The footsteps stopped; the newcomer was right over him.
Salva was dead; it had to be Grey. What was he carrying – pistol, hypo? Ecko’s targeters twitched although his eyes were still closed. Could he spark and flame before – ?
“Karine, Sera.”
The voice was male, warm, light and fine; it had a timbre and vibrancy so compelling that his questions braked to a screeching halt. It wasn’t Grey; the subtle accent was completely alien. And yet...
“It seems the traditional brawl is brewing early.” Where had he heard it before? That hint of wry humour was familiar, so familiar...
...was this the deal – were they gonna talk him into submission?
Shit. He remembered that Lugan’d sent him on this fucking mission without a radio. He’d have no help getting out of here.
“They should be drinking, not fighting,” the woman said. There was a faint scuffle. “Go on, you dirty great bouncer, get your arse down there and sort them out. I don’t want the place trashed.”
“Will never happen.” “Sarah” headed for the door.
When he’d gone, there was a pause.
The long footsteps of the guy with the voice crossed to another point in the room. There was a shuffling of what sounded like paper – paper, for chrissakes? – and the woman said gently, “What’s up?”
Ecko heard the guy inhale, let his breath out again in a half-muffled sigh like he was rubbing a hand over his face.
“How I wish I understood,” he said. “This is so unexpected, and yet it brings me hope.” The voice held – what was that? Anticipation? Fear? “My dear Karine, you know the tales as well as anyone –”
“You’re a nutjob, looking for something that isn’t there.”
The man chuckled. “Perhaps.” His voice danced with irony as he added, “Perhaps I’m the only sane one.”
“You’re a nutjob – and an egomaniac.” She tapped fingernails. “Come on, Loremaster, we’ve got an alehouse to manage.”
“You’ve got an alehouse to manage.”
“Don’t even think it!” Her footsteps crossed the room.
He laughed. “All right, all right. Lace transitions are traumatic – our friend here won’t be conscious for a while.” Furniture moved. “And I may be insane but you are a bully.”
“Which is why you gave me the job, as I recall. Go on – out. I’m coming too.”
“Riddle me this –” the man was heading for the door as he spoke “– what’s pretty, aggressive and going to be my absolute undoing?”
“I’ll be your absolute undoing in a minute,” the woman said. “If you don’t get down those stairs, I’ll –”
The door closed behind them.
* * *
When they’d gone, Ecko lay still.
His head was a glaring question mark. The beautiful, alien voice; the words it spoke. It was all wrong; sounded wrong, smelled wrong, tasted wrong.
He listened.
No howling weather. No traffic, no sirens, no pounding nightclub bass. The party noises were coming from a lower floor, he must be upstairs. The air was quiet; yeah, it was too damn quiet and it was freaking him out.
The obvious conclusion – that this was one of Grey’s shit-holes – he’d dismissed when he’d realised the room was too big.
The voice had said he wouldn’t regain consciousness for a while, they’d probably left him alone. Turning off his flickering digital clock, he counted: one dead corporate, two dead corporate...
When he hit six hundred without noise or motion, he slitted open his eyes.
And the big question mark got one helluva lot bigger.
It took him a stunned moment to realise it was a set-up, a set-up. It was some kind of simulated environment.
Had to be.
Ecko was on a couch, one of three that surrounded a small table in the centre of a large, low-ceilinged room. On the table sat his webbing and cloak. Light came from some kind of writing desk that sat by a long drape – two further drapes presumably covered more windows.
There was no guard.
There was no security of any other kind: no cams, no mikes, no weapons, no trips, not as much as a cable. There was no console, no flatscreen. There wasn’t as much as a fucking datasocket – like you could fit one on a wall of bricks and beams. His heatseeker showed warm ambience, only the light source raised the temperature of the air.
What was this – the set of some Sauce’n’Swordery routine? Was fucking Robin Hood going to come prancing through here any second? This was like some loony-trick spook-interrogation thing. If this was Grey’s idea of a head game...
Maybe they’d left him free, with his kit, just to see what he’d do – there had to be a vid-feed somewhere.
Yeah? Well, he was gonna take that bluff.
His webbing and cloak were untouched. As he kitted back up, he realised two things – that he had no injuries other than his ripped fingertips and that there was no sign of Salva’s rifle. Warning alarms rang in his head, but he flicked his hood to cover his face and headed for the nearest window.
First priority – find a way outta here.
The desktop offered no information – just curly papers and a feather-in-a-pot cliché that made him wince. The feather was a bright, UV-brilliant white. The room’s light source appeared to be a rock, for chrissakes. Shaking his head at Grey’s apparently whimsical nature, he tweaked back the edge of the curtain.
A slice of bright illumination made the colours of his skin recoil.
His oculars defending his vision, he looked out at the polluted, halogen-blazing –
The sky was dark, untouched by advertising – unobscured by clouds or buildings, by the Tate’s ever-cycling LED. It was pitch-black, crystal-vision clear and completely starless.
What?
That wasn’t right.
The moon was half full, low, brilliant and shimmering silver. It was way too close and way too bright – that wasn’t right either. The second moon, a little higher and glowing a fantastic yellow gold, was also half full. That was getting beyond not-right.
What freaked Ecko right out was that it was the other half.
He blinked.
No fucking way.
Reality took a half step sideways, staggered, and fell on its ass. Panic rose in his throat and he found himself fighting to breathe – what the hell was going on? His adrenals had instinctively kicked; he was shivering with fight-or-flight tension and it was making him queasy.
It was a picture, a projection of some kind, it had to be. They were just messing with his head...
He was losing control of his gut. Think, he told himself. Get a fucking grip for chrissakes.
He’d been sent on a recce. He’d jumped off the roof. He’d splatted on the tarmac like a lump of strawberry jam. Grey could’ve done whatever he wanted...
Fucking Grey.
The memory was like a reprieve, he found his knees going. This was a simulation all right, they’d shoved him in one of those boxes and plugged him into the fucking console. It was a game: a few rounds of interrogation in The World of Anywhere-But-Here, soften him up a bit. It explained why the fall hadn’t mashed him.
But then – how the hell did he get out...?
Shielding his skin from the light, he backed into a crouch half under the desk and fought a sudden, choking clamour of panic. Even the drugged-up-zombie workers were allowed to game, it gave them an approved – and supervised – recreational outlet. Bread and fucking circuses. But if he’d been put in here, and he couldn’t unplug himself...
It was an inescapable gaol. He was helpless.
Yeah, Ecko lashed at his fear with savagery, but that don’t fucking mean you hafta just sit here.