No big deal.
Nazarin appears on my right. I’m waiting for him beneath the pillar of the Dewey Memorial. Far above him, the young woman balances on one toe, holding her wreath and trident.
He pauses. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” He saw me leave with my coat, but I have it unbuttoned in the warm evening. I must have tried on all the clothes I’d taken from Tila’s place three times before I decided on an outfit. In the end I chose a form-fitting silver zip-up catsuit that covers me from neck to wrists to built-in heels. According to Tila’s notes, I’m meant to attract attention at these things. Here’s hoping no one misses me, looking like a human-shaped disco ball from space.
“Have you ever been here before?” I ask, jerking my head in the direction of the Xanadu.
“No.”
“And you think both the King and Queen will be there?”
“They’re meant to be.”
Ensi is the named leader of the Ratel, but if the chess analogy is to be carried on, the Queen is the most important player. She’s the one who does the dirty work and takes out the other pieces, if need be. I recall Tila’s sketch of her, the beautiful woman with long dark hair, a sardonic smile and a cruel glint to her eye.
“OK,” Nazarin says. “It’s nearly time.”
“Right.”
He reaches out and grips my shoulder. “We’re in this together. You’ve prepared for this as much as you can. You can do this.”
“You have more faith in me than I do.”
A short smile. “I have no doubt you can do this. You’re tough as nails.”
His words hearten me, as they are meant to. I watch him walk away, counting in my head.
Then I follow him, my silver heels clicking along the sidewalk.
It doesn’t take long to arrive at the gates. The whole block used to be high-end stores, but now it is all a private residence. I didn’t know this before the SFPD told me in the brainload. The average civilian wouldn’t. Distribution of wealth isn’t as uneven as before the Great Upheaval. Most people make enough to live comfortably, poverty is erased in all but the worst of the Zealots, and though citizens can order vast amounts of goods from the replicator, all can be recycled back. There are still obscenely wealthy people in this city but they tend to keep a lower profile than, say, those in Hollywood, where status and ranking have more pull. Having far, far more money than you need is seen as wasteful.
Nazarin walks through the gates. I approach a minute later, projecting Tila’s invitation from my ocular implant onto a little wallscreen to the left. The door opens with a snick, and I walk in.
In front of us is the large, faux brick building, now made of bomb-proof, acid-proof material. We walk through to the second gate, a replica of the original Art Deco iron arched gate, topped by four rings of brick. Like many buildings, it was destroyed in the Great Quake and rebuilt to be larger than the previous plans. The original building was a store, and now it is a mansion.
Nazarin—no, Skel, he is Skel now—lingers enough that we almost walk into the darkened tunnel at the same time. He does not turn back or acknowledge me, but I’m thankful for his nearness.
I take a steadying breath. I am about to enter the same building as the Ratel King and Queen. It’s what I’ve prepared for. I am now, for all intents and purposes, my sister: a lucid dreamer for a Verve lounge for the biggest mob in the city. None of it seems real. I can’t really be doing this. Still, I place one foot in front of the other, moving closer to whatever is to come.
The tunnel fills with soft lights of green, blue, and purple, and a light fog drifts at waist height, scented with lilacs.
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree,” I whisper.
Nazarin stiffens and almost turns back in confusion. I guess he’s never read Coleridge.
We enter, still staggered, and the droids take our coats. I shed that outer layer like a carapace, wearing only my silver, shining second skin. Nazarin passes over his gun. No weapons at parties. Nazarin’s eyes slide over me, but I ignore him, staring upward, unable to stop myself from gaping.