The Thousand Emperors (21 page)
Luc saw some heads towards the front of the auditorium had turned away from the latest eulogy, and were keenly watching Borges’s confrontation with de Almeida instead.
She stood. ‘You’re suggesting I killed Vasili, and I should do the same to Javier. Is that it?’
Borges’s grin grew wider, his voice slightly louder, easily carrying across the auditorium. ‘It’s not like everybody doesn’t already think you did it. But if something
were
to happen to Javier, then it might help tip the balance in your favour a little.’
De Almeida stared at him with undisguised loathing. ‘Am I on trial?’ she demanded.
‘All I’m saying,’ Borges continued, ‘is that were you to allow the security on Javier’s prison to slip at the right time and place, there are a few people who might
be prepared to take care of Javier the way you took care of Sevgeny.’
‘Would you be the one who pulled the trigger, Ruy?’ A cold smile twitched the corners of her mouth. ‘No, of course not. You just like to make speeches and threaten people. And
let’s be clear on this: the one thing I
don’t
control is the security cordon around Javier’s prison. You know that just as well as I do. The Sandoz handle it under
Joe’s direct supervision.’
Ruy’s hands twisted at his sides. ‘You know I’m not the only one who wants nothing to do with that
thing
masquerading as a human being,’ he spat, stabbing one
finger in the direction of the masked Ambassador. ‘Joe’s hand is being forced when it comes to Reunification. He doesn’t say it, at least not to anyone outside of the Eighty-Five
– but we all know it. Something’s going on that we aren’t being told about.’
Zelia’s expression became incredulous. ‘What the hell does Javier have to do with any of that?’
‘Because that’s what Javier’s always wanted, isn’t it?’ Borges’s voice was rising again, and even the woman delivering her eulogy had paused to listen.
‘To expose us to those . . . those monsters in the Coalition.’
Luc glanced towards the Ambassador, wondering how he felt about being described in such terms.
De Almeida waved one hand in dismissal. ‘You’re a fantasist, Ruy. Show some respect for Sevgeny’s memory and sit the hell back down.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Luc saw Cripps moving rapidly up the steps towards them.
‘
Somebody
has to say it,’ Borges spat. ‘Those people in the Coalition have all been changed by the Founder Network. For God’s sake, Zelia,’ he continued, a
pleading tone creeping into his voice now, ‘how can we possibly know there’s anybody left alive on Darwin who’s truly human anymore, even in all of the Coalition? How do we know
they weren’t compromised, even replaced by whatever it is that’s lurking in the Network?’
‘Stop this now.’
Borges turned to stare at Cripps, his nostrils flaring. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head adamantly. ‘There are things that have to be said.’
‘This is a difficult enough time as it is,’ Cripps growled. ‘You’re making a scene, Ruy.’
‘Everyone knows she—’
‘
Ruy
.’
Borges’s lips quivered, but he went silent and walked back down the steps without another glance at de Almeida. Luc followed him with his eyes as Borges stalked past the platform, giving
Horst Sachs a wide berth as he made towards a group of fliers parked a short walk away.
‘Thank you,’ de Almeida said to Cripps.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Cripps replied curtly. ‘It wasn’t for your benefit; he was disrupting the proceedings.’
De Almeida nodded wordlessly as Cripps turned on his heel and headed back down to rejoin Father Cheng, who hadn’t so much as turned around throughout the altercation. Luc had little doubt
he was nonetheless aware of everything that had just taken place.
Luc said as de Almeida took her seat next to him once more.
She allowed herself a brief sideways glance at him.
She nodded, very gently.
On the stage, the final eulogy came to an end. People were already sharing muttered conversations as they began to move out of the auditorium and towards the parked fliers.
De Almeida stepped away to speak to one or two people, but it was clear from their uneasy expressions that they were disinclined to spend too much time speaking with her.
He glanced towards Ambassador Sachs, who was now in conversation with Cripps. Something about that perfectly reflective mask made his skin crawl. When he followed de Almeida down to the front of
the auditorium, he had the uncanny sense the Ambassador was watching him, but with that mask it was impossible to tell exactly where his gaze fell at any moment.
He glanced back over at de Almeida.
She sighed.
there, they might simply have assumed it was a private conversation and left it at that.
‘We’re free to talk out loud now,’ she said, switching away from script-speak. ‘No one’s going to overhear us.’
She glanced around with a furtive expression. ‘I never feel comfortable using script-speak, even if I have to.’
