City of Golden Shadow

  Renie shuddered. "Don't blame yourself. God, I wish you'd told me about that before I dragged you into the pool. That's where VR can cause harm, and no one disputes it—where it touches on phobias or childhood fears. But because it's a controlled environment, they use it to cure those fears, too."

  "I do not feel cured," said !Xabbu miserably.

  "No, I'm not surprised." She squeezed his arm again, then got to her feet. Her muscles were sore—just from the tension alone, she guessed. That and the pummeling !Xabbu had unwittingly given her. "Come on. We've burned an hour or so of our time already and we've barely seen anything."

  "Where are we?" He, too, straightened and stood, then stopped as a sudden idea struck him. "Do we have to go out the same way when we leave?"

  Renie laughed. "We most certainly do not. As a matter of fact, we can pull out directly any time we want. All you have to do is make the 'exit' command, remember?"

  "I do now."

  The corridor had been designed to carry on the motif of the boiling lake. The walls were the same black igneous stone, rough to the touch and dreary to look at. A sourceless red light suffused everything.

  "We could wander aimlessly," she said, "or we can be a little more scientific about this." She paused for a moment, but saw nothing that looked suggestive. "Options," she said, loudly and clearly. A tracery of burning lines appeared on the wall beside them. She studied the list, many of which were unpleasantly suggestive, and picked one of the most neutral. "Stairs."

  The corridor wavered, then dropped away before them like water running down a drain. They stood on a landing in the middle of a wide, curving staircase that stretched away above and below, each step a massive slab of glossy black stone. For an instant they were alone; then the air flickered and they were surrounded by pale shapes.

  "By my ancestors. . . ." breathed !Xabbu.

  Hundreds of ghostly figures filled the stairwell, some trudging wearily, many burdened by heavy bags or other loads. Others, less substantial, floated in tatters above the steps like mist. Renie saw a variety of ancient costumes from many cultures and heard a whispering babel of different tongues, as though these shades were meant to represent a cross-section of human history. She gestured to raise the sound on her hearplugs, but still could not quite understand any of them.

  "More lost souls," she said. "I wonder if someone is trying to send us a message. 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,' or something like that."

  !Xabbu looked uncomfortable as he watched a beautiful Asian woman float past, her weeping head cradled carefully between the stumps of her wrists. "What shall we do now?" he asked.

  "Go down." It seemed obvious. "You have to go down before you can come out—that's how these things always work."

  "Ah." !Xabbu turned toward her, a sudden smile stretching his simulated face. "Such wisdom is not easily come by, Renie. I am impressed."

  She stared at him for a moment. She had been talking about the endless dungeon games she had played as a netgirl, but she wasn't quite sure what he meant. "Come on, then."

  She wondered at first whether there would be any resistance, or at least any scenarios to be played out, but the spirits of the staircase only eddied past on either side, as murmurously harmless as pigeons. One, a gnarled old man who wore nothing but a loincloth, stood stationary in the middle of the staircase, silently shaking with laughter or tears. Renie tried to walk around him, but his sudden convulsive movement brought him against her elbow; he instantly dissolved into smoky wisps, then reformed farther up the stairs, still bent, still shaking.

  They walked for almost half an hour, companioned only by simulations of the restless dead. The staircase seemed endless, and Renie was considering choosing one of the doorways that led off each landing when she heard a voice cutting through the unhappy burble of the phantoms.

  ". . . Like a she-dog. Breathing hard, growling, foam on her lips—you shall see!"

  The remark was followed by a chorus of raucous laughter.

  Renie and !Xabbu rounded a bend. On the landing before them stood four men, all quite real, at least compared to the phantom bystanders. Three of them were dark-skinned, dark-haired demigods, tall and almost impossibly handsome. The fourth was not quite as tall but monstrously bulky, as though someone had dressed a hippopotamus in a white suit and given it a round, bald, human head.

  Although his back was to them and their approach made no sound, the fat man turned to Renie and !Xabbu immediately. Renie felt the swift examination by his small bright eyes almost physically, like a series of probing finger jabs. "Ah, hello. Are you enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?" His voice was a work of genius, deep buttery tones like a viola da gamba.

