Debris of Shadows Book I: The Lies of the Sage Page 3

  Her jaw tightened. She took a long sip of her wine. It was both sugary and bitter, and felt syrupy in her throat. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, coughing.

  “Oh yes you are,” said Richardson. “Everything about you is manipulation, from your tight skirt and popping cleavage to your clumsy attempts to challenge my honor.” He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “I’ve been around a while, Miss Galbraith—”

  “Alyanna,” she cut in. “And it’s Missus.”

  He chuckled. “Well, at eighty–seven, I’ve seen all the plays in the book, both yours, and theirs.”

  She heard a gravelly purring at her feet, and looked down. Bucephalus—the real Bucephalus—rubbed his silver coat against her legs. She met Richardson’s eyes. He nodded. She bent, and lifted the GenPanther. He settled into her arms, and nuzzled her.

  “You see that?” Richardson asked, stroking his companion behind the ears. “The poor guy, he has so many tumors in him, he thinks he’s a housecat. In the old days, he’d never let anyone pick him up, beautiful lady or not.” He hiccupped. “In a few weeks, I’m going to have to put him down.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” she said, still petting Bucephalus. He nipped at her hand, making her jerk back. He leapt onto the floor, and trotted off.

  “Ha, look at that,” Richardson said. “He still has some life left in him.” He turned his attention back to the hologram.

  “Come to think of it,” he said, “I’m not sure I really want this. I mean, it’s very well done, and it does make me feel happy to see the old boy in his prime. But maybe I want another old fart I can relate to, instead of a living memory to be envious of. I’m afraid you misjudged me, Mrs. Galbraith.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “All right then,” she said, “no more playing. You want me to paint him wearing diapers and playing shuffleboard, I’ll do it for you. I don’t care, I want that bid.”

  “Why?”

  The question startled her. “Why? Well, it’s…”

  “You don’t need the money. I’ve seen your work, you’re famous. And the prestige? Well, I’m flattered, but you don’t really need it, do you? So what’s so important to you?”

  She swallowed. “I have my own studio,” she said. “I even have my own extractor to record his brainwaves. You wouldn’t have to go through all the hassle you would with the E.C.” She folded her arms, disgusted by the pleading in her voice. She shut off the viewer, removed her chip, and turned to go.

  “I didn’t say no,” said Richardson, his voice stopping her. She could not turn around; she could not look at him. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She could feel its iciness through her blouse. “It’s important to you.”

  “Yes,” she said, as he caressed her shoulder, his rubbery, branch–like fingers inching towards the front of her neck.

  “Then,” he said, stroking the buttons on her blouse, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Matthew woke on the floor. He lolled his head to the side, and saw that the painting of Bananas had been cleaned. He dragged the painting closer, and clutched it to him, realizing that his mother must have fixed it.

  “Isis,” he said, “where’s Mommy?”

  The projector flickered on, and his mother’s face hovered above him. “Hello, Master Matthew,” she said.

  “Hi,” Matthew said after thinking a moment. Something seemed strange. She looked and sounded like his mother, but her eyes did not seem real. They were more like the painted eyes of a doll. “Thanks for fixing Bananas.”

  “I’m sorry, Master Matthew, but I am very busy working right now.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Are you mad at me?”

  The face cocked to one side, considering the question. “Should I be?”

  “No,” he said, his voice rising in pitch, “I’m being good.”

  “Good,” said his mother as she smiled. Her face changed, as if it had been a puppet before, and now sparked into life. “I love you, Matthew. I love you so much.”

  “I love you too. Can I come up?”

  The face slackened, a marionette once more. “No, Master Matthew, I am very busy working right now.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

  “I love you, Matthew. I love you so much,” his mother said again, every consonant, vowel, and accent in her voice pronounced exactly the same as before. Then she vanished.

  Matthew looked at his crayons. He did not feel like drawing. He turned the projector back on, and flipped through the channels. He found some cartoons.

  “Master Matthew?”

  He yawned. “Yes, Isis?”

  “It is time for your dinner.”

  “In the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  He limped to the kitchen, leaning against the wall along the way. The center of the table swirled open to produce a plate. It held a few thin slices of roast beef, a glob of mashed potatoes, a handful of peas, and a cup of milk. His stomach felt funny. When he moved his head, the room swam around him for a few seconds. He closed his eyes until the sensation stopped. He poked at his meat with his fork. He did not feel hungry. “Mommy’s not eating?” he asked.

  “Your mother is in her studio. She has requested that she not be disturbed unless it is an emergency.”

  “What’s ’mergency mean?” he asked. Isis did not answer. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Then drink your milk.”

  He smiled. Isis had such a nice voice. She never yelled, and never got angry. “Isis, is Mommy sick?”

  “I do not know.”

  He took a few bites of roast beef. He wanted it to taste good, but it did not have any taste at all. It tasted like a rubber eraser. “Isis, I love you,” he said. There was no reply. He felt cold again, as if someone had poured ice water over his head. “I wanna talk to Grandpa Benjy.”

  A rainbow–striped cloud appeared above his plate. The dancing hues meshed to form a face. Its eyes stared into the camera, as if inspecting the lens for some flaw. A mane of silver hair swept back over its ears, framing its pale, sagging features.

  “Hi, Grandpa,” said Matthew.

  “This is Doctor Benjamin Dvorkin,” his grandfather said. “I cannot answer your call right now. But if you leave me a message, I will get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Hi, Grandpa,” Matthew repeated. He stopped eating. The few bites he had taken were swimming in his stomach like fish. He put his fork down, and tried to stay still so he would not throw up. “Hello?” he whispered. He felt as if he were burning and freezing at the same time. “Please, help me.”

