

  As Renie kneeled to take a grip on Orlando's feet, Fredericks seemed to notice the newcomers for the first time. She slapped at Renie's hands. "Who are you? Leave him alone,"

  "It's me, Fredericks—Renie Sulaweyo."

  "But you're a man now. . . ." Fredericks' eyes widened; a moment later, Renie had been dragged into a desperate embrace. "Oh, Renie, it's my fault! He came out after me, but I did it so they'd leave him alone, because . . . because. . . ." As Fredericks began to cry again, Renie took a fold of Fredericks' own garment and began cleaning blood from the tear-swollen face.

  "You've got a head wound, but it's shallow," Renie said gently. "They just bleed a lot."

  "Orlando's still alive, but we need to get him inside the city." Paul made his voice harsh, trying to shock Fredericks into attention. "We need your help—he's going to be too heavy to carry otherwise. Pull yourself together. He needs you."

  Fredericks paused, sniffling, then crawled back to Orlando's side and touched the handsome face. "He's dying."

  "We know," Renie said.

  "But he could have lasted longer, if I hadn't been so stupid! I was . . . I thought it was my time. To . . . to do something."

  "You did the best you could," Paul said. "You're a good man."

  Fredericks' sudden shriek of laughter caught Paul and Renie by surprise. "That's perfect! That's so . . . this is all so scanny! I'm not even a boy, not really. I'm a girl."

  Renie seemed startled, but it made little difference to Paul. "That doesn't change what we need to do," he said. "Now come on—let's get rid of this bloody armor, then you can help us get him up."

  Laughing and weeping in quiet alternation, Fredericks peeled away the gold-plated greaves while Paul and Renie unfastened the armor on his upper body. As they got ready to lift him, Fredericks paused. "He'll want his sword," she said softly. She uncurled Orlando's fist from the hilt, then slid the blade through her own belt. Paul and Renie got under Orlando's arms and lifted; Fredericks took his feet. The unconscious boy groaned once as they staggered toward the gates. Paul felt it rather than heard it, because the death cries of Troy were growing very loud now.

  It was bad, even worse than Paul could have imagined. Children and old people were being chased out of their houses and speared like animals, or burned to death in their homes by laughing Greeks. It was hard for Paul to understand how in only a matter of moments the grave, honor-bound soldiers of Agamemnon could turn into demons like these.

  "Try not to look." he told Fredericks, whose pale, shocked expression grew ever more alarming, as though she were slipping away from them, headed for some other place. "And if anyone stops us—Greeks, anyway—just let me talk. They all know who I am."

  One group of new conquerors had formed a taunting circle around an old man, throwing the corpse of a small child back and forth above his head while he staggered from one to another, beseeching them to stop. The ghastly spectacle was blocking the street. Paul and Renie backed against a shadowed wall to catch their breath and wait for the Greeks to get bored and clear the way.

  "Where are we going?" he asked Renie. He was struggling to remind himself that none of this was real, but it was not helping much. "Any idea?"

  She looked like she was close to collapse herself. "When we first came through, we wound up in one of the palace courtyards. I suppose we should head for the palace."

  Paul grunted. "Yes, along with every other Greek here."

  "I killed him," Fredericks said mournfully.

  Paul checked Orlando's breathing. "You didn't kill him—he's still alive. And you just tried to do your best." He winced. "God, I'm running out of ideas."

  A figure suddenly leaped out of an alley behind them and clutched Renie's arm. She screeched; Paul's heart thudded to what seemed like a permanent stop, then sped on. He fumbled for his sword.

  "!Xabbu!" Renie threw her arms around the ash-smeared apparition. "Oh, it's . . . it's so wonderful to see you."

  "Like the Short-Nosed Mouse looking for Beetle, I will always find you, Renie." The man was smiling, but his face showed much strain. "Like the honey-guide looking for his friend the honey-badger, I will call out to you as I come." He quickly looked at Orlando, then turned his attention to Fredericks. "And is this Fredericks, after all this time? I am guessing only because you are slightly the smaller of the two, as you were before."

