City of Golden Shadow, Page 87

  Bolivar Atasco stumbled a little, still not completely separated from the simulation and its override on his exterior physical responses. He paused, swaying, and stared at Dread as though he felt he should recognize him.

  You have just met the Angel of Death and he's a stranger. He is always a stranger. The line from some obscure interactive popped into Dread's mind and made him grin. As Atasco opened his mouth to speak, Dread flicked a finger and the nearest commando shot the anthropologist between the eyes. Dread stepped forward and pulled the jack out of Atasco's neurocannula, then gestured at the woman. The other soldier did not move toward her, but thumbed his Trohner to auto-fire and sprayed her down, blowing the cable out of her neck and sending her to the floor in a bloody heap. Mission accomplished.

  Dread surveyed the two bodies briefly, then sent the two commandos upstairs to rejoin the others. He checked back in on the simulation in time to hear a new voice.

  "Trying to leave would be a very bad idea."

  It was an unfamiliar voice, processed through a translator. It took him several moments to realize it was Celestino's.

  "I'm afraid the Atascos have left early," the gear man was saying through Atasco's usurped sim. "But don't worry. We'll think of ways to keep the party entertaining,"

  "You shit!" Dread screamed, "you bloody idiot, get out of there!" There was no response: Celestino was not listening to the command channel. Dread felt rage expanding inside him like scalding steam. "Dulcy! Are you there?"

  "I am."

  "Have you got a gun?"

  "Uh . . . yes." Her voice suggested she always carried one, but didn't use it.

  "Go in and shoot that little bastard. Right now."

  "Shoot. . . ?"

  "Now! He may have just blown the most important part of this whole thing sky-high. Do it. You know I'll take care of you."

  Already high in Dread's estimation, Dulcinea Anwin rose even higher. He did not hear another sound from her until after something had exploded loudly on the Track Three audio channel.

  "Now what?" She was back on the line, breathing hard. "Christ, I've never done that before."

  "Then don't look at it. Go back to the other room—you can override from there. I want to know who's in that simulation. Find the outside lines. Most importantly, I want one of those lines—just one—that we can spike."

  She took a ragged breath, then steadied. "Got it."

  While he waited, Dread examined the Atascos' lab. Expensive stuff. In other circumstances, he wouldn't have minded taking some of it with him, although it would have been strictly against the Old Man's orders. But he smelled a bigger prize. He gestured to the bang man, who was standing in the hallway smoking a skinny black cigar.

  "Wire it up."

  The man ground the cigar out on the floor, then began attaching nodules of Anvax gel to various points around the room. Once Dread and Dulcy had emptied out the contents of Atasco's hard storage, he would trigger the explosives remotely.

  As he was making his way back up the stairs, Dulcy Anwin came back online. "I've got good news and bad news. Which first?"

  His grin was reflexive, hunger rather than humor."I can take the bad news. There hasn't been much so far tonight."

  "Can't get a fix on most of these folks. There seem to be several different setups, but most of them are trace-proof. They're not Puppets, I don't think, but they're using some kind of blind relay system—at least a couple of anonymous routers involved, plus some other even weirder stuff. If I had them all in one place for a couple of days, I might break something down, but otherwise, forget it"

  "They're already starting to scatter. They'll probably be offline in a few minutes. But you said 'most.' Is that the good news?"

  "I've got one of them in the crosshairs. Guested in by the target. No relay, no weird runaround. Spike's already in place."

  Dread took a deep breath. "Great. That's perfect. I want you to do a quick trace, then pull up the user's index. Can you do that?"

  "When do you want it?"

  "Right now. I want you to use that spike to override and bump the user offline, then you hold the sim yourself. Browse the index—just quickly, we'll work up a better version later—and learn what you can. Whoever he or she is, that's who you are. Got it?"

  "You want me to pretend to be this person? What about all the data work we have to do?"

