A Game of Universe (26 page)

That was a confusing time, after I killed Abaris, and after I absorbed Fifty-five in the sewers. He guided me through that first year, through the classes he had taken, and through the instruction of weapons and martial arts he already knew. I easily advanced, graduated second in my class, and became a full cadet. He never told me that I’d have to kill my classmates to become a ranked assassin. Thrice in that second year, within the first month, I had been targeted. Fifty-five had to do the first two, and the third one was self- defense.

Self-defense my ass,
Fifty-five said.
You did it better than I could have.

The first time I was poisoned. An amateur job, that left me sick instead of dead. Fifty-five traced which of my classmates bribed the cook, and poisoned his shaving kit, the foam and the razor, with a paralyzing substance. His face I recalled in detail—every hair on his head—because Fifty-five made me watch as he severed it.

The second time: a bomb under my mattress in the dormitories. Fifty-five taught me never to sleep there. To return the favor, we tampered with the fellow’s cigarettes. A tiny dollop of explosive in one, just enough to remove a few centimeters of flesh, did the trick. He lived for an hour, bleeding to death, plenty of time for Fifty-five to savor his passing.

And the last of my first semester tests, she came the closest, stabbed me twice before I shot her. Not a clean kill by any measure, but I counted myself lucky to be alive, for she was a master with the blade. From her, I learned the delicate dances of metal, my knife-fighting skills. She was Medea.

All illegal kills,
Medea remarked.
Cadets aren’t allowed poisons, explosives, and especially not powered weapons.

So we bent a few rules,
Fifty-five replied.
If you did the same you’d be alive, too.

A green star flashed into my eyes; the desk found him. A familiar face and obituary popped up. His name was Cassius, ranked thirty-first. He had one hundred three assignments to his credit. I scrolled through his dossier and saw no mention of the Bren or the Grail, but I did spot a black mark for suspicion of private contracting—the same thing I had been sent to investigate Omar for. Umbra Corp frowned upon its members taking outside jobs. It usually meant there was a fortune involved, enough to risk the Board of Directors’ wrath. There was no mention of who hired him or for what reason. The investigation ended when Cassius died.

Private contract or not, the Corporation always got its fair share. Cassius died without a will and with no family listed in his personal database. The policy in cases like this was to hold all assets and personal effects for a century. If any relatives showed up, they could legally claim his estate. Otherwise it became the Corp’s property. Funny thing about this policy is that I never heard of any relative demanding their inheritance.

I made a note in my business journal to update my will.

His belongings would be in storage then, in Golgotha, the black pyramid. If the Grail was anywhere it had to be there. No guarantee it was. It was just as probable that Cassius sold it off before he died or tossed the thing in the trash.

Just go there and see,
the gambler said.

It’s not going to be that easy. Golgotha is protected.
There were many who would like nothing more than to get their hands on an assassin’s remains, summon his spirit, and torture it—for information, or for revenge, or for both. I’d need the architectural plans and a schematic of the security system. I’d need Quilp to disable them for me.

Stealing from Umbra Corp filled me with apprehension. The punishment wouldn’t be death if I was caught, it would be a trip to the top of that pyramid, the place they reserved for traitors, and a thousand years of torture.

Is that where Cassius ended his career? With a blink, I jumped to the end of his file to examine his death certificate. No, he had been cremated and entombed with all the honors due his rank. The cause of death caught my eyes, however; it read: unknown, pending investigation.

Still under investigation? After half a century?

I switched to the medical database and located his record. Two days before he died, Cassius checked himself into the hospital complaining of weakness and thirst. They performed tests for toxins, diseases, parasites, and spirits. A faint energetic residue was the only thing discovered, but nothing malignant. A day before his death, Cassius fell and broke both wrists and his left hip. Six hours later, while in bed, both his legs splintered for no apparent reason. The doctors tried to fuse the bones and failed. He died ten minutes later, in excruciating pain.

I scrolled ahead to the autopsy.

There was nothing to account for this erosion of bone, only a high level of sodium in his blood—thousands of times higher than normal. That explained his thirst. And when they cut him open, there were no bones. There was a picture in the file of Cassius’s flat body. It looked as if he had been crushed, his head spread out on the table, deflated, features unrecognizable. I severed contact, blocked the display’s beam of light with my hand and suddenly felt thirsty.

