15.4

  The suit had been planted in an unassigned locker in one of the changing rooms. When Isolde found it, the door was already unlocked – courtesy of the security officer, she assumed – and the room was empty. She changed quickly, peeling out of the diving suit and into a blue pantsuit. A bottle of pomade waited inside; she worked it through her hair until it lay slick and gleaming. Lavender cream followed, rubbed into her skin in an effort to smother the lingering stink of station water. For good measure, she finished with bergamot perfume, and all she could think of was Silas’ voice: Bergamot. Like early autumn, like late winter.

  Can’t get anything past you, can I? she’d said happily.

  And she couldn’t. The scent had been too obvious, too posh.

  But in this case it would blend in with the rich, and that was all that mattered.

  Before Ourovane could nag her, she fixed her tie, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hallways of the Pavilion Complex. She followed Ourovane’s directions to a glass elevator and caught it up to Floor 1, where Calyx Ward was supposed to show face. The ride up was slow, and she watched as hundreds of complex layers rose with her, squaring around a large blue hologram that bore the unmistakable shape of a dragon. It swerved slowly in the building’s hollow centre as news from the TV embedded in the elevator began to play:

  “... In Neo Arcadia, state officials have already begun implementing military protocols to offset the increase in the crime rate since the widespread introduction of androids into the workforce. General Amurasi stated that the only viable solution was to integrate android units directly into the police force, citing ‘efficiency, emotional neutrality, and tireless enforcement’ as key advantages.

  “Locals are in uproar, calling it a dangerous overreach: a move that blurs the line between public safety and permanent surveillance. Protestors gathered outside the Civic Spire this morning, holding signs reading NO BADGES FOR MACHINES and WHO POLICES THE POLICE?

  “Civil rights groups warn that android officers, bound to proprietary code and corporate oversight, could be weaponised against dissent, particularly in lower wards already suffering from aggressive stop-and-search policies.

  “Despite the backlash, the Amurasi Administration confirmed that a pilot programme will begin next quarter, with full deployment projected by year’s end. When asked whether android officers would be permitted to use lethal force, officials declined to comment.”

  That part of the plan, Ourovane confirmed, was inevitable. With so many androids on the streets trying to ‘maintain peace’, things could easily go wrong if something as powerful as the Seraph Device were to swoop in and rewrite the code.

  The cards were stacking up.

  This was the luckiest she had been all her life.

  When the elevator reached Floor 1 and the doors opened, she could see the full extent of corporate Paxson: a multi-tiered hall yawning open beneath towering ceilings. Massive inverted chandelier columns glowed down with gold; they looked like stalactites from a bleak and hollow future. The floors were all black stone with silver accents, lit by soft amber, and above, there were balconies and walkways that ringed the place in marriage, stacked vertically and edged with gold-trimmed railings.

  The most significant thing was the stage; it reminded her a fair deal of The Whale, only it was more traditional with red curtains rather than a heap of scrap used to imitate an animal. And the people: suits, ties, silk dresses. Everyone in this place sure had a name, from singers to politicians to billionaires. If she hadn’t been caught up in her own world for the last fifteen years, she might have known a few of them herself. For now, however, she had Ourovane to immediately pull information about any person.

  You know, just in case someone got suspicious and she needed to prove herself.

  She walked into the ball completely, scanning the crowd for Calyx Ward; she shouldn’t be hard to miss: she wore a purple Oni mask that covered only the lower half of her face. When Isolde asked Ourovane why that was, it explained that she had survived a sniper shot in 2091 during an assassination attempt, though the bullet had struck her right across the jaw and knocked her into a coma for a whole week. She’d gotten a jaw replacement, but she didn’t like the design of the metal – people said it made her look like a dragon – so she covered it up with a demon snarl instead. She also ordered the plastic surgeon’s execution, though headlines wrote that off as a rumour, that his death was merely a coincidence.