  "I'll do it myself. I need to do it myself. Don't worry, I'll get someone to relieve you in a little while. Hell, after I get the data squared away, I'll probably take that spike from you myself, too." The pain in his head, the residue of the twist, was almost completely gone now. Dread suddenly felt the need for music, and conjured up a swelling, martial air. He had something the Old Man didn't, had it firmly in his jaws, and he was going to hang onto it until Doomsday. "If any of the others at the conference or whatever it is stay in the simulation, you stay too. Keep your mouth shut. Record everything." He was already busily making plans. As soon as he knew where this user lived, he would have him or her investigated and sanctioned, not necessarily in that order. He now had a front-row seat—Christ, he exulted, a leading role—in some mysterious conspiracy that had the Old Man scared to death. Also, the conspirators seemed to know a lot more about what the Old Man and his friends were up to than Dread did himself. It was impossible to guess how valuable this little sleight-of-hand might turn out to be.

  My time has come around at last. He laughed.

  But he needed everything to be crystal clear, foolproof. Even the efficient Ms. Anwin could make a mistake in all this confusion. "Are you sure you got it?" he asked her. "You keep that sim working at all costs until I relieve you. You are that user. Don't worry about the overtime—I'll make it worth your while, Dulcy baby." He laughed again. His early thoughts about Dulcinea as quarry had been superseded by a chase more glorious than anything he could have anticipated. "Get on it. I'll be back as soon as I finish up some loose ends here."

  He strode up the stairs and into the huge entry hall. There was data to sift, and a lot of it. He would have to take care of that before following up on the sim, monitor as much of it as he could before it went to the Old Man and his Brotherhood. He suddenly very much wanted to know what Atasco had been doing, as well as what Atasco had known. It would mean another night without sleep, but it would surely be worth it.

  At the foot of the main staircase a stone statue of a jaguar, blocky and expressionistic, crouched on a pedestal. He patted its snarling jaws for luck, then made a mental note to add Celestino's body to the cleanup squad's list of things to do.

  CHAPTER 38

  A New Day

  NETFEED/NEWS: Krittapong USA Demands More Seats

  (visual: US Capitol Building, Washington, Cm.)

  VO: Krittapong Electronics, USA, is threatening to filibuster the US Senate unless it receives more representation.

  (visual: Krittapong VPPR, Porfirio Vasques-Lowell, at press conference)

  VASQUES-LOWELL: "The House of Representatives allots seats based on population, and the biggest states get the most House seats. The Senate is business-based. Krittapong's gross worth has at least quintupled in the decade since the Industrial Senate Amendment was passed, so we deserve more seats. Simple. And we'd like to have a little chat with our colleagues in Britain's House of Enterprise, too."

  Things had gone from strange to stranger. Orlando, who had roused himself for a few moments to try to make the others understand, now could only sit staring as the room erupted into madness.

  Their hosts had vanished—the Atascos from their virtual bodies, Sellars completely. A woman across the table was screaming, a continuous wail of pain that was both heartbreaking and terrifying. Some of the sim-wearing guests sat like Orlando, in stunned silence. Others were shouting at each other like asylum inmates.

  "Fredericks?" He turned his throbbing head, looking for his friend. Another wave of the fever was crawling over him, and despite the amazing chaos, he was suddenly fighting the pull of sleep. "Frederic
ks? Where are you?" He hated the plaintive sound of his voice.

  His friend popped up from behind the table, hands over his ears."This whole thing impacts plus, Orlando—we have to get out of here."

  The shrieking stopped, but the excited babble continued. Orlando pulled himself upright "How? You told me we can't go offline. Besides, didn't you hear what that guy Sellars was saying?"

  Fredericks shook his head emphatically. "I heard, but I'm not listening. Come on." As he pulled at Orlando's arm, the room suddenly quieted. Over Fredericks' shoulder, Orlando saw Atasco moving again.

  "I hope none of you think you're going anywhere." The sim was inhabited, but the voice was not Atasco's. "Trying to leave would be a very bad idea."

  "Oh, no. Oh, Jesus," moaned Fredericks. "This is . . . we're. . . ."

  Something happened at the head of the table, something swift and violent that Orlando couldn't quite make out, but Atasco's wife disappeared from his line of sight "I'm afraid the Atascos have left early," continued the new voice, sounding as pleased with its own evil as any cartoon villain. "But don't worry. We'll think of ways to keep the party entertaining."

