The band had apparently just taken the upper stage. A staccato riff from the lead ten-string triggered the sync-systems, bathing the levels in pulsating light and liquid noise. Shag-metal was rip in this town, which made my desire to go transcontinental all the stronger. It was enough that I could very well die tonight, but the thought of "Bangin' the Duke" as my funeral dirge was too much.
I wanted to believe that my people were different than these nighttrippers thrashing about me now. I wanted to believe that things back home were different, that my people had some memory, some honor, for the glory of our cultural past. I wanted to believe that even a shadow of our rich history and traditions still existed. I wanted to believe that we were superior to these Americans, with their all-consuming lust for the new. But I knew that our magnificent past had all but vanished from mind, as though it had never been. Technology had blurred the differences between nations, and chipped languages had destroyed Europe.
The Restoration may have revived our lands and our people physically, but it had almost totally destroyed us culturally. Worshipping the grail of unrestricted growth, the Euro-corps were the driving force behind this so- called Restoration. Erasing the national boundaries meant no more import/export tariffs. It meant the availability of vast pools of cheap labor. It also meant death to 3,000 years of dynamic social expression. That was why I believed that radical politics and a return to nationalism and radical politics were our only hope for rescuing the individualism, the uniqueness of our many peoples. The Neo-Europe District of the Global Village must never come to pass.
The policlubs had been born from the urgency many felt for another kind of Restoration. We, too, wanted to rebuild Europe, even if it meant a return to more contentious times. Ours would not be a Europe homogenized for mass consumption. For better or worse, it would be a Europa Dividuus. We alone kept alive the flame of political activism and expression. Without us, Europe would soon become a corporate Disneyverse. The various policlubs did not, of course, agree on the means or even the ends, but was that not just as it should be? The restoration might appear to be proceeding apace, on the surface. Behind the scenes, we were at war. In the streets, on the data-faxes, in the hearts and minds of those alive enough to listen. Europe would not become another Manhattan, not even another Seattle. I'd come to make sure of that.
I pulled gently on the girl's coat and she turned to eye me quizzically. "Watch the dancers," I said, moving a few steps away to lean against a light- filled pole. Relaxing my whole body, I focused my attention on the pulsating lights of the lasers, letting the rhythm fill me.
A moment passed. Then a longer one. Existence ended and I was free. My vision shifted beyond the confines of my body and I viewed the world as few others could. Oblivious to me, the ghosts of men and women locked in the mundane world were still dancing madly. I scanned this level quickly. There was some minor activity from the faint auras of chip trinkets hawked on the street corners by charlatans, but no bright blossoming or shifting images to warrant further interest.
The astral forms of the dancers on the glass floors at each level below me blocked much of my view, but I dropped quickly through all the levels to where I could contemplate my destination. I saw the cool green of the shield- wall enclosing it, but caught no sign of the person I was to meet there. The shield prevented me from knowing whether she was within its embrace. The only way to penetrate its mystery was to walk through physically. To break through the shield any other way was something neither I nor most other humans could do.
My body jerked once as my mind returned. The girl was looking at me again, as though to ask what was next. I stepped forward, took her hand, and led her away.
We moved down the ramp a few levels. Halfway to our destination, I paused at the sight of a corporate cowboy whose clothes bore the symbol of the Saeder-Krupp dragon and the German flag hologo. The coincidence gave me pause, but I shook off the thought that the woman I was to meet had brought others along. It wasn't at all unusual to see people wearing the popular dragon-logo design. Besides, the woman knew too little of my motives or my knowledge at this point. She was both crafty and powerful, but I had been careful to keep her guessing. "Know your enemy and then use that knowledge against him" was one of the mottos of her following. All she knew about me was what I wanted her to know-or so I hoped. Too bad I knew even less about her. Ignoring another questioning glance from my companion, I guided her on.
Reaching the sixth level, we went over to the nearest bar and I signaled the barkeep. Feeling the girl move gently against me, I looked into her eyes.
Her gaze dipped and rose. Beneath the slightly glowing tint, her eyes were royal blue. "My name's Karyn," she said, "with a 'y'."
I smiled. "No it's not."
She blinked twice and the Elf wiped the area in front of us, leaning in. Tallin pitched his voice to me alone, speaking in clear, unaccented Russian. "Greetings, my friend. How is the Art?"
I replied in the same tongue, though I was definitely rusty. "Harried, as usual."
"A man named Shavan is waiting for you in Hell."
"A man?"
He shrugged. "Figure of speech."
"So ka. Give me the usual, and a Firedrake for my friend." I pulled my credstick from its wrist-sheath, but the Elf waved it away.
His words were in English as he moved down the bar. "Taken care of, my man," he said. "The Inferno still owes you." I returned the stick to its sheath. Dante's debt to me would be repaid with interest tonight.
The crowd roared and a glare of hard, colorless light cut the room. I'd seen this act before and figured the lead singer had just lit a small piece of NightLight and was gleefully trying to shove it down someone's throat. Ah, art.
The girl pressed against me again, her hand lying casually on my thigh. "Nice line," she said, dropping the timbre of her voice. "I almost believed you did know. Just for a second."
This time I didn't smile. "You're still not sure." Our drinks arrived as I spoke, making her gape in surprise at the Firedrake. I shot down my Blind Reaper and touched her arm.
"That's your favorite drink." She looked up at me, eyes still wide. "And your name is not Karyn, with a 'y.' And you're not from anywhere near here." Now fear also swam in her eyes. "But no matter," I told her. "Tonight, you're with me."
I brought her hand up to my face, gently kissed her palm, and then closed it. "I have business. It may take some time, but I want you to hold something for me." Power danced quietly behind my eyes and she gasped. She'd felt the change.
Her hand opened slowly and a jumble of brilliant red silk unfolded, forming first a flower, and then falling open in a drape that covered her hand. I gathered it up and tied the flare of color around her throat. She touched it and stared at me, an odd glistening showing through her corneal tint. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.
"You can give it back to me later." My voice was low, barely audible, and she strained forward to hear me.
She'd felt the silk appear in her hands, but wasn't sure if I'd used bar- stool sorcery or the real thing to put it there. She'd think about it, and then think about it some more, and then want to know. Later, I'd let her.
Brushing her cheek and then her hair, I moved away without looking back. If my business went well, I would be alive enough afterward to need a place for disappearing. If I'd read her right, the girl was the bored daughter of some equally bored ultrasilk-suit type. Tired of the macro-glass scene, she'd become enraptured by the rhythm and color of the streets, but remained blind to its workings. Too frightened of being rejected for her real identity, she'd gandered herself up the way they did in the vids. By following the templates to the letter, she'd given herself away.