Transition (34 page)

“The assistant…”

“Is completely trustworthy, ma’am.”

Madame d’Ortolan turned to him.

“Then, unless you were somehow complicit yourself, Mr Kleist, it could only be that he was able to ingest a slow-release pill
some time before.”

Mr Kleist displayed no reaction. “The arresting interception team assure us this would not have been possible. Also, we took
blood samples before and after and there was no sign.”

“They must be wrong, all the same. The results must be wrong. Have everything analysed again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Madame d’Ortolan turned and gazed out over the city as it subsided into darkness, strings of street lights curving into the
clear distance of rain-washed air. After some time she put one hand to her lower lip, pinching it.

“And if they are not wrong, ma’am?” Mr Kleist said eventually, when he began to think that perhaps she had forgotten he was
there.

“Then,” she said, “we would have the most severe problem. Because we would be faced with somebody who can flit without septus,
and, if they are capable of doing that, they could be capable of doing almost anything.” Madame d’Ortolan stopped and thought
for a moment. “That would be a perfectly terrifying prospect even if the individual concerned was utterly loyal.” She turned
and looked at Mr Kleist. She could hardly see him. “However, I do not believe that to be the case.”

“It might be wise to act as though it is,” he suggested. “Provisionally, at least.” There was a small light on the table by
her side. She clicked it on. Mr Kleist still looked dark, dressed in black or something near black, his face paler but still
in shade.

“That had occurred to me,” she told him. “Have the husk killed and a full – and I do mean full – post-mortem carried out.”

“The person is not a husk, ma’am.”

“I don’t care.”

“I understand, ma’am.”

“What about the trackers?”

“We have another two teams on him in addition to the one that found him after Lord Harmyle’s murder. There has been nothing
reported so far.”

“Are they optimistic?”

Mr Kleist hesitated. “If they are, they’re being unusually reticent about it.”

“Well, never mind how we lost him initially. Now that he is lost, what if he stays lost? What will he do next?”

“He may already have warned those who were on the list marked for assassination. We think somebody must have. The back-up
teams have yet to report a success.”

“Not even Obliq?” Madame d’Ortolan asked, pronouncing her name with the sort of acidic tone she usually reserved for Mrs Mulverhill.
“I thought they definitely got her.”

“Ah,” Mr Kleist said. “The team report they now think she may have been flitted an instant before the hit.”

“So he did warn them.”

“Somebody did. We doubt he had time personally.”

She frowned. “Your assistant heard the names on the list, didn’t he?”

“As I say, ma’am, he is above suspicion.”

“That is not what you said, and nobody is above suspicion.”

“Then let me rephrase. I have complete faith in his loyalty and discretion.”

“Would you vouch for him with your life?”

Mr Kleist hesitated. “I would not go quite that far for anyone, ma’am. As you say, nobody is entirely above suspicion.”

“Hmm. That list, then, the people on it.”

“We are watching them as closely as we are able to, waiting for an opportunity, but it is not easy and it is not looking promising.
Obliq and Plyte disappeared entirely, untrackable, and the rest are awkwardly located, or staying too firmly in the public
eye for us to strike. The relevant teams are still primed and in place, ready to resume action on your command the moment
we have a clear shot.” He left a pause. “Though of course we have lost the advantage of surprise and concurrency. Even if
we are able to pick one off, the rest will become even more suspicious and hard to get at, the moment they hear.”

Madame d’Ortolan nodded to herself. She took a deep breath. “Thus far, this has not worked out as we intended.”

“No, ma’am.”

She was silent for a few moments. A bird cooed somewhere overhead, and wings rustled. Sometimes, when one of the birds in
the aviary was unwell or had been injured and was hopping about on the floor of the structure, broken-winged or too ill to
fly, Madame d’Ortolan would let the cats in, to dispose of the creature. She always enjoyed the resulting kerfuffle, brief
though it usually proved to be. She twisted in her chair and looked at Kleist. “What would you do, Mr Kleist? If you were
me?”

Without hesitation he said, “We find ourselves fighting on two fronts, ma’am. That is not supportable. I would indefinitely
postpone the actions against the Council members and withdraw all but the basic tracking teams involved. Throw everything
at Oh. He’s the greater threat.”