  Fredericks looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, a line of dried blood that Renie had not managed to clean surrounding her features like the edge of a mask. "It's me, !Xabbu. But you used to be a monkey."

  He took a step forward and threw his arms around her. "It is such a goodness to see you, young fellow. How is Orlando?"

  "He's dying, !Xabbu. He came after me—but I was trying to save him! And he killed—that guy Hector!" She fought to hold back more tears. "And I'm not a fellow . . . I'm a girl!" This appeared to shatter the dam. She covered her eyes with her arm, chest heaving.

  "You can be whatever you want, Fredericks," !Xabbu said softly. "A fellow or a girl. It is a happy thing just to see you again." He turned to Renie and put a hand on her arm. Paul could not help admiring how neatly he moved from one emotional situation to another. Paul knew almost nothing about Bushmen, but it was fascinating to see how the man's resilient calm translated through the Trojan soldier sim.

  He wouldn't have made a very good Greek hero, Paul thought absently. Not enough love of drama. Not enough self-obsession, perhaps.

  "Martine and the others are waiting for us," !Xabbu reported, "or were when I left, but this city is a very dangerous place now. Martine thinks she may know a way out."

  Renie nodded wearily. "Then let's hurry."

  !Xabbu led them off the main street and up the hill at an angle. They did not go quickly—Orlando's limp body was too awkward—but the Greek invaders were largely following the path of the main roads and were encountering many tempting distractions as they spiraled up toward the palace. Although the wind had already brought the fires to much of the city, and some streets were blocked by burning debris, Paul and his companions met Greek plunderers only in small groups; these took one look at him in his guise as King of Ithaca, waved merrily, and continued on about their business.

  Orlando began to wake as they struggled up a hillside. He fought against his friends' grip in a detached, dreamy way, muttering and moaning.

  "We can't carry him like this," Paul said after a dozen clumsy paces. He and Renie lowered Orlando to the ground. "The hill's too steep."

  !Xabbu came and kneeled at Orlando's side. He put one hand on his chest, the other on Orlando's forehead. "What is his full name?" !Xabbu asked Fredericks. "I have forgotten."

  "Orlando G–Gardiner."

  "Can you hear me, Orlando Gardiner?" !Xabbu leaned close, so that his lips almost touched the restless youth's ear. "Orlando Gardiner, your friends need you. We cannot carry you, and we are fleeing for our lives. Come back to us, Orlando. We need you. Come back to us."

  A chill ran up Paul's spine. It was so much like what the bird-woman had said to him, l
ike the time-honed words to some magical spell. "Do you think he can. . . ?"

  !Xabbu raised a hand, asking for silence. "Come back to us, Orlando Gardiner," he said, slowly and distinctly. "Your friends are here."

  Orlando's eyelids flickered. He groaned. !Xabbu stood up.

  "We will have to support him, but I think he will walk now. It is not his legs that are hurt, I think—his spirit is exhausted."

  "Don't make him walk," said Fredericks miserably. "He's sick!"

  !Xabbu spoke gently. "I think he would rather walk, no matter how sick his body is."

  "Lean on us, Orlando." Renie got under his arm again, this time facing him forward. Paul took the other side. After a moment Orlando straightened his legs, and with their support took a few stumbling steps. Just below, a figure rippling with fire rushed shrieking down a narrow street, chased by laughing Greeks with torches. "Right," Renie said tightly. "Just go and try not to think about it."

  Moving at Orlando's staggering pace, they made their way slowly up through the city until they had almost reached the palace of Priam, which was streaming with smoke and flames all along its roof. !Xabbu turned them to one side, through a carefully tended grove of trees surrounded by a low stone wall. In the depths of the tiny pine forest, with their vision of the catastrophe blocked for a moment and the noises of Troy's painful demise deadened by needles and branches, it almost seemed they had escaped the horror. Then they stumbled across the garden's caretaker, ribboned with bloody wounds, staring up sightlessly at the distant stars.