  For a long moment, nobody moved. A rustle of frightened murmurs ran through the guests as Atasco, or what had been Atasco, turned to survey them each in turn. "Now, why don't you tell me your names, and if you cooperate maybe I will be kind."

  The exotic woman Orlando had noted earlier, the tall, hawk-nosed one that he thought of as Nefertiti, shouted "You go to hell!" Through a haze of fever, Orlando admired her spirit. With just a little effort, he could almost imagine this as a particularly complicated and inventive game. If so, Nefertiti was clearly the Warrior Princess. She even had a sidekick, if the talking monkey was with her.

  And me? Is there a category for Dying Hero?

  Fredericks was clutching the arm of Orlando's sim so tightly that he could actually feel pain even through sickness and machinery. He tried again to shake off his friend's grip. It was time to stand up. It was time to the on his feet in the final battle. Thargor would have wanted to go that way, even if he was only an imaginary character.

  Orlando rose, trembling. The false Atasco's eyes flicked toward him, then suddenly the feather-crowned head snapped forward as if struck a blow by an invisible club. The God-King body froze again, then toppled swiftly to the floor. The terrified babble of the guests rose once more. Orlando took a few lightheaded, staggering steps, then righted himself and headed across the room toward Nefertiti and her monkey friend. He had to push past the black-clad clown who called himself Sweet William, who was arguing with the shiny robot warrior sim; Sweet William shot Orlando a scornful look as they bumped shoulders.

  That idiot would love the Palace of Shadows, Orlando thought. Hell, they'd probably make him the pope.

  As he reached Nefertiti, Fredericks caught up with him, clearly unwilling to be left on his own in the middle of this madness. The dark-skinned woman was crouching beside the woman who had been screaming, holding her hand and trying to soothe her.

  "Do you have any idea what's going on here?" Orlando asked.

  Nefertiti shook her head. "But something has obviously gone wrong. I think we must find a way out." He wasn't sure, but he thought her accent sounded African or Caribbean.

  "Finally, somebody who makes sense!" Fredericks said angrily. "I've been. . . ."

  He was interrupted by a shout of surprise. All turned to the front of the room, where the white specter of Sellars' sim had reappeared. It raised its formless hands in the air, and the people nearest it drew back in fear.

  "Please! Listen to me!" To Orlando's relief, it sounded very much like Sellars. "Please, we do not have much time!"

  The sims crowded forward, already calling out questions. Nefertiti banged her fists on the table and shouted for silence. A couple of others joined her—including Sweet William, Orlando was surprised to see. After a few moments the room quieted.

  "I do not know how, but we seem to have been discovered." Sellars was laboring to sound calm and just barely succeeding.

  "The island—the Atascos' real-world estate—is under attack. Our hosts are both dead."

  The robot wearer cursed in floridly fluent Goggleboy. Someone else shouted out in surprise and fear. Orlando could feel hysteria rising around him. If he had felt like his normal Thargor self, it would be time to start slapping some quiet common sense into some of these ninnies. But not only didn't he feel like Thargor, he was pretty terrified himself.

  Sellars was riding the panic, holding it down. "Please. Remember, the attack is happening in Cartagena, Colombia—in the real world, not here. You are in no immediate danger. But we cannot be found out, or the danger will be very, very real. I will assume that this attack is the work of The Grail Brotherhood, and that they know what they are looking for. If so, we only have minutes before they will be upon us."

  "So what should we do?" It was the monkey, his lilting voice calmer than anyone else's. "We have barely begun to speak of Otherland."

  "Otherland? What the hell are you babbling about?" shouted the woman who had earlier railed at Atasco. "We have to get out of here! How do we go offline?" She scrabbled at her neck as though attacked by invisible insects, but plainly could not find her neurocannula.

  There was another eruption; clearly no one else could leave the simulation either. "Silence!" Sellars raised his hands. "We have moments, only. If your identities are to be protected, I must do my work. I cannot stay here and neither can you, Temilún will not be a sanctuary—the Brotherhood will tear it to pieces. You must get out and into Otherland. I will work to keep you hidden until you can find a way to escape the network entirely."

  "But how will we even get out of this place?" Nefertiti, like her four-legged familiar, was doing a good job of controlling her emotions, but Orlando could hear the crack threatening to widen. "This Temilún is as big as a small country. Are we going to run to the border? And how do you go from one simulation to another here, anyway?"