Luc activated his data-ghost’s audio circuits, but kept the volume dialled down to not much more than a whisper. ‘Go on, then.’
‘There are rumours,’ she explained, ‘of secret negotiations between the Coalition and some members of the Eighty-Five. Negotiations that none of the rest of the Council were
ever told about.’
‘And that’s what Borges was referring to just now?’
She nodded helplessly. ‘For all I know it’s just a rumour and nothing more, but once you put an idea like that in the head of a man like Borges, no matter how tenuous, it becomes
dangerous.’
‘But what kind of negotiations?’
She shrugged. ‘I have no idea, assuming the story is even true.’
‘All right, then what about Javier Maxwell? Why would Borges want him dead so badly?’
She scowled. ‘It doesn’t really have to do with Maxwell at all, it’s more to do with what he represents. Borges is scared because Cheng’s hand is being forced over
Reunification.’
‘Forced? How?’
‘By the same tide of popular opinion that originally made it possible for him to seize control of the Temur Council – a tide that has now turned the other way, in favour of
Reunification.’ She kept her voice low as she spoke. ‘Even without access to instantiation technology, people throughout the Tian Di are living better and longer lives than at any time
since the Abandonment. The days when the colonies had to struggle to survive, when desperately stringent measures were needed – those days are long gone, and everyone in the Tian Di knows it.
Now they want the same things we in the Council have – and Father Cheng hasn’t given them any adequate reasons why they shouldn’t have the same things sooner rather than
later.’
‘Then why doesn’t he just give them to us?’
‘Cheng is old. We all are. The mistake was believing that as long as things stayed the same, we’d have stability. Instead, we have stagnation, but Cheng doesn’t seem to
understand that. He had to be forced into agreeing to Reunification.’
‘What forced his hand?’
‘There are plenty of indicators showing that without radical social change, the Tian Di might break up. There might even be civil war. The evidence was convincing enough to persuade the
majority of Councillors to agitate in favour of Reunification. And for all his power, Cheng can’t do anything without the vast majority of us backing him.’
‘And Borges?’
‘Men like Borges would be more than happy to maintain the current status quo forever, even if the rest of the Tian Di burned. He doesn’t want change, and neither, I think, do most of
the Eighty-Five.’
‘In that case, given Vasili was actively working towards change, surely Borges would make a good suspect for his murder?’
‘Our mutual cup overflows with potential suspects, wouldn’t you say?’ she said.
‘That’s why I’m going to need full access to Vanaheim’s security records, Miss de Almeida.’
She stared at him like she hadn’t quite heard him right. ‘You’re not actually serious, are you?’
‘Quite serious. I need access to any and all data relating to the movements of everyone in Vanaheim over, say, the last few days – and preferably the last several weeks. I also need
access to the personal records of everyone on the Council.’
She laughed disbelievingly. ‘And you really think I would give you that much?’
‘If you don’t,’ he said, ‘I don’t see how I’d be able to do my job properly. I can’t possibly make an accurate assessment regarding Vasili’s
murder until I first have a good idea of the circumstances and events surrounding his death. Without that context, how can I possibly clearly identify a motive that might give you the identity of
his killer? And everything you’ve just told me makes it clear that there’s a lot I still don’t know.’
Anger flashed across her face. ‘I’ll take the idea under consideration,’ she replied, her voice clipped. ‘But any specific information you need I can get for you
immediately, upon request. You don’t need direct personal access.’
‘Without it, I’m flying blind,’ he countered.
And what about Father Cheng
? He wanted to ask.
Are we treating him as being above suspicion?
But he was still too afraid to ask that question.
‘Here’s what I
can
do,’ she said. ‘I just sent Ambassador Sachs a request for a confidential interview that you’ll conduct.’
‘Won’t a request like that make him suspicious? What if he tells someone else about it, and Father Cheng finds out you’re carrying on your investigation in defiance of his
orders?’
‘I told the Ambassador it was all part of an overall review of our security measures in the wake of Vasili’s murder. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just someone who
works for me, period. He knows nothing of your background, or why you’re really here. But it’s also a chance to find out why he met with Antonov. In the meantime,’ she added,
‘I want you to go home and wait there until you hear from me.’
‘I understand,’ Luc replied wearily, but even before he had finished his reply she had cut the connection. The last of his words echoed dully inside the tiny cubicle, back in Ulugh
Beg.
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.