Madame d’Ortolan narrowed her eyes. “Mr Kleist, I have worked for decades to get to just this point with the Central Council.
If we don’t act now there is every chance they will approve the sort of invasively damaging policies that the Mulverhill woman
has obviously been insinuating into the vacuous heads of an entire generation of students, technicians and agents for a decade
or more. There are too many Mulverhills out there and their influence is growing. I can’t keep swatting them away from all
positions of influence for ever. We have to act now. We may not get another chance.”

Kleist looked unimpressed. “Ma’am, I think the moment has passed, for now. Another may present itself in time. In the meantime,
nobody seems to have any proof that you were behind the actions against the other Council members, or be prepared to speculate
openly on the matter, so we have established, as it were, a stable front there. Mr Oh, especially if he is allied with Mulverhill,
is an immediate and dynamic threat. Also, once he’s dealt with, we may be able to make it look as though he and Mulverhill
were behind the attacks on the Council members.”

Madame d’Ortolan unwound herself in her seat to sit forward again, looking away from him. She released a long, deflating sigh.
“Sadly, annoyingly,” she said in a quiet voice, “I think you’re right.”

Mr Kleist was silent for a few moments. His expression did not change. He said, “Shall I issue the relevant orders?”

“Please do.”

He turned to go.

“Mr Kleist?”

He turned back. “Ma’am?”

Madame d’Ortolan had turned to look at him again. “I take this very personally, and very ill. I shall expect Mr Oh to pay
for this, in person. Once he has served whatever other purposes we require of him, I think I might ask you to tutor me in
some of the techniques you employed in your earlier profession, so that I might apply them to him. And Mulverhill, for that
matter. I severely doubt she’s innocent in all this.”

Mr Kleist gave a small bow. “I am at your disposal, ma’am.”

There was a small smile on Madame d’Ortolan’s thin lips. Her paper-cut smile, as he thought of it. The image brought with
it, as it always did, the memory of the scent of lemons and the echo of long-faded screams. She waved one hand. “Thank you.
That’ll be all.”

He turned again and had walked more two steps when she said, “Mr Kleist?”

He turned and looked back, still untroubled. The lady was known for using this little technique. “Yes, ma’am?”

The birds were almost silent now, settled in for the night.

“What was it they used to call you? The Moralist, was it?”

“The Philosopher, ma’am.”

“Ah, yes. So, was it agreeable, to be taking up your old profession again?”

He looked at her for a moment. “Why, ma’am,” he said quietly, “we barely began.” He regarded her a moment longer. “But no,
not especially.” He bowed and walked away.

The Pitcher

Mike Esteros is sitting at the bar of the Commodore Hotel, Venice Beach, after yet another unsuccessful pitch. Technically
he doesn’t know it’s unsuccessful yet, but he’s developing a nose for these things and he’d put money on another rejection.
It’s starting to get him down. He still believes in the idea and he’s still sure it’ll get made one day, plus he knows that
attitude is everything in this business and he must remain positive – if he doesn’t believe in himself, why should anybody else? – but,
well, all the same.

The bar is quiet. He wouldn’t normally drink at this time of day. Maybe he needs to adjust the plot, make it more family-oriented.
Focus on the boy, on the father – son thing. Cute it up a little more. A dusting of schmaltz. Never did any harm. Well, no real
harm. Maybe he’s been believing too much in the basic idea, assuming that because it’s so obvious to him what a beautiful,
elegant thing it is it’ll be obvious to everybody else and they’ll be falling over themselves to green-light it and give him
lots of money.

And don’t forget Goldman’s Law: nobody knows anything. Nobody knows what will work. That’s why they make so many remakes and
Part Twos; what looks like lack of imagination is really down to too much, as execs visualise all the things that could go
wrong with a brand new, untested idea. Going with something containing elements that definitely worked in the past removes
some of the terrifying uncertainty.