  "The river is the boundary," Sellars said, "but it is also a route from one simulation to the next." He paused for a moment, thinking, then bent to Atasco's sim where it lay on the flagstones. He came up a moment later with something in his hand. "Take this—it's Atasco's signet ring. There is a royal barge, I think, down at the port"

  "I've seen it," Orlando called out "It's big."

  "Remember, Atasco is the God-King here, the master. If you command it with his ring, they will take you onto the river." Sellars handed the ring to Nefertiti. Orlando felt another wave of stifling, muzzy warmth roll through his body. His eyes sagged halfway closed.

  "Just sail on the river?" Sweet William demanded. "What is this, Huckleberry friggin' Finn? Where are we going? You got us into this, you bloody little man—how are you going to get us out of it?"

  Sellars held out his hands, seeming to offer a benediction more than to plead for silence. "There is no more time for talk. Already, our enemies are trying to breach the defenses I have thrown together. There is much I still need to tell you. I will do my best to find you again."

  "Find us?" Fredericks took a step forward. "You're not going to know where we are?"

  "There is no time!" For the first time Sellars' voice rose to a shout "I must go. I must go."

  Orlando forced himself to speak. "Is there anything we can do to stop these people—or at least find out what they're doing? We can't . . . can't have a quest without something to quest for."

  "I was not prepared for this." Sellars took a ragged breath; his shapeless form seemed to sag. "There is a man named Jonas. He was a prisoner of The Grail Brotherhood, his mind held captive in a simulation. I was able to reach him when he dreamed. I helped him to escape. Look for him."

  "We supposed to sniff for some sayee lo net-knocker?" The battle-robot waved its arms, flashing the razor-sharp blades at its joints. "While someone try to six us? You far far crash!"

  "I can't believe I have something in common with Bang-bang the Metal Boy here," sai
d Sweet William, a thin edge of panic in his voice, "but I agree. What are you talking about?"

  Sellars raised his arms. "Jonas knows something—he must! The Brotherhood would have killed him already if he weren't important. Find him! Now go!"

  The chorus of questions began again, but Sellars' sim abruptly flared and then disappeared.

  Fredericks shook his head miserably. "This is horrible—like some kind of story where everything ends wrong!"

  "We have to get going." Orlando grabbed his friend's arm. "Come on—what choice do we have?" He saw that Nefertiti and the monkey were helping their friend to her feet "We're going with them." He stood, taking a moment to be sure he had his balance. The fever had receded a little; he felt weak, but more clearheaded. "We're going to the ship, just like Sellars said." Orlando made his voice louder. "The rest of you can do what you want. But I wouldn't stay here until they managed to trace me. So if you're coming, follow me."

  Sweet William swept his cloak back over his shoulder. "Oi, sunshine, who died and made you Mister Happy?"

  The monkey had climbed back onto the table. "The time for arguing is over," it said. "This man is right—go or stay."

  "We can't just go charging out of here." Nefertiti was frowning. "If we do that, someone will come in to investigate."

  "Investigate?" The woman on the other side of the table had a slightly hysterical sound. "They're already investigating—he just said so!"

  "I'm talking about here," said Nefertiti. "Outside, in the real world, the Brotherhood or whoever has shut Atasco down. But in here, the people of Temilún don't know they're not real, and they don't care a bit about what's happening in RL. They think we're here having a meeting with their king or whatever. If we go thundering out like something's wrong, we'll never make it to the docks."

  Orlando nodded slowly, revising his earlier high estimation upward. "Hide the body," he said. "Both the bodies."

  It took more than a few minutes, since within the simulation the deserted sims had the weight and heft of corpses—corpses in advanced rigor mortis, as Orlando noticed while helping to trundle the unwieldy, seated form of Mrs. Atasco, which made their task even more difficult. What little strength he had was waning quickly in the struggle with the bodies, and he had no idea of how far they would have to travel. He surrendered to Fredericks his position as impromptu pallbearer and joined the search for a hiding place instead. The baboon discovered a small anteroom hidden behind a screen and the rest gratefully bundled the Atascos' sims into it.