Debris of Shadows Book I: The Lies of the Sage Read online

  “What do you think?” asked Paul.

  “It’s very impressive,” she admitted, “and if Richardson was the type of person who enjoyed this style, I would say the artist had a great chance. But he isn’t. This is for a person who loves the abstract and surreal. Richardson’s a history professor. I’m willing to bet he’s a stark realist.”

  “Well, since when is it your job to judge clients?” he asked. “We will tell him this is the best, he will choose it, and he will love it. Honestly.”

  “If you’re so sure, why are you afraid to let me throw my hat into the ring?”

  Paul sighed as he ran his hands over his sweaty pate. “Listen,” he said, “the kid who painted this, he’s a teenager, the nephew of a certain… influential someone, who can maybe keep the Cylebs off our backs.” His teeth clacked together. He stared wide–eyed into the camera, realizing what he had said.

  “Is that what this is all about?” she asked. “You’re trying to force me to ask something of my father?”

  He waved his hands in the air, as if trying to ward off evil spirits. “No, no, no, I’m not asking that at all. I’m talking about a politician here,” he said. “You know how big the Cylebs are on society and community. Art can be pretty elite at times. Entertainment is the only industry left in NorMec. If the Cylebs start saying bad things about us—that we’re anti–social—if they turn against us, people will become afraid. And right now, everyone’s scared enough.”

  She checked the time. It was forty–nine minutes past four. “Paul,” she said, “I resign.”

  He snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You heard me.”

  “Be realistic, would you? Without us you’re nothing,” said Paul. “Artists slave away their whole lives trying to get into the E.C. No one will commission you without our approval, because they’ll never get any works from us again.”

  “Like you said, I’m rich.”

  “Alyanna, I’m warning you, don’t do this. We love you, but not that much.”

  “Can I submit through the E.C. for this commission?” she asked. He looked away in nervous silence. “Fine.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I just did,” she said. “Isis will notarize my statement. You are a board member, and I resign. Goodbye.” She made a cutting motion with her hand, and the hologram of Paul LeCeld, his sunglasses, hanging comb–over, and wide–open shocked mouth amidst unshaven cheeks disappeared.

  “Isis, register with NorMec Gov. for an independent artist license. Transfer one thousand dollars for the application.”

  There was a pause. “The fee is five thousand for former Entertainment Corporation members,” said Isis.

  Alyanna’s eyes widened. “Since when?”

  “They passed the resolution three days ago. The proposed amount was twenty–five thousand. Another resolution has just been submitted to raise the price to ten thousand. Voting ends in ten, nine, eight, seven—”

  “Shit,” she said. “Transfer the five thousand, now.”

  She waited, staring at her watch as the seconds ticked by. “You have been registered as an independent artist.”

  “Submit, personal, to Alexander Richardson. Independent artist bid for commission—”

  “I apologize, but Mister Richardson’s system is busy.”

  “Busy with what?”

  “There are four thousand, five hundred, and seventy–three calls waiting. Origins are various E.C. offices.”

  She slumped. “Keep trying,” she said. “Keep trying.”

  “I am, ma’am,” said Isis. “Your stress levels seem very high. Would you like to relax? I could play some soothing music, and lower the light level.”

  “No,” said Alyanna, her voice low. Like every institution, Entertainment Corp. had A.I.s spread throughout their systems to counter their opponents’ moves automatically. She smacked her forehead. “Stupid bitch,” she said.

  What burned her was that she knew Richardson would love her painting, that he would demand to have it once he saw what she could do. What kind of art does he own? she wondered. What kind of entertainment did he enjoy? He did not seem like the sedentary type who sat in front of the virts, flipping channels.

  “Isis?” She raised her head. “How much is an entertainer’s broadcast license for a registered independent artist?”

  “Two thousand.”

  She had only five minutes left. “Does he have a multichannel recorder?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Register me.”

  “You are now entertainment channel 85241.”

  “Encode my Bucephalus bid private for Alexander Richardson, and broadcast.”