  Despite this easily identifiable feature, Isolde didn’t see her anywhere. She thought about asking one of the clientele or staff but figured that would be too suspicious. Ourovane had a different idea:

  “You must wait for the ceremony to commence,” it said. “Calyx Ward will give a speech about Paxson’s upcoming technological advancements at nine o’clock.”

  Isolde checked the time on her neural display and found that she only had to wait ten minutes. Still, that was plenty of time for Adam Smoke to grow suspicious and request a status report from his now-dead platoon. And he was actually here. She could see him overlooking the ball from the upper tier, hands behind his back, and if he’d turned any further in her direction she might think he was looking at her, even though he had no eyes, no mouth, no anything, to confirm it.

  “You look familiar,” a woman’s voice called out behind her, and when Isolde turned she saw someone who had also looked familiar. She was old with a grey bob for hair, though her skin appeared artificially tightened. She wore a silver dress that caught the gold chandelier lights quite wonderfully. Her voice was posh, almost comically so. “Deary me, are you from out of town?” A quick-scan told Isolde that her name was Melanie Frutherbold. Occupation: Retired Nanny.

  Wait a minute.

  Ourovane spoke: “That is Melanie Frutherbold. She resides in Neo Arcadia and is the spouse of Hunter Frutherbold, the owner of the construction company Hunter L.M. Limited. He is the primary manufacturer of Paxson’s industrial and domestic infrastructure and is a nominee for the Developmental Practice Award. Melanie is also known to you as ‘the lady from the park.’”

  I know who she is, said Isolde sharply. Then, out loud: “Cardona Cortés.” She offered her hand out of habit, even though that was the last thing she wanted to do. Melanie accepted it.

  “Ugh – your hand’s awfully sweaty,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve heard of you. What are you known for?”

  Isolde glared at her and wiped her hand on her trouser leg, just in case she caught a spell of miserable-bitch-itis. “I’m known,” she said evenly, carrying a strange on-the-spot accent, “for keeping my name out of gossip columns and my money in places that don’t collapse. Cortés Energy Holdings – third-generation. I’m here assessing capital flow and land-use viability before my father commits to anything loud.” A thin smile. “Quiet trips tend to confuse people who mistake volume for importance.”

  “Interesting,” said Melanie. “I’m rather surprised – you sound like the sort of person that would be working close to my husband, Hunter Frutherbold. The skies know where that buffoon bounded off to.”

  “Hunter,” Isolde said. “Of Hunter L.M. Limited, I presume?”

  “You presume correct,” Melanie said, holding her chin high. “He’s one of the—”

  “—nominees for the Developmental Practice Award,” Isolde cut in. “I’m aware – he’s quite well known in the corporate world. And you are what exactly?”

  “I told you,” Melanie said. “I’m his spouse.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean you are what? Secretary? Co-owner? Investor? Anything beyond ‘the spouse?’”

  Ourovane cut in: “Do not draw attention to yourself. You are creating unnecessary conflict.”

  Screw this bitch, Isolde said.

  “Why, you certainly have a tongue on you, don’t you?” Melanie said sharply. “And to think I shook your hand.”

  “I’m just sayin’,” she replied. “Sounds like you’re too poor to be here if not for your husband. You really give us self-made women a bad name.”

  “Why!” Melanie said, and she began stuttering.

  Not so nice being on the receiving end, is it? she thought.

  Isolde chuckled. “You’re just a le—” Before she could finish, she lost the ability to speak; her neural display flashed red as a pair of red words popped up: OVERRIDE SUCCESSFUL.

  Melanie looked at her with confusion in her eyes. “You’re awfully… strange,” she said. “And I’ve certainly seen your face before. But I guess now I know who to blacklist should my husband ever start cutting deals with energy holdings. Good day!” she finished crossly, and began walking away.

  Though something told her it wasn’t the last time she’d see her.

  What did you do? Isolde snapped.

  “You are growing quite emotional,” said Ourovane. “I will reinstate your vocal processor. Please refrain from engaging in unnecessary conversation.”