  "Yes, thank you." She kept a hand on !Xabbu's shoulder, uncertain.

  "Is this your first time in the world-reknowned Mister J's?" asked the fat man. "Come, I am certain that it is—no need to be ashamed. You must join us, for I know all the ins and outs of this strange and wonderful place. I am Strimbello." He pushed the tip of his blunt jaw toward his breastbone in a minimal bow; his chins flattened and bulged like gills.

  "Pleased to meet you," Renie said. "I am Mr. Otepi, and this is my business associate, Mr. Wonde."

  "You are from Africa? Splendid, splendid." Strimbello beamed, as though Africa were a clever trick she and !Xabbu had just performed. "My other friends—what a day for new friends this has been!—are from the Indian subcontinent. Madras, to be specific. Please, may I introduce you to the brothers Pavamana."

  His three companions gave fractional nods. They were practically triplets, or at least their sims were nearly identical. A lot of money had been spent on their handsome VR bodies. Renie decided that it was probably overcompensation—in RL, the Pavamana brothers were doubtless pockmarked and sunken-chested. "Pleased to meet you," she said. !Xabbu echoed her.

  "And I was just taking these excellent fellows to see some of the Inferno's more select attractions." Strimbello lowered his voice and winked; he had more than a little of the carnival barker about him. "Would you care to join us?"

  Renie suddenly remembered that Stephen had mentioned a fat man. Her heartbeat grew swifter. Could it all happen so quickly, so easily? But if opportunity was here, so was danger. "You are very kind."

  She and !Xabbu shared a glance as they fell into step behind the other group. Renie lifted a finger to her lips, warning him not to say anything, even on private band. If this man was part of the inner circle of Mister J's, it would be folly to assume anything about his capabilities.

  As they floated down the great staircase—Strimbello seemed uninterested in arriviste pursuits like walking—the fat man regaled them with stories about the various ghosts, or the people the ghosts represented. One of them, a Frankish knight from the Crusades, had been cuckolded in an admirably devious manner at which even Renie and !Xabbu had to laugh. Without changing tone, Strimbello then described what had happened afterward, and pointed out the two legless, armless figures worming along the stairs several paces behind the armored phantom. Renie felt sick.

  The fat man lifted his broad arms and raised his hands, palms up. The whole company suddenly floated away from the staircase and around another bend in the cavern wall, which abruptly dropped away. They were hanging above a great emptiness, a miles-deep well. The stairway spiraled down around its perimeter, vanishing in the dim red glow far beneath them.

  "Too slow," Strimbello said. "And there is much, much to show you." He gestured again and they were falling. Renie felt her stomach drop alarmingly—the visuals were good, but not that good, surely? Suspended in her harness and experiencing everything through the senses of her low-order sim, she should not be feeling this swift drop in such a . . . visceral way.

  Beside her, !Xabbu had spread his arms as though to slow his descent. He looked slightly nervous, but there was a determined set to his narrow jaw that made Renie feel better. The little man was holding up well.

  "We will, of course, land quite safely." Strimbello's round hea
d seemed almost to blink like a lightbulb as the alternating levels of darkness and light strobed past "I hope I don't sound patronizing, Mister . . . Otepi. Perhaps you have enjoyed such virtual experiences before."

  "Nothing like this," said Renie truthfully.

  Their fall ended, although they still hung in midair with a bottomless depth of well below them. At Strimbello's magisterial gesture they slid sideways through nothingness and alighted on one of the levels that ringed the pit like theater balconies. The Pavamana brothers grinned and pointed at the passersby. Their mouths moved without sound as they conversed on their own private band.

  Doors were open all along the curving promenade, spilling noise and color and the sound of many voices and many languages, laughter, screams, and unintelligible rhythmic chanting. A variety of sims—mostly male, Renie could not help noticing; she suspected the few female shapes were part of the entertainment—moved in and out of the doorways and down the alleyways that radiated out from the central well. Some were embodied as handsomely as the Pavamana brothers, but many wore only the most basic forms: small, gray and almost faceless, they scuttled among their shining brothers like the pathetic damned.