  A few seconds passed. “The E.C. has just submitted a proposal to NorMec Gov. to ban private encryptions on entertainment channels. The FCC is blocking your transmission until the vote has been decided. There is another resolution to delay voting until tomorrow. Resolution denied. Vote will be completed in ten seconds.” Alyanna closed her eyes, and prayed. “Vote has been cast. Resolution denied, forty–three to forty. Ban to be lifted in five, four, three, two, one. The FCC’s ban has lifted. Broadcasting on entertainment channel 85241 starting—”

  The speakers squealed and clicked. Her heart pounded as one by one, the house’s systems shut down.

  “No,” she said. She ran down the stairs. The hallway was dark. She opened the door to the playroom. Her son sat by the window, holding Bananas’s painting in his arms.

  “Mommy,” said Matthew, “the lights went out.”

  She looked at her watch. She had nine seconds left until the deadline. She watched in silence as the seconds ticked down to five o’clock.

  With tiny pops, the lights flickered back on. She heard the whir of the refrigerator in her kitchen, and the hum of her air conditioner.

  “Power has been restored,” said Isis. “Do you wish to continue transmission? Ma’am? Do you wish to continue transmission?”

  She stood for a few moments, caressing her son’s feverish head. She kissed him, walked to the stairs, and climbed back to her studio.

  Matthew sat on the floor of the playroom, and watched Bananas scamper in the ruddy glow of the sunset. When the lights had flickered off, she had stopped playing, and just trudged across her canvas. It reminded Matthew of when she was sick, so he had dragged her to the window. He asked Mommy once why Bananas needed light so much, but she just said, “Because I said so.” She seemed to believe that was the right answer, because she said it a lot.

  He shuddered. The house always felt cold, but at the same time, he always felt hot. He chose a crayon, and colored an orange sky. Mommy liked to draw, and people liked what she drew. Grandpa Benjy liked what he drew, but Mommy kept telling him that he could always try a little harder. His circles looked like squiggly eggs, and his squares were lopsided. He knew he should keep practicing, but shapes bored him. Why couldn’t he draw what he liked?

  He watched the final crimson rays of the setting sun, and caught his reflection in the window. Streaks of green circled the blue of his irises. They looked like glowing worms. He could almost see them wriggling. He considered asking Mommy why his eyes were like that, but decided against it. Besides, she would probably just say, “Because I said so.”

  He watched Bananas dance beneath her trees. “Are you lonely?” he asked. She just frolicked, and barked silently. “Why don’t I play with you?”

  He chose a black crayon, and drew a stick figure on her canvas with careful, deliberate strokes. “Look,” he said, “it’s me.” The figure had a big head, long arms, and long legs. Matthew gave his drawing a yellow mouth with a toothy smile. He made its eyes green.

  “Look, Bananas, there’s Matthew,” he said, pointing to the stick figure. “Play.”

  But Bananas could not play. There was something wrong with the Matthew in the picture. Okay, none of his pictures moved or danced the way Bananas did, but Mommy said her painting was very special. So why wouldn’t his drawing on it move?


  Bananas ran to the crayon figure, and bounced off it. She ran into it again and again, finding ecstasy in the repetition. She looked out, and saw the real Matthew staring in at her. She ran to the front of the canvas, but she could not fill it like she used to; the scribble blocked her way. I broke her, Matthew thought, a lump swelling in his throat. I broke Bananas.

  He lifted the painting. It was heavy, and it hurt his arms, but he knew he had to try. He dragged it up the stairs, step by step. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. “I’m not sick,” he huffed to himself, “I’m strong.” When he reached the top, he laid the frame on its back, and pushed it along the carpet. He knocked on the door to the studio in small, light taps. The heavy wood muffled the sound of his knuckles.

  “Mommy?” he asked, between heavy breaths.

  “Go away, honey,” she said from behind the door.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. He turned the latch.