Was the Grail cursed? Take it from its rightful owner and die? No. Osrick had no memories of such a thing. Whatever powers the Grail held had to be invoked. So what happened to Cassius?

My bedroom door opened and the princess strode out.

She was no longer in white but had confiscated a shadow skin of mine and a pair of self-fitting sensor gloves. The unnaturally dark cloth hung loose on her delicate frame. To compensate she had tucked in the excess and rolled up the cuffs. The only thing that remained of her wedding apparel was the silver belt. Against the black it shone brighter than before, and I noticed for the first time faint runes etched upon it:
Imprisonment, Infinity,
and
Stasis.
Did it contain a guardian like the stone her father had used?

The part of my mind that was Osrick had no reaction; indeed, she seemed a different woman to him. I, however, found her desirable. Her dark hair and midnight blue skin matched the shadows. She looked like she belonged here.

Be careful,
the psychologist said.
This is a classic displacement of emotions: the affections for your former pilot onto this girl.

She stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, and asked, “Is this attire appropriate for your world?” The tone of her voice was even. You’d never guess she had been screaming at me.

“Appropriate is not the word,” I answered. “You have dressed as a native would, as a cadet at this school might. It is perfect.”

She smiled for a second, caught herself, then cooled her expression back to chiseled stone.

I said, “I’d like to apologize for—”

“There is no need. You were correct. I have no idea of where I am or the danger of our situation. I have no wish to lessen our chances of obtaining the Cup of Regulus, the Grail, as you call it, by attracting the attentions of your enemies.”

A memory of Osrick’s surfaced, a kiss two centuries old.

Lilian spoke thusly to me before. We walked arm in arm through the rose gardens of Castle Kenobrac. It was there that I stole a kiss from her.

“If I have gone too far, my lady,” I begged her, and sank to one knee, “I am sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize,” she replied, then cradled my face in her hands and returned the token of my affection thrice, once on each cheek, the last on my lips.

The recollection faded as quickly as it had come.

“You must be starved,” I said. “Can I offer you something to eat?”

“Yes, please, my husband.” She placed one hand on her stomach. “Since the ghost of Osrick was vanquished and his curse on the castle dispelled, the need for food has returned in full.”

What did one feed a person who hadn’t eaten for two centuries? I summoned the menu to my desk and ordered. Four peanut butter, strawberry jam, and banana sandwiches appeared, cut into quarters. This ancient recipe nourished me almost exclusively during my training years, and occasionally I still ate the sticky delicacy, for it was the perfect balance of sugars and carbohydrates and protein.

I returned with two bone china plates, spread a lace napkin on her lap, and presented the food with a flourish.

She thanked me, examined the sandwich, then asked, “Are there really no princesses left in the world?”

“You are the last of your kind,” I lied. To tell her the truth might turn her against me. I had confessed I was no prince, and for some reason I wanted her to like me.

“Then I do not expect you to treat me as such.” She picked up a quarter sandwich and took a tiny bite. Her eyes widened and she devoured the rest, taking care not to let the jam ooze onto her gloves.

“I may have found the location of the Cup of Regulus,” I told her.

She wiped her mouth with the corner of the napkin and came to the desk.

“The man who came to the castle before me, the one who stole from Osrick’s tomb, he returned here and died. He is in the Corporation’s mausoleum. The Cup of Regulus may be there as well.”

Fifty-five said,
What are you going to do with this wife of yours when you find the Grail? Once she knows it’s not for her, and that you plan to sell it to Erybus, you’re going to have to get rid of her. Better to do it now while she trusts you. It’ll be easier.

“This villain and you belong to the same knightly order?” she inquired.

“It’s not exactly an order of knights, but yes, we did belong to the same school.” She frowned at this. I continued before any other questions came, “His death was most peculiar.”

The princess came close to see what I stared at. I should have warned her the display would sense her presence and project the image of a half-dissected boneless man into her

eyes.

She gasped. “This is wondrous.”

“Wondrous?”

“That you may conjure the images of the past. You must be a mighty sorcerer. I can see the wretch before me as if he were solid, yet my hand passes through this phantasm.”

Curious. She wasn’t repulsed by the grisly picture. She was fascinated by it.

“It’s not magic,” I explained. “The desk takes a piece of light and sends it directly into your eyes. See?” I moved my hand back and forth between her and the desk. She blinked as the virtual image vanished, then reappeared. “It is only a machine. You can read the details of his death by concentrating on the icon in the corner of your vision.”