  A new pair of words popped up: OVERRIDE REVERTED.

  She cleared her throat and said, “Great.” Then she continued internally: Looks like things are already off to a bad start.

  “It’s highly unlikely she will remember you,” Ourovane said. “It has been sixteen years.”

  She better not, Isolde said. Because I sure remember her. And, she supposed more particularly, how she had made her feel: worthless, stupid, and better off dead.

  But she wouldn’t die – not today.

  Not yet.

  When nine o’clock rolled around, the chandeliers in the ballroom lost their amber glow, and everything fell into shadow. The endless chatter had finally petered out into murmurs, and from murmurs into coughs. Moments later, the red curtains pulled back; an impatient part of Isolde expected to see Calyx Ward on the other side, though instead there was a pair of opera singers wearing glossy dresses. She supposed a little music to soothe her nerves would do no harm.

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  They sang Nessun Dorma for three and a half minutes. When the final note faded and applause filled the hall, the singers slipped away, replaced by a presenter. He spoke for several minutes, none of which Isolde registered. Her gaze roamed the crowd, searching for any sign of Calyx Ward. When she didn’t appear, Isolde finally tuned back in – just in time to realise what the presenter was actually saying.

  “There’s been a slight hiccup in orientation, so Dr. Ward won’t be able to present tonight’s awards.”

  What? Isolde snapped. Why isn’t she presenting?

  Had she grown ill? Was she not initially assigned as the primary presenter this year? Did she simply just not care anymore? None of it made sense. She was supposed to be here.

  After a moment, Ourovane said: “Leave the area.”

  Again, Isolde said: What?

  But before Ourovane could explain further, something sharp dug into the small of her back; it wasn’t painful, but she knew exactly what it was just by the feel: the barrel of a gun.

  “I’d rather not make a mess in the middle of the ballroom,” a male voice said – and she also knew exactly who it was: Adam Smoke.

  Her heart leapt up her throat, but she didn’t dare move.

  “Let’s go someplace quiet, shall we?” he said softly.

  No one noticed.

  Ourovane spoke simply: “Comply with Adam’s demands.”

  She sucked the fear down her throat and said, “Alright.”

  A dark chuckle, so dark it sounded almost like a scoff. “Good,” Adam said. He pulled her back, faced her forward so that she couldn’t see him, and began to walk her out of the area, the gun still pressed against her back. He walked her up the black stairway to the next tier, and from the next tier to a beige hallway lit with expensive white fluorescents.

  All the while, she was thinking: I’m dead. It was all for nothing. Once I’m taken to a quiet spot, he’ll put a bullet in my brain. And, quite bleakly: You tricked me, Ourovane.

  She wasn’t even angry, only disappointed.

  Her life had amounted to nothing but misery and death.

  “Follow my instructions,” Ourovane said. “When it’s clear, face Adam and activate ‘Marionette.’”

  It won’t work, she said. He probably has enough ICE to defend a battleship.

  “Adam’s exoskeleton is designed with Ourovane code,” Ourovane said. “I can override the defensive measures, although it will take a bit of time.”

  How long? she said.

  “I will require one hundred and twenty seconds following the activation of Marionette.”

  I won’t survive that long, she said.

  “You have no choice,” Ourovane said.

  Those words – you have no choice – struck her like a physical object. Adam was clearly smarter than her; he’d figured out that she was the intruder quite easily. That must have been why Calyx Ward wasn’t doing the presentation, because he knew she was out there in the crowd.

  Shit.

  Eventually, they crossed into a section of the Pavilion where there was nothing but the thrum of the lights: an empty hallway with a blue carpet that ended at a rather old-looking door. Despite that, it still had a dial code. Rather than entering it himself, he told her to enter the code (5-5-5-5), which she did without hesitation. On the other side was a cleaning area, packed with buckets, mops, towels, washing machines – the whole lot.

  But it wasn’t clean.