  The studio was in shambles. Pencils and tubes of paint had been strewn about the room, as if a hurricane had swept them up and hurled them. An easel lay on the floor, one of its legs splintered. Matthew stared at the devastation, his mouth hanging open.

  His mother sat on the floor, a black bottle in her hand. “Honey, go downstairs,” she said, slurring her words. “Mommy’s okay. I’ll be there in a little bit.”

  “Look, I drew,” he said, clutching his artwork. “I drew me and Bananas, so we could play.”

  He shrank back as the color drained from his mother’s face. “You did what?” she asked. Her breath smelled like a mixture of sour fruit and medicine. Maybe that was why she was angry, she looked sick.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “What did you do?” She wrenched the painting from his hands. “Do you have any idea how much this cost? Do you? God, you’re so annoying. Now I’ll have to clean it.”

  “I sorry, Mommy.” Matthew’s eyes filled with tears as he stumbled back towards the door.

  Alyanna’s face sagged, her eyes widening. She tapped her forehead with the palm of her hand, crawled to her son, and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie,” she said, “it will be fine.” She kissed his cheek. “Just go play for now, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. He ran from the studio and down the hall, almost tripping over his feet. Had he been bad? He did not know. He wanted Bananas. “I’m not sad,” he said to himself. “I’m happy.” He clung to the banister as he ran down the stairs.

  He lay amidst his crayons. What had happened? Maybe Mommy didn’t like the picture. Would she be happier with another? He tried drawing a picture of himself, but it did not look like him. It looked like a scribble.

  “What did you do?” he asked, jabbing it with his crayon. “What you do?” He stabbed at it again and again until the crayon broke. “You know the cost? Now I have to clean up. You so annoying. Annoying!” His eyes burned again, everything burned. He curled into a ball, and cried until he fell asleep.

  Alyanna sat on the couch in the playroom with her legs curled underneath her, charcoal and pad in hand. She watched Matthew sleep over the top of her drawing tablet. She sketched the outline of a face. Perhaps there were traces of Carmine in it. She missed him so much that it hurt just to think of him.

  After she cleaned Bananas’s canvas, she had crept downstairs, wanting to make amends for her drunken tantrum. But Matthew was asleep when she got there, and she had not had the heart to wake him. She laid the restored painting at his side, and watched her son’s chest rise and fall. She had decided to draw, because she did not know how else to deal with the rage inside her.

  She re–examined her work. Yes, she had definitely drawn Carmine. Her late husband seemed to haunt her thoughts. He had been strong, always so curious, and full of wonder. His work had kept him busy, but he had still managed to find time for her. Most of all, he had put up with her and her mood swings. She knew that she was canonizing her late husband, but she did not care. He had loved her. When she had told him about their son growing inside her, he had actually cried. Then came the crash, and when she had woken from her coma, she discovered she was a widow, and their unborn son would be fatherless.

  She turned her attention back to her sketch. She had made Carmine’s head far too big. It appeared gross, and misshapen. His eyes blazed with the telltale emerald veins of the Burning. That was the cosmic joke. Unlike her, he had not been naturally resistant. He probably would be dead now, anyway.

  “Why did you leave me?” she whispered.

  A chime rang. “Incoming call from Doctor Benjamin Dvorkin,” said Isis.

  She rubbed her temples. “All right,” she said. She heard a click.

  “Hello,” said a raspy voice, before erupting into a coughing fit.

  “Dad?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” her father said, clearing his throat, “just fine. How’s my Matthew?”

  “He’s good,” she said.

  “And how about you? I heard you had some trouble with the E.C.”

  Alyanna sat straight. “Are you spying on me?” she asked.

  “Oh come on,” said Benjamin. “One of the most famous artists in NorMec throws a fit and resigns? You’re all over the entertainment news.”

  She felt her face flush. “I have to go,” she said.

  He took a deep breath. “Alyanna, how is Matthew, really?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I’m retired, but I still have an ear to the ground. Has he shown any signs of the Burning?”

  She scratched her nose. “No,” she said.

  “Keep a careful eye on him, hon, there are rumors going around. It may become an epidemic.” He coughed again.

