TEN
Over the next few days, Luc dreamed of other faces he had never encountered, and of places he had never visited.
As he woke each morning, he felt sure that Antonov’s ghost, lurking within his skull, had whispered secrets that, however hard he tried, could not be recalled. Even when awake, he fell from time to time into a kind of trance, sometimes lasting for several minutes or even longer. He cradled a glass of hot kavamilch one morning, then found once he brought it to his lips that it had turned cold; more than half an hour had passed without his being aware of it.
And then there were the occasional bouts of excruciating pain, each one longer than the last. He barely managed to stop his house from contacting the medical services during one particularly bad episode: just because one hospital’s neural scanner had failed to detect his lattice didn’t mean another would.
He waited to hear from de Almeida, desperate for her to work her magic on him, but no word came and, as she had left him no way to contact her directly, there was little for him to do but wait.
Eleanor got in touch, but despite his yearning for her company, he avoided her. He didn’t know what she might do if he had another seizure while she was around him. Even so, the wounded tone in her voice whenever she left another unanswered message for him tore a hole in his heart.
It took an effort to force himself back out of his apartment. The headaches and fevered dreams of the past few days had left him exhausted, and he found he had little energy for anything more than spending time within the arboretum on the roof of the Archives building, where he could at least enjoy the company of Master Archivists who were now his equals in rank. There, he not only found Offenbach, but also Hogshead, Benet, and even old Kubaszynski, long since retired but on a brief visit from his home on Novaya Zvezda.
He listened to their conversation as it turned to heroic Archivists of old: men such as Gardziola, who had tracked down Samarkandian census records believed destroyed during the Mass Deletions. He heard again the story of Justin Krumrey, who forced the Grey Barons of Da Vinci to relinquish private collections of 21st and 22nd century media, also thought lost forever. He heard tales of Panther Wu, the wrestler-turned-theoretician who first instituted the system of Master Archivists, and whose statue stood wreathed in dark green ivy at the heart of the rooftop gardens amongst which they idled.
He listened to their tales of epic adventure, laughed at their jokes, and returned to his apartment filled with ideas for future research projects and exploratory fieldwork. But when he caught sight of the White Palace floating far above the city, he was reminded that his days might very well be numbered for reasons that remained far from clear. All his plans seemed suddenly worthless, since there was no way to know whether he might live long enough to implement them.
He went to his bed that night filled with a sense of dread that kept him awake through the night, leaving him exhausted and weary by the time morning arrived.
Early the next day, de Almeida finally data-ghosted unannounced into his apartment. Luc had barely slept, his head feeling as if hot pokers were being slowly driven through the bone and tissue.
He felt overwhelmingly, even embarrassingly, grateful at the sight of her. Her data-ghost perched on an invisible seat in his apartment’s kitchenette as he made himself some kavamilch, wincing from the pain of his headache.
‘I’ve arranged a time and place for you to meet with Ambassador Sachs,’ she began without any preamble, ‘but remember that he doesn’t know it isn’t officially sanctioned.’
‘Any news about that inquest Cheng said would be held concerning Reto Falla?’ asked Luc.
De Almeida let out a rush of nervous breath. ‘I’m sure you’ll be far from surprised to learn they’ve already found Falla guilty of the murder. I asked to see the minutes of the enquiry meeting, but they’ve been ruled confidential.’
‘Even to you?’
‘Even to me,’ she replied dryly. ‘Another enquiry’s been commissioned, this time to try and work out how he could have done it. Cripps has been put in charge of that one. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who’s stopping me seeing those minutes, let alone any of the related evidence.’
Apart from the evidence you managed to steal, Luc thought to himself. ‘Any idea why?’
‘Apparently I’m under suspicion of negligence,’ she replied, her expression darkening. ‘It seems they want to carry out a review of the security networks, so they can work out where I . . . where I screwed up.’ She almost spat the words out. ‘The information on Falla’s CogNet piece, did you . . . ?’
‘I couldn’t find anything that fitted the profile of an active Black Lotus agent.’ He shrugged. ‘And the data on a CogNet earpiece, particularly a hacked one, isn’t hard to fake, as I think you already know. That he even still had it makes no sense.’
‘Why?’
‘Any assassin with an iota of intelligence or imagination would have dumped or destroyed that earpiece immediately. Instead, there it was, in plain view in his apartment. Everything about it just feels wrong.’
‘I came to the same conclusion myself,’ she admitted.
‘What about the rest of the Council?’ he asked, cradling the kavamilch in his hands as he took a seat across from her. ‘Surely they have some say in the direction of the inquest, or are they just going to accept Father Cheng’s decisions without question?’
De Almeida nodded. ‘That’s precisely it. It doesn’t matter what they believe, it’s what Cheng believes that matters.’
Luc took a sip of the kavamilch before he continued. He could feel it slowly work its tendrils into his brain, waking him up and clearing his thoughts, even dulling the pain a little.
‘I need your help,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is you did to help me before, it isn’t working anymore. The pain’s getting worse. And there’ve been more . . . hallucinations, or dreams, or whatever the hell they are.’
‘I told you I’d do what I could,’ she said tiredly. ‘You’ll be back on Vanaheim soon enough.’
‘In person this time?’
‘You’ll have to be, if we’re going to get you together with Ambassador Sachs.’
‘You need to take a look at me first,’ he said. ‘I mean it, Miss de Almeida – Zelia. I’m no good to you if—’
‘Don’t try and pressure me,’ she snapped, her eyes hard. ‘Do you really think I don’t know that?’
Luc bit back a retort. He studied her face, the way her nostrils flared and the tightness of her mouth. She was a lot more scared than she was ever likely to admit.
‘They’ve really got you backed into a corner, haven’t they?’ he said quietly.
Her nostrils flared again. ‘I’m not interested in your unwarranted speculation. I’m only interested in your obedience.’
Luc shook his head and laughed wearily. ‘Fuck you.’
Her hands clutched into claws, as if she meant to rip out his eyes. ‘I won’t abide this . . .’
‘Abide what?’ He was tired of her threats, her dismissive manner.
Somehow she managed to hold her temper in check. ‘You want to test me, don’t you? See how far you can push me.’
‘Who else do you have that could help you, Zelia? My guess is Cripps is watching every move you make, which is why you need me to be your errand-boy on Vanaheim. That’s how it is, isn’t it?’
At that, she got a wild look in her eyes like she might attack him. Luc tensed, briefly forgetting she was only present in the form of a projection, her physical body far away on Vanaheim. After a moment she seemed to remember this herself, and shook her head, looking sad and sorry for herself.