He reached out and brushed the delicate, dew-touched petals of a bloodred rose with his gloved fingers, watching the pearled drops fall. It was all one great ballet—a cosmic dance, governed by immutable laws, and he the key, the focus of it all. He saw how it all worked, how it could be shaped and used. And yet some part of him held back— some dark and quiet part of him refused to use that knowledge.
He expelled a long, slow breath, then looked about him, as if seeing it all for the first time. Thus far he had but scratched the surface of the real. SimFic had asked and he had answered. But their questions had been small and insignificant . . . unimaginative. It was as if they couldn't see the possibilities, whereas he ...
He frowned, not liking the shape of his thoughts. Yet it was necessary to face the truth. Intellectually he was their superior. That made him no better than they—not in simple human terms—but it did make him different, and he was convinced that that difference had been granted him for a reason. The twists and turns of his existence—his very survival—all of it meant something. He had been raised up from the darkness for a purpose, and now it was time, perhaps, to discover just what that purpose was—to ask himself the big questions, the questions that only he could frame.
He crossed the room and stood before the long metal cabinet that was attached to the wall. Taking a long-stemmed key from the belt of his suit he fitted it into the lock and turned it twice. There was a moment's delay and then a series of tiny metal doors in the side of the cabinet clicked open.
Kim stood back, watching the insects tumble out in a spill of darkness. They were freshly fashioned, their neutered forms made for a single purpose—to be eaten by his spiders. It was a disturbing thought. Like so much else he had created they were little more than toys— distractions from the real business of life.
He watched them flap and whirr and scuttle and felt his inner self curl up in aversion.
They moved, yet they were dead.
"Kim?"
He looked up at the camera lens overhead. "Yes?"
"Curval wants to speak with you about the new figures."
"Tell him I'll be with him in a while."
He looked down. The real reason he had come here this morning was to see if he could focus himself for long enough to make a decision about whether he should stay with SimFic in some capacity or go his own way. But, as ever, there were too many things to be attended to, to allow him time to think it through properly. The decision would be of the moment. They would ask, he would reach inside himself and . . . well, it would be there, on his tongue. Until then he didn't know.
He retraced his steps. As the door hissed closed behind him and a faint mist enveloped him, one final thought came to him.
Does she still think of me? Does she even remember me?
JELKA HAD HEARD her father shouting, had heard the commotion in the entrance hall as the two men left, but it was an hour before he emerged from his rooms, wearing his Marshal's uniform, his face composed as if nothing had happened.
She greeted him in the atrium at the front of the Mansion, walking around him to inspect him, just as she'd done to the boy. It was unnecessary, of course—Steward Lo would never have let him leave his rooms unless he were immaculate—but it had become almost a ritual between them.
"Welir-fee asked.
She touched his arm. "You look very smart, Father. It's not often you wear full dress uniform these days. What's the occasion?"
"I . . ." He looked down at his wrist timer, then shook his head. "Gods! Is that the time? Look, sweetheart, I have to go. I'm late already."
She kissed his cheek. "Go on. Hurry now. I'll see you when you get back."
He smiled. "Look after Pauli, neh?"
She nodded, then sighed, watching him disappear through the open doorway, but a moment later he was back, smiling apologetically.
"I almost forgot. The final guest list for the party . . . it's on my desk. If you'd check it to make sure we've not left anyone out."
"I'll make a start on it at once."
He returned her smile. "Good."
She watched him go, then turned, gazing down the hallway toward the big picture window at the end with its view of the gardens at the center of the Mansion, then shook her head. How she hated this place. Five years she had lived here now, and still she felt like an intruder. Not that she had ever liked this house, with its dark walls and its heavy furnishings, its monumental statuary and its thick, oppressive tapestries. No. The ghosts of the Ebert family still presided here and their fleshy imprint lay on everything. This was their place, like the lair of some strange, half-furred, feral creatures. And for her there was the further memory of her betrothal to the son of the house, Hans.
Jelka shuddered. It had been there, in the Great Hall, just to the right of where she stood. She walked across, then stopped in the doorway, looking in. Nothing had changed. The jet-black tiles gleamed with polish, while between squat red pillars, on lush green walls that reminded her of primal forests, hung the same huge canvases of ancient hunts that had hung there on the day she'd been betrothed to him.
She closed her eyes, remembering. In the half-dark, the machine had floated toward her like a giant bloated egg, silent, two brutish GenSyn giants guiding it. Its outer surface had been like smoked glass, but a tightly focused circle of light directly beneath it had glimmered like a living presence in the depths of the floor. She had stood there as in a dream, rooted with fear, watching it come, like Fate, implacable and unavoidable.
She made a small movement of her head, surprised by the vividness of the memory. So much had happened since that day—so many had died or been betrayed—and yet she, Jelka Tolonen, had survived. She had danced her way to life.
Turning, she noticed that the door to her father's study was open. Steward Lo was inside, tidying up after his master.
Looking up, Lo saw her. "Nu Shi . . ."
She went across, looking about her as Lo finished his chores. Even here there was little sign of her father. He had changed nothing. Bookshelves filled three walls, but those had been there before he'd come and the leather-bound books that lined them had been undisturbed for twenty, maybe thirty years, the Ebert crest stamped into the title page of every one. Only the personal items on the big oak desk that filled the far corner of the room were her father's.
She went across and began searching for the list. There were letters from old friends and bulky files with the S-within-G logo of GenSyn stamped into their bright blue covers, a note from General Rheinhardt about the next Security Council meeting, and her father's desk diary, open at today's page. She searched a moment longer, surprised to find nothing, then stopped, her eyes caught by the final entry in the diary.
She shook her head, then read it once again. No, she hadn't been mistaken: there it was, in his own handwriting: SimFic Labs with Li Yuan. 12 p.m. Kim Ward and Work-in-Progress.
He hadn't told her. He hadn't told her!
She eased back, an unfocused anger gripping her, then, clenching both her fists, she called for inner calm. Slowly, very slowly, it came to her.
So ... it was still going on. Seven years—seven long years he had kept this up. But now it had to stop.
She let out a long breath, then looked across the study. Steward Lo was watching her.
"Are you all right, Nu Shi?"
She let her voice project her inner calm. "I'm fine, Steward Lo. It's just that my father said he'd left a list ... a guest list for my Coming-of-Age party."
"Ah . . ." Lo came across and, with a bow to her, reached past her and took a slender file from among the GenSyn papers.
"Here," he said, dusting it off and handing it to her, bowing again. "It is not long now, neh, Nu Shi?"