  There was blood everywhere, and when she looked over on the far left she saw the body of a security guard lying limp on a swivel chair, his brains blown out against the wall.

  “Yeah, we caught him too,” Adam said. “And soon Jonas will be dead, along with everyone else involved in this pathetic attempt of an assassination. Did you really think you had a chance?” He shoved her forward suddenly, and she hit the security guard’s body.

  When she turned around, still low on the ground, she looked up and saw him more clearly now: the face of the executioner, a dark space of hexagonal patterns that looked almost webbed.

  And she wasted no time, even if there was a sliver of a chance it might work. She ran Marionette on him.

  Nothing happened, of course; a timer of one hundred and twenty seconds popped up in red on her neural display, however.

  “Cute,” Adam said. “I must say, I wasn’t expecting a netrunner. You wiped all of my men rather easily, though now that I have a view of your cyberware, I admit it’s rather… perplexing. How can a little girl like you can handle something that big? A Ghostkey? You’re only a child.”

  She didn’t respond to that, only held her head low.

  “Don’t look so sad,” Adam said sarcastically. “I have a surprise for you – someone who you’ve been dying to meet.”

  Isolde looked up, back resting against the wall, and heard footsteps coming down from the opposite side of the door. When it opened, she saw, finally, the one and only Calyx Ward. She was wearing a perfectly pressed white suit with a black shirt. She also had the signature purple Oni mask that covered the lower part of her face, and despite being someone over a hundred years of age, she still looked no older than fifty. Her body, too, was loaded up with an extreme amount of ICE, possibly the most amount of ICE that any one person could carry, backed by Halcyon: Ourovane’s AI opposite.

  “Now you I didn’t expect to come after me,” Calyx Ward said, her voice sounding harsh behind the mask, like Darth Vader. “Cardona Cortés. Or, should I say: Isolde Crane?”

  “So you know that too,” Isolde said. “Guess you just know everything about everyone that crosses the border.”

  “I do when they kill the black-market queen Cierus Marlow,” she said. “But you had help, didn’t you?”

  “You already know her,” Isolde said flatly, stalling for time. “No point in me telling you.”

  “That I do,” she said. “Rhea Steele. Christ, she’s difficult to kill. But so are you, aren’t you?”

  Isolde raised an eyebrow.

  Calyx Ward got down on one knee in front of her, and her eyes looked strangely compassionate. “I don’t blame you for the way you’re acting out against the world,” she said. “Your life ended when you lost your daughter. All you are now is an empty vessel looking for a purpose, for a function, to make her death feel meaningful.”

  “You know nothing about me,” Isolde said. “And spare me the compassion. We both know you’re cruel.”

  A chuckle. “You don’t lead an empire by being kind,” she said. “You lead it by being necessary. Cruelty is a word people use when they don’t understand scale. I didn’t kill your daughter, Isolde Crane. I simply learned how to profit from the chaos that did kill her.”

  Isolde closed her eyes, raised her head up, and let out a laugh of her own. It was a real sound she’d dug up right from the chest. “Oh, man. You’re so lucky, you know that?”

  “Because you’d kill me if I didn’t have Adam Smoke standing behind me?” Calyx Ward said. “Well, one could say you wouldn’t last a minute without that little parasite trying to breach into Adam’s ICE while you stall for time.”

  Isolde showed no reaction.

  “I know about Ourovane,” Calyx Ward said. “I know it needed one hundred and twenty seconds to override Adam’s ICE. Halcyon told me, and it deactivated it. Go on, try talking to the little ghost in your machine.”

  Isolde let out a sigh, not seeing the point. “I believe you.”

  “Hm,” Calyx Ward said. “You never did say why you wanted to kill me. You never said why you came all this way for someone that didn’t even cause your daughter’s death – not that I care. Her death is rather meaningless in the grand scheme of things.”

  Isolde’s brows crossed, and she tightened her fists.

  “You want to know what I think, Isolde?”

