And he was gone. How I knew I wasn’t sure - were my thoughts clearer? My head less cramped? My vocabulary different? I didn’t think so. I thought I felt the way I always felt, except more physically wretched at the moment, of course. But still, he was gone. Maybe there was less chatter in the background, maybe it was like leaving the city and winding up on some solitary hillside away from civilization, the only sounds the cheep of birds and rustle of leaves and gurgling of brooks. Whatever the metaphor, though, Iskendarian was gone.
But how could Iskendarian be gone when I still didn’t have an identity? I hadn’t liked having his,in fact being a wanton mass murderer whose only principles were those that directly benefited himself was one of the lousiest fates I’d been able to imagine... but in a perverse way I had to admit it had been better than nothing.
No - that was ridiculous. I’d been better off with no identity than with that overheated maniac in the belfry. If I wanted a new alter ego I could - I could...
If my head didn’t stop throbbing I’d never be able to follow a thought through to its end. What had I been thinking before I’d gotten lost in the haze? Iskendarian, that crummy leech - although if he’d been telling the truth I was the one who’d been the leech. Well, what of it? How did I know he’d been telling the truth? Suppose he’d been lying, suppose he was just some mind parasite and making me feel like I didn’t belong was a weapon to help him clear me out of my own body. Or suppose he’d even been telling the truth as he knew it, but it was still a lie - why couldn’t he have been as deluded as me about what was really going on?
Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about good old Iskendarian any more; hopefully Iskendarian was giving the Scapula at least as much trouble as he’d given me. Although I still had some responsibility for him, I guess. After all, I had loosed him on the Scapula and the web of other trapped gods, and I did know at first-hand just how much of a rabid animal he really was - but then on the other hand that kind of ferocious demolitions expert was just exactly the sort of fellow the Scapula needed tearing at his throat. It wasn’t like Iskendarian could break out and threaten the general populace.
Unless...
What if Iskendarian won? What if he succeeded in subjugating Arznaak’s personality the way he’d done to mine? Arznaak was out of his mind, of course, and so was Iskendarian, but at least Arznaak preferred to scheme where Iskendarian chose to blast. It would be nice if they could just conveniently destroy each other, which was exactly why it was hopelessly unlikely that would ever come to pass. No, Iskendarian in charge of Arznaak’s mind and wielding his overload of power wasn’t merely a threat to the general public, he was - well, yeah.
I was still responsible. Pain or no pain, I had to get myself up off the floor, pull myself together, and find out what was happening. I had to get to a workstation. The one in the Archives was probably closest, but who knew what shape it was in - plus there were all those pesky defenses to get past on the way. Had there been an access node in the facility under the moat? What about the -
Wait a minute. Iskendarian was gone but I still had memories I didn’t recognize. Not the same ones I’d had filtered through him - this was the first time I’d thought of some underwater hideout, for example - but that wasn’t all, either. Things I’d never understood before were suddenly starting to make sense. I knew things - but some of the things I’d known when I’d been Iskendarian I now knew had been wrong. He hadn’t been thinking straight; he’d warped logic so subtly I’d never noticed it… and for that matter I had the sudden suspicion he hadn’t known it either. Iskendarian had been a walking thought disorder, that’s why he was so messed up. But then I guess that was just the way he’d been built.
Built?
No, that wasn’t just a metaphor. Iskendarian had been built. I knew because I’d built him.
And that’s when I realized I knew at last who I really was.
CHAPTER 19
“Just why did the Emperor want all of us here?” Leen whispered to Phlinn Arol. “I mean, I understand the exercise-of-power-for-its-own-sake stuff, and the unbridled urge to throw your weight around, and the putting-on-the-best-face-and-united-happy-front for the crowds, and even the idea of getting people who might be plotting against you together so you can watch them all at once, but when it gets right down to it all he seems to be doing is acting like a total idiot.”
“Unfortunately, you may have noticed I agree with you,” said Phlinn Arol. The two of them were planted in their seats adjoining the Emperor-designate’s triumphal dais. Glowering at them from behind, even though he had stated his clear preference for a chair as well, was the black-shelled Maximillian. It was not merely for effect that he had been denied a stool; also gathered at their backs and stationed in a winding trail down the stairwell were the escorting guards of Leen’s recent acquaintance.
On the field beneath them, from what they could glimpse past the grand rostrum and the other ceremonial apparatus emplaced round about on the tower, the preliminary excursions and evolutions had reached their climax, the animal acts, historical evocations of feats of gladiatorial prowess, and comic relief had similarly run their course, and the massed bands were thundering forth their evocation of the majesty to come. The Imperial functionaries were forming up in their ranks of state - the ramifying Nerves had already stretched their tendrils from the digital corners of the field into the twisting central spine and then the dense tangled mat of brain, and the Bones and Vessels were doing their intricate maneuvers to form up around them; the Vertebrae had just finished twirling into place around the spinal column Nerves, and here came the ribs and long bones sliding in from the sides and bubbling out from the pelvis. All was in order and the signs were unmistakable. The Knitting-together of the Corpus of Empire would soon be upon them. And also upon them at that time, most likely, would be the crash of whatever hammer the Scapula had recently been forging. “Of course, it would be thoroughly anticlimactic if the Scapula plans to lie low,” Leen ventured. “After all this we’re all geared up for, and all. Maybe the Emperor’s right and nothing is going to happen.”
“The only good apocalypse is the one you avoid,” muttered Max. “I’d be perfectly happy to be disappointed, but I don’t expect it for a minute.”
“Perhaps Dr. Shaa and his new friends will succeed in running your old friend to ground,” Phlinn Arol suggested. “Or in detecting and tracing the umbilical power cord linking him to those he holds in thrall, through the intermediary of this hypothetical ally.”
“It’s possible,” said Max. “It could happen, but there again I’d be surprised. Arznaak’s worked on this for a long time; he’s not going to let himself get tripped up on some minor detail. Shaa and your friends may find him, but I’d bet it won’t until he makes himself traceable by letting off an energy signature that makes him visible - and if he’s done that it’ll already be too late.”
“That’s what I like about you,” Leen said. “You’re such an eternal optimist.”
“I am being optimistic. I think we may have a chance of getting through this alive. Look on the bright side. If the Emperor sics his assassin guys on us at least we should be able to handle them.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve regained your confidence,” Phlinn Arol said.
“Yeah, well, it’s nice if somebody still thinks I’m good for something around here, even if that somebody has to be me. All right, damn it, I’ll admit it again if that’ll make you feel better; I made a mistake.”
“You’re being uncharacteristically modest, don’t you think?”