What Mike’s got here is a radical, left-field idea. The central concept is almost too original for its own good. That’s why
it needs a generous helping of conventionality slathered over it. He’ll rework it, again. It’s not a prospect that fills him
with joy, frankly, but he guesses that it has to be done and he has to struggle on. It’s worth it. He still believes in it.
It’s just a dream, but it’s a dream that could be made real and this is the place where that happens. Your dreams – not just
of your idea but of your future self, your fortunes – get turned into reality here. He still loves this place, still believes
in it.

Mike leaves the bar, goes outside and sits on a bench, watching the ocean, watching the people pass on the tarmac strip and
on the sands themselves, roller skating, boarding, strolling, playing Frisbee, just walking.

A girl comes and sits on the bench too. Well, woman. She might be Mike’s age. He starts talking to her. She’s cute and friendly
and smart, rangy and dark, nice laugh. Just his type. A lawyer, on a day off, just relaxing. Monica. He asks does she want
a drink and she says maybe a herbal tea and they sit in a little café still within sight of the beach. Then they go for dinner
in a little Vietnamese place a short walk away. Mike gives her the pitch because she’s genuinely interested. She thinks it’s
a great idea. It actually seems to make her thoughtful.

Later they walk on the beach in the light of a half-moon, then sit, and there’s some kissing and a modest amount of fooling
around, though she’s already told him she doesn’t go any further on a first date. Him too, he tells her, though strictly speaking
that’s nonsense and he guesses that she guesses this but doesn’t care.

Then, in the middle of a tight, embracing kiss, something changes. He feels it happen, and when he opens his eyes the moon
has gone, the air feels cooler and the beach looks narrower and steeper and leads down to a sea that’s much calmer than the
one that was there just seconds ago. There are islands out there, dark shapes under the stars, covered in trees. He shakes
his head, looks at Monica. He starts back instinctively, crabbing away from her on all fours. She’s changed completely too.
White, blonde, shorter, face quite different. There are a couple of guys – the only other people on the beach – standing massively
about ten feet away, watching them.

She dusts her hands and rises, standing in front of the two men. “Mr Esteros,” she says, “welcome to your new home.”

Patient 8262

I
have been violated! My worst nightmares have come true. Well, not my worst, but some pretty bad ones. Fondled, grabbed, molested in my own bed. Thankfully I woke in time and was able to defend myself and shout and scream to summon help. But all the same.

It was day; afternoon, an hour after lunch and I was in that state it pleases me to remain in for much of the time now, neither awake nor asleep but lying with my eyes closed, listening a little and thinking a lot. I heard somebody come into my room and though I did not hear the door close I noticed a diminution of the sounds from outside in the rest of the clinic. That ought to have alerted me, but I suppose I had grown complacent.

Since the bizarre turn of events with the nonsense-talking and so on, I have spent less time traipsing the corridors and day rooms of the institution and more time in bed. It seemed to me that the other patients and inmates were looking at me oddly, and a few even tried to engage me in conversation in what certainly sounded like the start of more of that gibberish language, often with big smiles on their faces that obviously meant they were in on the joke and just wanted to join in and make fun of me. I would turn aside from them and walk away with all the dignity I could.

When that fat fellow came into my room a couple of days ago – the one who brought the skinny young man in when I was making words up – I hid under the bed sheets and wrapped the pillow over my head. He spoke to me gently, trying – I could tell from the tone of his voice – to get me to come out, but I wouldn’t. When he tried to lift up the sheets to look in on me in my little impromptu tent, I slapped his hand away and hissed. He sighed heavily, one of those very-much-for-public-consumption sighs, and left shortly afterwards.

The medical staff continue to care for me. They make me get out of bed each day and have me sit by the side of it and once or twice they have insisted that I accompany one of them on a walk up and down the corridor, though I draw the line at entering the day room with them. They seem happy enough that I am still mobile. I suppose I shuffle a little more than I did, not really picking my feet up properly, but that is all part of my disguise as well. The less fit and able and the quieter I appear, the more I seem like just another patient. I fit in better.

The doctors still call in occasionally, and the lady doctor who has shown interest in me before came and sat with me for almost half an hour last week. She talked slowly to me – I understood most of what she said, I think – and shone bright lights into my eyes.