How could he have been so fucking dumb?
He was plugged in all right, but not to some drone entertainment game, some amateur role play... This was the real fucking deal.
This was the full-on Virtual Rorschach, the mutt’s nuts, the fucking cat’s pyjamas. Designed by the Boss’s pet psychotherapist Eliza, controlled and run by Collator’s massive mainframe – a perfect blend of human instinct and mathematical algorithm. This “world” was made for him and from him – it was the extrapolated fractal landscape of his own brainwaves, a completely functional and unique reality, mathematically remodelling itself around his every decision and reaction.
In short? It was his head.
And he was stuck in it.
The hypocrites. The lousy, rat-shagging, mother-fucking bastards – they’d sold him straight down the Thames! They’d flogged his soul for thirty pieces of ammunition! How could he have been this stupid?
“I see you’re seeking your truth.” The voice was calming. Ecko focused on Roderick’s expression – wariness, compassion, concern. “The culture shock can be a hard thing to assimilate –”
“Culture shock?”
Naked, black-toothed savagery made the Bard start back. Ecko came off the table, his adrenals swift as a pounce. He had the man by the shirt and was snarling in his face. “They didn’t fucking do this to me, they didn’t do this! How the hell do I get back out?”
“I’m sorry...”
“Shit!” Throwing the Bard back against the couch, he lashed out with a foot and crashed the table into splinters. He spun back, targeters flashing.
“This is insane!”
Roderick leaned forwards to lay a hand on his arm. “Please. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish. And if you let me, I can help you.”
“Get the hell off of me.” Ecko shook off the contact like a poisonous insect, backed up. It was too much, swamping him. He was sinking in insanity and disbelief. “I need – security. I need – my Tech. I need my fucking head examining. That wasn’t meant to be funny. Jesus, I don’t even know what I need. Why the fuck would I wanna stay here?”
A ghost of a grin flickered on the Bard’s face.
“You’ll have to stay somewhere,” he said. “This building was given to me by the Lord CityWarden of Amos. It’s a tool, a catalyst and a nexus. And it has very good beer.” When Ecko said nothing, he continued, “Look, I’ve spent my life seeking answers to certain questions – and, slowly, they have all come here, they’ve... coalesced. And now you’re here too.” When Ecko still glowered, the grin spread. “Where else would you wish to be? We ride fate, here. Tonight, we’re in Roviarath. Tomorrow morning, we find a new location, another city perhaps. And the day after that...” The sentence ended in limitless possibility.
“That’s bullshit,” Ecko said, “you can’t just fucking teleport. What about your water, and –” he stopped short as he realised that if this was a constructed reality, the pub, like the moons, could do whatever the hell it wanted “– stuff?”
That made Roderick chuckle. “Our water comes with us. We move just before dawn and nine nights of the halfcycle it’s to somewhere we can trade. Occasionally, though, we do get a surprise. Eight days ago, we found ourselves in the ruins at Tusien, all our customers had been dead a thousand returns. Very bad for business.”
“Christ – they’ve dumped me in The Magic Faraway Pub.” Cursing, Ecko spun from the couch to kick at table bits and pace the room like a caged creature. He eyed his surroundings with a growing sneer: no weapons, no plastics, no electronics. In fact – he noticed this after a moment – no metal.
This was insane.
Eliza’s Virtual Rorschach was supposed to be therapy, for chrissakes – a long-term, total-immersion solution for the Boss’s more difficult personality cases. He didn’t know how it worked, but he knew that they’d clock his every reaction, and he knew that somewhere, there was gonna be some path or puzzle, something he had to solve or achieve or piece together. Maybe he could find it, get it the fuck sorted and get out – and maybe if he did it fast enough, he might even make it back with his brain intact.
Before they fixed him.
Chrissakes.
Once upon a time, Mom had made his body tamper-proof, unbreakable. Hell, maybe she’d made his head the same.
Roderick said, “You haven’t told me your name.”
“I’m Ecko, silent ‘G’.” He stopped his pacing by the desk and picked up a random piece of curly paper. He exhaled a tiny touch of flame. The paper flared eagerly then crumbled to black ash. “Though you really wouldn’t get the gag.”
“Ecko.” The Bard thought for a minute then continued, “You’re –”
A smart rap on the door cut him off.
Ecko turned, half crouched, his cloak mantling, ash scattering, but the Bard extended a calming hand.
“It’s all right,” he said. “That’ll be dinner. Having no idea what you eat, we thought it best to start simple.”
Recoiling, biting back a sarcastic response, Ecko stared at the door, his oculars cycling.
It opened to reveal a young woman with a tray propped on one hip. She was curvy, with shining brown hair and a cleavage you could’ve parked a bike in. Like the Bard, she had no enhancements, no weapons, no metal. There was something impertinent in her stance.
Lugan would’ve been all over her like a tattoo.
For a split second, Ecko had a vision of the young woman slapping the huge biker round the face. He almost grinned. Then the grin fractured and broke – Lugan was a million miles away, in another world, walled apart on the outside of Ecko’s skull.
Lugan was lost.
Lugan had sold him the fuck out.
Lugan was in deep shit when Ecko got outta here.
He shook his fingers and the last flakes of ash drifted to the floor.
The woman said, “What did you do to my table?” It was the same voice that Ecko had heard earlier.
“Karine.” The Bard stood up. “Meet Ecko. All things considered, he’s adjusting remarkably swiftly. Perhaps, when you have a moment...?” Roderick left the question unfinished but the young woman seemed to know what he meant.
“When do I ever get a moment?” She put the tray down on the arm of the couch, then straightened up to treat Ecko to a broad wink. “I run this building, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Roderick said, eyeing the rafters.
The tray contained some sort of pottery bowl that steamed with a surprisingly rich, meaty scent, and a hunk of something that looked like real bread, grainy and rough. Ecko had an odd urge to pick the bread up, break it, understand its texture. His belly growled, distressingly human.
Karine chuckled. “Don’t worry, you can eat it safely, we’re not going to try and poison you or anything.” She treated Roderick to an arched brow. “Though you are going to have to haggle for the table. And when you’ve picked up the bits, you can turf out the big room under the roof. You know the one. It’s got all your souvenirs in it.”
The Bard grinned at the gibe.
She harrumphed at him, then said, “There’s also more news... But that can wait for now.”
Roderick shot her a look. Her responding gesture was tiny, but Ecko’s targeters tracked it like prey. He picked up a second piece of paper from the desk, and turned it between his fingers.