She did so, and got the technique correct the first time.

“The language is foreign to me. This is your native written language?”

“No, it is a code language. The Corporation uses it to keep its records.” To the desk I ordered, “Decrypt text to standard please.”

“No,” she said, “that will not be necessary.” She closed her eyes and moved three fingers on her left hand. A shower of orange sparks appeared above her head. They fell as water might, not singeing a hair, then faded. “Now I may read your words.”

Of course, she was a sorceress. I had forgotten.

“Oh, this,” she said and laughed. Her laughter was like her mother’s, like little bells tinkling. “Yes, I know of this one’s death. It was I who killed him.”

18

“Y
ou killed him?”

“I could never allow the scoundrel’s misdeeds to go unpunished,” she said.

I touched the desk, summoning two mugs of cocoa to wash those sandwiches down.

The princess took one, sipped it, paused to watch the steam curling up, then looked at me. “I thought he would help. He promised me. I thought …” She focused again on the steam, embarrassed. “When I learned of Osrick’s defiled grave, I had no choice but to avenge his honor.”

“Osrick’s honor? You care about his honor after what he put you and your people through?”

“Before he found the Cup of Regulus, Osrick and I we were friends. I told him my fears and my ambitions. He risked his life to save me, before the madness took him.” She thought about this a moment, then a slight smile crept into the corners of her mouth. “You are not jealous I hope. I would have done the same for any of my loyal subjects.”

I wasn’t jealous. Osrick delighted in her words, how she cared for him, and how she avenged his honor. Me, I was worried. If she murdered Cassius because he went back on his promise to her, what would she do to me when I sold the Grail?

So ice her now,
whispered Fifty-five.
Poison her drink. She’ll never know.

“The thief died two days after he left your world,” I said, directing our conversation back to Cassius. “How?”

Snakes have the kind of stare she gave me, black and blank, unblinking, and full of unfathomable secrets. She regarded me thusly, and whispered, “I thought you would have known that. My mother said you are a great wizard, and the magic that brought us here, that was no amateur’s incantation. Certainly you know I cursed the villain.”

“Of course, I knew. I only wanted to hear the story of how it happened.”

Her reptilian gaze softened. “As you wish, my husband.” She took another sip of cocoa, which left a faint ring of chocolate around her lips, then explained, “When this thief absconded with the Cup of Regulus, he underestimated our magical prowess. He left for us three hairs upon his pillow. These I mixed with foxglove and wove a curse to find him regardless of time and distance.”

I crossed my arms and nodded. I hadn’t the faintest idea of how such things worked.

“I know a dozen vexations of this type,” she told me. “By studying them, I hoped to find a key to my own curse. Alas, it was futile. It can be frustrating to know so many powerful rituals, yet never use them. I could hardly use the dark magics upon my own subjects, so you see, I am grateful, in a way, to this thief. He gave me an opportunity to test my sorcery.”

The first unraveling of any mnemonic was tricky. I knew how she felt; the entire thing might fade from her mind, then she’d have to learn it all over. Years of study lost. Only she didn’t lose it, and she had dozens of such curses waiting to be tested.

Fifty-five said,
Listen to me. She’s too dangerous to keep around.

Osrick stirred, uneasy with this suggestion.

Sure,
I said to Fifty-five,
we’ll let Sir Osrick out of the bottle. That’s all we need is his knightly honor getting in the way. We have enough troubles. Let’s just keep her happy for one more day.

It’s an unnecessary risk. All our necks are on the line here, junior.

“This particular bewitchment was insidious,” she said. “It transformed the rogue’s bones into salt.”

I swallowed my cocoa too fast, scalding my throat. Bone into salt?

“There is a substance in bone that imparts strength,” she explained, apparently unaware of my surprise. “It is the same material that forms the stone of our caves.”

Calcium. Calcium in bone, and calcium carbonate, limestone, that’s what she meant.

“This substance I changed into a metal, one that has a shiny surface which dulls quickly, and reacts as phosphor does with waterous elements.”

That had to be sodium. With a flick of my eyes, I summoned a periodic chart on the display. Calcium had twenty protons, neutrons, and electrons, while sodium had a matched set of eleven. If she changed one into the other, then where did the extra nine protons, neutrons, and electrons go?

