The Thousand Emperors

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. ‘F*ck 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.
‘I know I need your cooperation,’ she said, her voice thick, ‘as much as you need my help. I suppose it’s obvious enough to you that I’m not in the best place just now, politically speaking.’
He thought of all the long years he had worked for Security and Intelligence. He had never pretended bad things didn’t happen under the Council’s rule, but he’d always believed the long-term stability they’d brought to the Tian Di made them the least of all possible evils.
Or so he’d told himself. After what he’d seen over the past several days, he wasn’t so sure what he believed any more.
‘Maybe we should get back to why Vasili was killed in the first place,’ he said carefully. ‘We keep circling around Reunification as a possible motive, given that there’s no lack of opposition to it, even now. Can Reunification go ahead without him around?’
She thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘That brings me to something I wondered about,’ she said. ‘If Vasili’s death was intended as an act of sabotage against Reunification, it’s a stunningly inept one. Why kill him, instead of targeting the transfer gate linking us to the Coalition itself ?’
‘Can that gate be harmed? Is it possible it could come under attack?’
‘Not when it’s as heavily defended as it is, no. It’s secure in orbit, and it’s probably going to stay there until the Council finally decides it’s safe to bring it down to Temur’s surface.’
‘Then maybe,’ he said, ‘we’re not looking at sabotage. Maybe the real reason for his murder has nothing to do with Reunification.’
‘It’s still all speculation until we have something more tangible to lead us in the right direction,’ she said, meeting his eyes. ‘I want you to get ready to leave for the White Palace this evening. It’s risky, but I’ve arranged your passage through the Hall of Gates.’
His hands gripped the half-empty glass of kavamilch. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be safer for me to just data-ghost there until the heat’s off you?’
She shook her head firmly. ‘Not with the level of surveillance I’m under following Cheng’s inquest, no. Right now it’s actually less of a risk to smuggle you there in person.’
He squinted, not sure how much he could believe that. ‘If data-ghosting is that dangerous, surely you’re taking a severe risk even just by being here in my apartment?’
‘And you wonder why I’m tense,’ she replied, managing a semblance of a smile. ‘I’ve arranged for you to meet one of my own mechants beneath the White Palace, tonight, ten hours from now. I’ve prepared a cover story for you. In the event you’re challenged on your way into the White Palace, you’re there on my behalf to check on some private records.’
‘And then?’
‘And then my mechant will transport you to Vanaheim.’
You say it like it’s going to be easy.
And with that, she was gone, as abruptly as she had appeared. Long goodbyes clearly weren’t part of her repertoire.

By the time Luc reached Chandrakant Lu Park later that evening, shadowed by the vast bulk of the White Palace, night had fallen, the trees and paths lit by the soft glow of the park’s arc lights. A mechant came towards him as he approached the edge of the park, then guided him towards a flier parked a short walk away. Less than fifteen minutes later he was back inside the Palace, on his way to the Hall of Gates.
He saw no other living souls, only more mechants with liveries indicating whichever department or individual they were assigned to. He could only assume it was some act of technological sleight of hand on de Almeida’s part that prevented those other mechants from challenging him.
It hit him then how easy it was to imagine Reto Falla, or someone like him, making his way from his slum apartment and all the way through the transfer gates with the help of some murderous Councillor. If he hadn’t already known Falla, he might even have believed it.
Instead of ascending all the way towards the Hall of Gates, however, he was instead guided through a library area – all tasteful lighting, low couches and dedicated mechants – then through a door so low he had to stoop to pass through it, indicating it had been designed with machines rather than humans in mind. He found himself inside a cargo area filled with crates presumably waiting to be shipped to Vanaheim.
The mechant guided him to a small side-room containing only a single heavy-duty plastic crate.
‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded in a low whisper.
The mechant drifted past him, using its long mechanical arms and whip-like manipulators to lift the lid off the crate. Looking inside, Luc saw it contained only a seat and harness.
‘Miss de Almeida considers this the safest way to transport you through the transfer gate,’ the mechant replied. ‘Do you have an objection?’
‘You’re f*cking kidding me,’ he said, staring back at the mechant.
The machine didn’t reply, and Luc cursed softly under his breath. Then he heard the murmur of voices from somewhere nearby and quickly climbed inside.
The mechant drifted forward once more and secured the lid on the crate as soon as Luc had fitted himself into the harness. The seat itself was held within a rigid frame that filled the crate’s interior.
A dim yellow light came on as the mechant closed the lid over him, and Luc felt a rush of claustrophobia.
A moment later he felt the crate rock, then lift up, swaying slightly. Time passed – at least twenty minutes – and then he found himself under powerful acceleration. It wasn’t hard to guess he’d been loaded on board another flier, presumably one on Vanaheim.
No, not just a flier, he realized, as he heard a dull roar build up beyond the confines of the crate; a sub-orbital. For some reason, he was on his way into orbit.
By the time the mechant unsealed the crate once more, he was in free-fall.