  !Xabbu hurried them down a succession of narrow alleys behind the palace. All the houses here were abandoned, or the denizens had extinguished their lights in the futile hope of escaping the attention of the victorious Greeks. As they moved past these tight-packed dwellings into a street of large low buildings adorned by twin rows of cypresses, Paul saw a small knot of people waiting in the shadows.

  "There's someone ahead," he whispered.

  "It is the others," !Xabbu assured him. "Martine!" he called softly. "We are here."

  The four figures moved out into the narrow, cobbled road. The largest held an unlit torch; Paul had no trouble recognizing T4b. The other three were women, two of them struggling with the third, who seemed to be having some kind of fit. Of these first two, one wore the body of a young, well-dressed Trojan woman, the other that of a crone, with much of her head and face swathed in bandages.

  The younger of the two turned at their approach, but maintained a tight grip on the third woman, who continued to weep and struggle. "Renie?" she said. "And are these truly Orlando and Fredericks?"

  "Orlando's sick, Martine," Renie said. "He's barely conscious."

  "And Emily's pitching a fit," the older woman said shortly. "She hates this place." She turned her one good eye on Paul. "So this is Jonas?"

  "We don't have time for long introductions," Renie said. "The city is falling apart out there—they're killing and raping and looting. Yes, this is Paul Jonas." She gestured to the two women. "That's Martine, and the one with the bandages is Florimel." She frowned. "The one crying and carrying on is Emily."

  "It hurts! Take me away from here!" the girl wailed, and for a moment twisted free of Florimel's grasp. She lurched a step toward the newcomers, and for the first time Paul saw her face.

  "Good Lord, don't you know who this is?" Paul took a step forward, half-certain that he would find himself in another dream. He seized the girl by her slender shoulders, astonished to be once more looking into that hauntingly familiar face. Something in her panicky expression pushed at his memory and he felt a name suddenly rise to the surface, something long hidden in shadows, but now flashing like a bird's wing in a beam of sunlight. "Ava?"

  The girl they had called Emily froze, tearstains glinting on her cheeks. "I don't. . . ." she said slowly, then her eyes rolled up until only the whites showed and she collapsed onto the road before any of her stunned companions could catch her.

  "Ava. . . ." Paul said wonderingly. and as he said it again, something inside him broke free. . . .

  "You're perfect," Niles had told him, laughing. "No grudges, no skeletons in the closet, no strong political views. And, lucky you, apparently you went to the right public school, too."

  It had been Niles, of course, who had found him the job—Niles, whose family loaned its summer cottages to net stars and foreign royalty, who had grown up calling the Archbishop of Canterbury "Cousin Freddy." If Niles or his family didn't know someone, it was likely no one else knew them either. "It's a strange little setup, mate, but you said you wanted some time to think about things—getting a bit bored of the routine, and all that. . . ."

  This was what happened when you made idle chitchat about changing your life in front of Niles—you wound up with an embassy job in Brazil, or owning a nightclub in Soho, or doing something even stranger. The younger sister of one of Niles' other friends had just decided that although she'd love to work in the U.S., she didn't want to be quite so isolated, so Niles had put in a good word for his friend Paul instead. Thus Paul had found himself at the far end of a six-month security clearance and an eight-hour jet flight, being shuttled across the New Orleans international airport tarmac toward a helicopter as shiny and sleek as a black dragonfly.

  When Paul had fastened his webbing, the helicopter suddenly surged into the air. He was its only passenger.

  "You're a bit younger and a bit more male than what they wanted," Niles had said, "but I had Uncle Sebastian put in a good word for you." The uncle in question was a former Treasury Minister, presumably the kind of person that even global business magnates might listen to when it came to references. "So don't do anything stupid, will you, laddie?" Niles had added.

  As the helicopter rose, Paul wondered what stupid thing even he could possibly do to bollocks this up. He was going to live on the estate, so it wasn't likely he would oversleep and miss work. And he liked children, so it seemed equally unlikely he would forget he was dealing with some of the world's most powerful people and give one of his charges a brutal thrashing.