“There is also a gaseous matter that gives life to blood,” she continued, “even life to fire. This I changed into a gas that has no life, one that causes death.”

Life in blood? A gas? Oxygen. If those nine extra protons and neutrons were fused to the nuclear core of an oxygen atom, then—my eyes counted across the chart and landed on chlorine. She transmuted calcium into sodium and oxygen into chlorine, sodium chloride, salt. No wonder Cassius was thirsty. No wonder his bones broke and dissolved. Where did the princess get that kind of power? Ripping apart and fusing atoms, that kind of energy only occurred naturally in stars.

She leaned forward to reestablish her link with the display. “I assume from the autopsy,” she said
autopsy
slowly and carefully, “that the villain died in great agony.” She then leaned back and appeared quite proud of herself.

“You are patient to listen to me, my husband, droning on about my trivial magic.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but my body betrayed me and instead I yawned.

“And,” she added, “you are on the verge of exhaustion. After your battle with the ghost of Osrick, and the magic you released to transport us, you must be sorely taxed. You crave rest.”

How long had it been since I slept? After I escaped Osrick’s tomb, I collapsed. Before that, I rested between Delphid and the Bren’s world. Eight hours, maybe, in the last fifty. My hands trembled slightly. I’d need stimulants to stay awake and alert.

On the other hand, there was nothing I could do until Quilp arrived. I couldn’t steal the architectural plans without his help. And without those plans, I’d never circumvent the Corporation’s security. Oh, I might be able to—I was good at that sort of thing—but I only had one shot at this. It had to be perfect.

I yawned again, then said, “You are wise, Princess Lilian. I shall rest, but only if you promise to wake me when my squire arrives. His name is Quilp.”

“Of course, my husband. And please, omit my title henceforth. Simply address me as Lily.”

“And call me Germain.”

She smiled and looked lovely to both Osrick and myself. What was I going to do with her? Fifty-five and Celeste had their usual predictable responses, murder and sex, but somewhere in between those two options had to be a third. “Perhaps you would like to learn more of this world while I rest?” I asked.

“You said it would be dangerous to venture forth.”

“It is, but there is a way to see this world and remain here. I shall show you how to operate my desk.”

I moved my terminal through three stealth nodes, for which I paid an exorbitant amount to preserve my privacy when I was on Earth. Then, I set the desk into a tutorial mode, and had Lily sit with me. First, I showed her how to operate the summoning pad in case she got hungry or thirsty. Then, I demonstrated how to connect to other nodes, the virtual arcades and the information nets, and how to direct the system with her eyes and mind alone. She never once asked a question. She just sat and absorbed. When I let her loose to explore, she found the Atherweb node and immediately connected to the universe of information that lay beyond.

Confident that she would be occupied for hours, I left her to wander the infinite computer-generated realms of data.

Three steps I took before she said, “Germain?”

I turned.

“I would like to thank you for your courtesy. You have risked your life to save mine. I know my mother somehow persuaded you, and I would like to apologize.”

I wanted to reassure her, but I kept silent and nodded. I would speak no more lies. The Grail was not for her. She was to remain cursed forever, and it would be my fault. I’d have to live with Osrick’s remorse. I’d have to live with my remorse, too.

I shuffled into the bedroom, dimmed the lights, and fell into bed without removing my boots. The sandwiches and warm cocoa settled in my stomach and drew the blood from my brain. I submerged into a dead sleep.

You’re taking a nap?
Fifty-five asked.
All she needs is few hairs from you and we’ll be a pillar of salt before the sun sets!

I knew, but I was already gone.

A fish swam through the waters of my dream; a silver ring traced its snout, three diaphanous fins trailed behind it, and stars scattered in its wake. But as dreams tend to do, this one drifted smoothly into another, one that had nothing to do with water or fish or stars. It was my second year at Umbra Corp academy, and I sat in my favorite desk, absentmindedly doodling a cursive X on my disposable, while I ignored a lecture on galactic politics. Fifty-five had heard this all before.

Professor Finiginn scratched his nose and spoke with no particular enthusiasm: “The number of empires and conglomerates that rule the galaxy continuously fluctuates. It can be said with confidence, however, that all self-ruling systems are inherently unstable. A mean half-life of three hundred and fifty-two years is generally accepted as …”

It was hideously dull, so I let my eyes wander and found something better to watch, a girl.