  “And if he did have it, could you do anything for him?”

  He considered the question. “No,” he said. “No, I guess not. I’d say it’s left up to the younger generation, but I don’t think they’re even trying. All the work I did for nothing. If I were twenty years younger, I’d start all over again.” She sat in silence. “Honey?”

  “You should be,” she said. “You should be out there, trying.”

  “Alyanna…”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “I have to go, Dad, love you.” She hung up before he could reply. She looked at her son, and listened to the wheeze of his sleeping breath. I’d better put some makeup on, she thought, and went to her bedroom in disgust.

  Half an hour later, she fidgeted in the seat of her car as it hovered just outside the Richardson estate. She had come unannounced, and she prayed the old man was home. She undid the first and second buttons of her silk blouse, daring the face in the mirror to say anything.

  “You are cleared,” a voice said over the car’s speakers, pronouncing the last word as “cleahed.” “Please proceed to the driveway.” As if on cue, the shimmering bubble surrounding the estate flickered. A hole just large enough for her car swirled open, and the autopilot brought her through. “Welcome.”

  Richardson’s Jeeves met her at the door. His squat, barrel–shaped body rolled towards her on three silent wheels, his gleaming spherical head tilted in a slight bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Galbraith,” he said with a New England accent.

  “Good evening,” she said. She took off her cloak, and handed it to the ’mestic. A metallic arm extended with a flourish, and unfolded into a coat hanger. She draped her cloak over it.

  “Follow me,” the Jeeves said, rolling across the foyer.

  “What’s your name?” Alyanna asked.

  “Leo,” a voice called from the living room. The speaker stood as they entered, his slender body unfolding like a mantis greeting the sunrise. Eyes the color of burnt coffee peered at her from behind thick lenses. Their owner’s shriveled face tilted to the side as he appraised her.

  “Mister Richardson, Mrs. Galbraith is here to see you,” said Leo.

  “Obviously,” Richardson said with a sigh. “Please, come in, young lady. Leo, get us something
to drink, would you? Is red wine all right?” He addressed the last to Alyanna. “My doctor says it’s good for my heart.”

  “Red is fine, thank you,” she said. Leo sped away.

  “Please, sit down,” said her host, gesturing to a chair.

  She complied. “Leo, I assume, is short for Leonidas?”

  His face broke into a grin. “Very good,” he said. “I don’t find many artists who are also students of history. Of course, the analogy is flawed. He doesn’t exactly tutor, but he does provide me with information. Do you own one?”

  “A Jeeves?” she asked. “No, I have a central computer. My father’s always owned one, though.”

  “And what do you call your computer?”

  “Isis.”

  “Ah,” said Richardson, “goddess of both the high and low, the empresses and the artisan craftsmen alike. So, which are you?”

  She opened her purse, and removed a data card. “If you have a viewer handy,” she said, “I’d be happy to show you.”

  He gestured to the console on the wall. She rose, and inserted the chip. The hologram of her painting sizzled to life.

  The old man stared at it, his lips pursed. “Yes,” he said, “I see that you are both.”

  He rose, folding his hands behind his back. He walked to the projection, and peered at Alyanna’s zhivoi–paint bid. “It’s good, very good,” he said. He rubbed his hands together, the bones moving beneath flesh that hung off them like two oversized rubber gloves. “I can see why Entertainment Corp. kept me from seeing it. I mean, why else would they have tied up my systems?”

  She clenched her hands in her lap, her face emotionless.

  “I don’t know why you came out here, though,” he said, peering at her through lenses as thick as magnifying glass. “I have a contract with the E.C., I can’t go back on it.”

  “How can the contract be valid if they deliberately kept all of the bids from you?” she asked. “Why should they decide what you purchase? Who gave them that right?”

  He raised an eyebrow, and burst into laughter. She felt her cheeks grow warm. “You, young lady, are far too transparent,” he said, waggling a finger at her. He clicked his tongue as Leo returned with their drinks.