  The black helicopter swung out over Lake Borgne. A ragged flock of seagulls broke apart before them, wheeling and scattering. Birds. Paul had never been to Louisiana, had not known how much like a tropical jungle the place was. There were so many birds here, in so many shapes and colors. . . .

  Despite the spyflick precautions, the net-star luxuries, all of the evidence that he was far, far out of his league, Paul had almost convinced himself that everything was going to be fine until he saw the tower jutting up from Lake Borgne like a vast black fang.

  Oh, my God, he thought—it's huge. He had seen net footage, but that had been nothing like the experience of the real thing. It's like something out of a fairy tale—an ogre's castle. Or one of the watchtowers of Hell. . . .

  The helicopter did not land on top of the massive spike, but instead settled slowly toward a domed structure a few kilometers away across the island, whose roof plates slid open like the aperture of a camera to reveal the landing spot. Feeling more than ever as though he had entered some kind of dream, Paul was hustled from the helicopter by several conspicuously well-armed, efficient men in military-style uniforms. After a curt formal greeting, one of them accompanied him on a quarter-hour shuttle bus journey to the black skyscraper, through street after street of low buildings and cultivated parks, an entire small town that seemed to have grown like a patch of mushrooms in the tower's shadow.

  The armed man delivered him to the gold-plated doors of the tower and watched with professional patience as Paul walked in beneath the vast, stylized "J" above the entrance and into the lobby, a huge space full of low lighting, spotlit sculpture, trickling water, and clusters of well-cushioned seats. The entire British Army, Paul could not help thinking, could have waited for an appointment in that lobby.

  Almost two more hours of security clearance—fingerprints and retinal scans being among the less intrusive methods—dragged by before he was at last ushered into one of the s
everal banks of elevators and puffed silently up to the 51st floor to meet a man named Finney.

  The huge office had the most fabulous view Paul had ever seen—almost half the tower's circumference of glassed wraparound panorama—but Finney himself did not seem the type to enjoy it. He was several years short of middle age but as sexless as a harem eunuch, a slender man with long surgeon's hands, small eyes that appeared grotesquely large behind thick, old-fashioned lenses, and the smile of a bored sadist.

  "Right, then." Finney watched Paid trying to make himself comfortable in the too-large chair on the other side of the desk. "You come with good references—yes, truly excellent references—which we have decided compensates for your lack of a great deal of experience as a tutor. You understand our security concerns, I'm sure—I hope everyone treated you well, nevertheless?" His smile flicked on then off, an implement used only for political purposes. "Mr. Jongleur is one of the world's most powerful men, and you are being given a position of great responsibility. He was most insistent on a traditional education—a 'good old British public school education,' as he puts it."

  Presumably without the beatings, the sodomy, and the cold food, Paul thought but did not say—he could no more imagine making a joke to this pale, affectless man than swearing in front of his grandmother. He opted instead for the safely polite. "I'm sure Mr. Jongleur will be happy with my work. And I'm looking forward to meeting the children."

  One thin eyebrow crept up Finney's forehead. "Children? No, I'm afraid you've jumped the gun a bit. For the moment there is only one child." He leaned forward, fixing Paul with a stare that seemed oddly intrusive, peering through the bottleglass lenses as though he had Paul under a microscope. Paul could not hold the man's eyes for more than a moment, and looked down guiltily. "I'm sure there are things you will find surprising here, Mr. Jonas. We are a family-owned company, and we have our idiosyncratic ways. The last tutor . . . well, she made herself very difficult and disagreeable. I think it is safe to say she will not work again in that profession." He sat up. "But that was largely due to misunderstanding, so let me make something perfectly, perfectly clear. Mr. Jongleur will do whatever is necessary to make sure no harm comes to any of his family or intimates, Mr. Jonas. That includes unwanted publicity. If you are a loyal employee, you will come to value this, as I do. But you do not ever want to be on the wrong side of the equation. Not ever."