She walked in late, walked with a fluid motion, confident, precise, controlled, even her hair moved with flourish, not a strand out of place—long, and the color of chocolate. Her gray cadet’s fatigues had been custom tailored. The uniform fit her curves snugly. She was the only person I had ever seen who looked good in one.

Professor Finiginn usually stopped his lecture at this point to glare at such latecomers, but he merely smiled at her and continued. She settled into a seat two rows in front of me, brushed half her hair behind one ear, and began recording on her disposable. Every man in the class would have killed to be with her. If any of the rumors were true, some had. Her name was Medea.

She planned to murder tonight. I knew this because her memories were mine—some of them anyway. Portions of her psyche held an unquenchable rage that burned so brightly even the psychologist could not discern what smoldered in its core. Something about her father, he told me. For that, she had my sympathy.

Medea was with me, recalling the events of that evening. My sense of self shifted; my thoughts spilled into hers. I wore her flesh, watched through her eyes, listened through her ears, and dreamt
her
dream.

All those stares upon her, wishful indulgences, they exerted a pressure as they probed the length of her body. She welcomed their looks. It gave her power over the young hormone-driven boys.

Already this semester she had killed her prerequisite classmates, but she wanted the staff to be thoroughly impressed by her. She wanted them to fear her. There was one who sat two rows back who deserved her special attention. He was young to be here, but if the stories were true, he had killed twice in as many weeks. She didn’t like that kind of competition.

Medea looked back to him once during the lecture, but he quickly averted his eyes and pretended he hadn’t seen her. After the lecture, she waited for him to pass, sprung her trap, and said, “I found your question on kleptocracies intriguing; actually, it’s one of the things I’ve never really understood. Do you think you could explain it to me? Maybe over a drink? I’ll buy.”

He almost dropped his disposable. “Sure,” he blurted.

The first hook was in. All she had to do was play him out then reel him in. Too bad; in a few years, he’d almost be cute.

It was late, so they walked to a nearby coffeehouse,
The Blue Bean.
Over iced Irish coffees he revealed much of his past to her—too much in exchange for the lies she told him. He told her he was a muse, perhaps to impress her. It was a mistake. Now she
had
to eliminate him. Allowing anyone with his potential to graduate would be disastrous. In two years they’d both be ranked. They’d be competing against one another.

More pleasant conversation, a minor amount of flirting, then she suggested, “Why don’t we go for a walk through the park? The moon is full, and it’s too warm to turn in just yet.”

He agreed, gulped down the rest of his drink, then gave her his arm. He had strong muscles, which surprised her because she thought all muses and psychologists were weaklings. She’d have to figure that into her attack.

A stroll through the moonlight, across the lawns wet with dew, then, to throw him off guard, she stopped and drew close to him. He didn’t get the hint, so she kissed him. He returned the affection, awkward, but refreshing. This continued until his body was on top of hers in the wet grass. She inched her calf along his thigh, moaned to make him think his embrace interested her, then when her boot was within arm’s reach, she removed the slender blade concealed there, and stabbed him.

The knife glanced off his fourth rib, entered under it, rather than over it, and pierced the lung instead of his heart. His reactions were excellent. He twisted away fast, got up, and cried, “What? Why? I thought you—”

She rolled to her feet, laughing, and danced in.

He tried to grab her—got a handful of moonlit razor.

She might have killed him then, but she wanted to play a bit first before finishing him. The boy wheezed and blood bubbled from his lips. His lung had surely collapsed. He held one hand low, closed in a fist, and the other was level with her eyes, open, in a martial arts defense she recognized as the hooded snake. His form was good, calm like an older man’s.

She attacked. A high feint, which he fell for, then a slash down scoring a deep cut on his right leg. He was slow. On the reverse stroke, she slashed his left thigh, then backed off.

Now she had the scent of blood. Her adrenaline doubled and pulse raced! The delicious taste of the kill. A smile crept across her face. She edged in.

The boy took an offensive stance: his knees slightly bent, and his arms spread wide. She led with her free right hand, which he grabbed exactly as she thought he might. She let him catch her. Her left hand followed, sliced the arm that restrained hers. She cut him to the bone.

He let go, fell backwards before she trimmed him again.

She stood over him, her blood pounding and eager to finish. The fire in her mind was a blast furnace, and somewhere from those flames a memory boiled to the surface: a group of men that stood over her and laughed. She hesitated.