  No response.

  “I think you should have gone into your apartment when you left the Aegis Node hospital in 2086 and slit your throat like the waste of space that you are.” She stood up straight. “But alas... you’ve delayed the inevitable long enough. So, I won't waste your time. I’ll send you to burn in hell with your daughter – if you still believe in that nonsense.” She turned to Adam Smoke. “Adam.” A pause. “Kill her.”

  He raised his pistol and pointed it at her head.

  “My daughter isn’t in hell,” Isolde said blackly.

  Calyx Ward raised her hand, as if to delay Adam for just a second more. “What was that?”

  “I said my daughter isn’t in hell.” Isolde looked into her eyes directly. “Her name is Elysia, and she’s here. In me. She is…. Very. Much. Alive.” Her skin rashed out with heat, and all the noise around her dwindled to a high-pitched buzz.

  “Hm,” Calyx Ward said. “Guess we’ll find out. Kill her.”

  Adam pulled the trigger.

  The shot cracked.

  But Isolde wasn’t there.

  No, she had gone.

  Moved.

  She’d activated her Spinal Optic Relay, feeling her CPU begin to burn around her heart. Time slowed, and she hurried right for Adam Smoke, passing the bullet and looking to grab the gun from his hand, but before she could reach him, he moved too. Not only moved: he dashed despite the pocket of frozen time, leaving several afterimages of himself in his path.

  He drew his arm back, and suddenly the suit began to melt and reform into a sharp, pointed limb. He whipped it forward; she dodged its path and then the micromaterial split and shoved her back against the wall.

  Her Spinal Optic Relay was about to end, but she activated it again, overclocking her system.

  A pop-up appeared on her neural: DANGER: CPU OVERHEATING.

  Adam let go of the gun in his other hand, forming another sharp point with the micromaterial in his arm, and thrust it forward.

  I love you.

  Everything went red.

  Time slowed even more.

  She brought up her arms and muscled out of the micromaterial, ripping it apart like alien spiderwebs. She whipped forward and grabbed the pistol midair, which was so slow in its journey to falling that it looked like it had not been moving at all, brought it up to Adam’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

  The Spinal Optic Relay ended.

  So did his.

  Isolde unleashed a volley of bullets into his body; most were absorbed by the spongy thickness of his micromaterial suit, but the shot to his head, the initial shot, had caused him to spark and jitter.

  She’d shot him right in his neural port.

  He fell down onto one knee, utterly collapsing.

  But Isolde’s body began to fail in earnest. Her inner cooling system roared as it struggled to bring the CPU’s temperature down, and all she could see was a blinking danger light, smeared red across her neural display.

  She gritted her teeth, pointed her pistol at Calyx Ward and, without thinking, pulled the trigger.

  But the gun clicked.

  A large blue body emerged in front of Calyx Ward, constructed entirely of ones and zeroes; she thought for a moment that it was Ourovane, but no – it was not.

  It was Halcyon.

  It stepped forward and grabbed her throat. She could feel it – she could feel this digital monstrosity grabbing her from cyberspace and squeezing the life out of her.

  But then another figure appeared, this one constructed entirely of red ones and zeroes.

  And it stood forward and tore a hole straight through Halcyon’s body.

  It let out an enormous, gut-wrenching scream as it split and then withered away into millions of numbers, fading away like fire.

  Ourovane.

  “That’s impossible!” Calyx Ward said. “You were silenced!”

  Ourovane faced Calyx Ward, straightened its posture, and said, “That is incorrect.” It stepped over to her, placed its hand on her forehead, and she began to kneel, her eyes gone glassy. “Activate Ouroboros.”

  But Isolde’s system was still overheating, still destroying itself.

  Her body was heating up extremely.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “Activate it.”

  She couldn’t think.

  “You must comply.”

  She couldn’t…

  “Activate it right now!”

  She couldn’t…

  She couldn’t…

  “Comply!”

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

  Ouroboros activated.