  Strimbello suddenly took her by the arm. His vast hand printed itself so powerfully on her factors that she winced. "Come, come," he said, "it is time to see some of what you came here for. Perhaps the Yellow Room?"

  "Oh, yes," one of the Pavamanas said. The other two nodded excitedly. "We have been told very much about that place."

  "It is justifiably famous," said the fat man. He turned to Renie and !Xabbu, his sim face a perfect representation of shrewd humor. "And you are not to worry at the expense, my new friends. I am well known here—my credit is good. Yes? If you will come?"

  Renie hesitated, then nodded.

  "So be it" Strimbello waved his hand and the promenade seemed to bend around them. A moment later they were in a long, low-ceilinged room lit in various unpleasant shades of ocher and acid-lemon. Throbbing music filled Renie's ears, a monotonous percussive thumping. The fat man was still gripping her arm firmly: she had to struggle to turn and look for !Xabbu. Her friend was behind the Pavamanas, staring around the crowded room.

  The same mix of high- and low-quality sims that filled the promenade lined the tables of the Yellow Room, bellowing cheerfully at the stage which filled one end of the room, pounding with their fists until virtual crockery rolled and shattered on the floor. The bilious light gave their faces a feverish look. A woman—or what appeared to be a woman, Renie reminded herself—stood on the stage doing a jerky striptease timed to the swiftly lurching music. Renie was briefly reassured to see something so old-fashioned in its benign naughtiness until she realized that what the woman was peeling off was not clothing, but skin. Already a ballet skirt of translucent, paper-thin, red-spotted flesh dangled from her hips. Worst of all was the look of resigned misery on the woman's—no, the sim's, Renie reminded herself—slack face.

  Unable to watch, Renie looked around again for !Xabbu. She could see the top of his head past the Pavamanas, who were bobbing and elbowing each other like a slapstick comedy team. She stole another glance at the stage, but the wincing performer was now revealing the first layers of muscle flexing across her stomach, so Renie concentrated on the crowd instead. That did little to relieve her growing sense of claustrophobic discomfort the simuloid faces of the audience were all wide soulless eyes and gaping mouths. This was indeed the Inferno.

  A movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. She thought Strimbello had been watching her, but when she turned, he appeared to be engrossed in the performance, his head nodding as if in proprietary approval, a tight smile pulling at the corners of his wide, wide mouth. Did he suspect, somehow, that she and !Xabbu were not what they professed to be? How could he? They had done nothing unusual and she had worked very hard on their aliases. But whatever he thought of them, he made her terribly uncomfortable. Whoever or what ever lived behind those small, hard eyes would be a very dangerous enemy.

  The throbbing music died. Renie turned back to the stage as a blare of horns signaled the departure of the stripper. A few desultory handclaps followed her as she limped toward the back of the stage, trailing a bridal train of tattered, glistening flesh. A deep orchestral hum signaled the next act.

  Strimbello leaned his huge head near. "Do you understand French, Mister Otepi? Hmmm? This is what you would call 'La Specialité de la Maison'—the Yellow Room's signature attraction." He wrapped a large hand around her arm again and gave her a little shake. "You are of legal age, are you not?" He laughed suddenly, revealing broad, flat teeth. "Of course you are! Just my little joke!"

  Renie sought !Xabbu, a bit desperately this time—they had to think about getting away from this man soon—but her friend was hidden by the three Pavamanas, who had leaned forward in unison to watch the stage, false faces rapt.

  The deep rumble of the music changed, taking on a processional air, and a group of people walked out, all but one dressed in dark robes with hoods drawn up. The unhooded exception, Renie was surprised to see, was the pale singer from the lounge. Or was it? The face, especially the huge, haunted eyes, looked the same, but this one's hair was a great curling auburn cascade, and she also seemed taller and longer-limbed.

  Before Renie could make up her mind, several of the robed figures stepped forward and grabbed the pale woman, who did not resist. The music shuddered and a quickening beat began to make itself felt beneath the humming chords. The stage lengthened like a protruded tongue. The walls and tables and even the patrons also reshaped themselves, flowing around the woman and her attendants until the room surrounded the strange tableau like a hospital operating theater. The acid glow dimmed until everything was in shadow and the woman's bone-white face seemed the only source of light. Then her robes were torn away, and her pale body leaped into view like a sudden flame.

  Renie took a sharp breath. She heard louder, harsher inhalations on all sides. The young woman was not shaped like the dream-figure of male fantasy she would have expected in a place like this; her long, slender legs, delicate rib cage, and small mauve-tipped breasts made her seem little past adolescence.

  The girl at last raised her dark eyes to look at the audience. Her expression was a mixture of reproach and fear, but something else lurked beneath, a kind of disgust—almost a challenge. Someone shouted at her in a language Renie didn't understand. Close behind, another customer laughed explosively. With no sign of physical effort, the robed figures grabbed at the girl's four limbs and lifted her from the floor. She floated between them, extended and glowingly pale, something pure to be marked or shaped. The music dropped to a low, anticipatory hum.

  One of the dark figures twisted the girl's arm. She writhed, dull dark veins and the bunching of tendons suddenly visible beneath the translucent skin, but did not make a sound. The arm was twisted and pulled farther. There was a gristly noise as something tore and the girl cried out at last, a choking, drawn-out sob, Renie turned away, her stomach lurching.

  It's only pictures, she told herself. Not real. Not real.

  Shapes hunched forward on either side, craning for a better view. People were shouting, their voices already hoarse; Renie could almost feel a kind of collective darkness flowing from the watchers, as though the room were filling with poisonous smoke. More things were happening on the stage, more movements, more gasping cries. She did not want to look. The brothers from Madras were rubbing their hands back and forth on their impressively muscled thighs. Strimbello, sitting next to Renie, watched the action with his small fixed smile.

  It went on for long minutes. Renie stared at the floor, struggling against the urge to scream and run away. These people were animals—no, worse than animals, for what wild creature could dream of something so vile? It was time to take !Xabbu and get out. That wouldn't be enough to reveal their imposture—surely not all patrons of even as foul a place as this wanted to see these kinds of things? She started to rise, but Strimbello's
broad hand pushed down hard on her leg, trapping her.

  "You should not go." His growl seemed to push its way deep into her ear. "Look—you will have much to tell back home." He reached his other hand up and pulled her chin around toward the stage.

  The girl's white limbs had been twisted into several impossible angles. One leg had been pulled to an obscene length, like a piece of taffy. The crowd was roaring now, so the girl's screams could no longer be heard, but her head snapped spastically from side to side and her mouth gaped.

  One of the robbed figures drew out something long and sharp and shiny. The clamor of the audience took on a different tone, a pack of dogs that had cornered some exhausted thing and now were baying for the kill.

  Renie tried to pull away from Strimbello's implacable grip. A piece of something wet and gleaming flew past her, arcing out into the shadowed seats. Someone behind her caught it and lifted it to his expressionless sim face. He smeared it against his cheeks as though daubing a ceremonial mask, then pushed it into his idiot mouth. Renie tasted sour liquid as her stomach heaved again. She tried to look away, but all around her the patrons were lifting their hands, grabbing at other bits flung out from the stage. Horribly, she could hear the girl's shrieks even above the barking crowd.

  She could not take this any longer—she would go mad if she remained. If a virtual object could burn, then this place should be burned to its dark foundation. She thrust her hand out toward !Xabbu, trying frantically to get his attention.

  The little man was gone. The spot he had occupied behind the Pavamanas was empty.

  "My friend!" She tried to tug herself free of Strimbello, who was unconcernedly watching the stage. "My friend is gone!"

  "No matter," said Strimbello. "He will find something he likes better."

  "Then he is a fool," chortled one of the Pavamanas, grinning like a lunatic. Simulated blood gleamed on his cheeks like an old courtesan's rouge. "There is nothing like the Yellow Room,"