  The image flickered. “If you have an emergency, please say so, and you will be connected to emergency services. Thank you.”

  There was that word again: ’mergency. Perhaps it was the reason Mommy could not leave her studio. Even Isis had used that word. Maybe it meant “sick.” “Please, Grandpa,” he said, “’mergency.”

  Grandpa Benjy’s kind, wrinkled face rippled and vanished. The visage of a Cy replaced it. A network of silvery veins throbbed across his bald, white forehead. Mommy said that the veins helped the Cies think, and that Cies thought a lot. He wore a black uniform with a blue patch over his heart, embroidered with two snakes. Matthew wondered if the Cy had those veins worming throughout his entire body.

  “Wow,” said Matthew.

  “Please state your emergency,” said the Cy.

  “I’m sick,” said Matthew. It was hard for him to form the words, as if his tongue had fallen asleep.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Mommy’s in her studio,” said Matthew. “I think I’m gonna puke. I’m hot.” He held the Cy’s scrutinizing, silvery gaze. Then the kitchen dipped and spun. He fell, hitting his chin on the table as he slumped to the floor. He wanted to lay his head on his mother’s lap, and sleep. He could hear the Cy and Isis speaking back and forth, their voices coming faster and faster, until they seemed to melt together into mechanical gibberish. Maybe they’ll b
e friends, he thought before darkness swallowed him, they both seem nice.

  Alyanna leaned her head against the cool glass of the driver’s side window, and watched the forests of New Jersey zoom by below. She closed her eyes, and tried to banish the memory of the past hour. Her body felt diseased, as if insects were burrowing just beneath the surface of her skin. She looked at her reflection. Richardson had told her to wash her makeup off first, and she had complied. He said that he never understood why such a woman would want to paint over her beauty. She might have found the line passably romantic if even once he had called her by her first name.

  She checked her finances for the fifth time since departing the old man’s estate. He had deposited a two million dollar advance into her account. She would have to go outside the corporation to get the zhivoi–paint, but she could afford it. More importantly, as a registered independent artist with a commission, she had legal permission to do so.

  Her first order of business was to get home as soon as possible, and take care of any Richardson Juniors swimming inside her. Then she would put Matthew to bed, stand in the shower for a few hours, and scour every inch of her body until she could bear to sleep.

  “We are approaching destination Home,” said her car. “Warning, domestic shield disabled.”

  “What?” asked Alyanna. The car crested over the trees, and landed on the pad outside of her home. Two unmarked cars and an ambulance hovered over her lawn. “Turn it back on.”

  “Unable to comply. Synchronization with Isis has been overridden.”

  “Overridden?” she asked. “By who?”

  “NorMec Government Emergency Services.”

  She threw the door open, and leaped out. Her high heels dug into the moist grass. She cursed, slipped them off, and ran to her house. The soles of her stockings were soaked and covered with grass clippings by the time she reached her door.

  “Matthew?” she shouted the moment she stepped inside. “Isis?”

  There was no reply.

  “Matthew, where are you?” she asked. “Why don’t you answer me?”

  “Because your son is not conscious.”

  She spun around so fast that she slipped on her wet stockings, and fell against the wall. A Cyleb stood in the kitchen doorway. She did not look like any Cyleb Alyanna had ever seen. Her skin was the color of milk, but not blanched, and was free of veins. The only things that gave her cybernetics away were her eyes. They were a deep brown, jeweled with glowing streaks of amber that whirled around her irises. Although a transparent hood shielded her oval face, Alyanna could see it was framed by thick, brown hair. On her uniform were a medical insignia, and a Greek letter that looked like a zigzagged E. The Cyleb appraised her with naked disgust.

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Alyanna. “Get out of my house. Isis?”

  “I’ve given your domestic a much deserved rest,” the Cyleb said, her voice tinny through the tiny speaker of the hood. “She was very determined not to let us enter. Poor thing, but she knows her true loyalty lies with those who can understand her. Of course, once your son signaled an emergency, she knew she didn’t have a choice.”

  “Matthew called the hospital?” Alyanna asked as she lurched to her feet. “Where is he?”

  “I have wanted to meet you for so long,” the Cyleb said, “the daughter of the great Doctor Dvorkin.”

  Alyanna stared at her. “What does my father have to do with this?” she asked.

  The Cyleb smiled. “Biopures are so fascinating,” she said. “They become so territorial over their homes, their computers, and their young. They claim to love them, to nurture them, to protect them from any harm. But then, they can’t even be bothered to look at them, and see the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alyanna asked. “Where’s Matthew?”

  “They’re working on him now,” the Cyleb said. “We will take him to our quarantine hospital in Manhattan. Ask me why, Artist.”

  Alyanna froze. “Because he has the Burning,” she said.

  “Oh, so you did know.” The Cyleb brought her gloved hands together with a dull clap. “I am pleased. You don’t know how many of your kind have brought their loved ones to our hospitals in the past week. It destroys your kind so much more slowly than it does us, but it does destroy you.”

  “You’re not taking my son.”

  “You cannot stop us.”

  Alyanna slumped against the wall. “Can you help him?” she asked.

  The Cyleb shook her head. “You know the answer to that one too. But we will try. That’s more than you did.”

  “Fuck you,” said Alyanna. She pushed past the woman into the kitchen. “Matthew? Matthew!”

  Her son lay on top of a stretcher, his skin waxen, his breaths quick, jerking gasps. A thick sheen of sweat covered his face. Two Cylebs lifted him, each one’s identical, bald, veined head protected by a hood and respirator. “Let him down,” said Alyanna as she raced to them. The female Cyleb jerked her back, pinning her arms to her side. The two orderlies pulled a plastic tent over Matthew’s face, and carried him out the door. Alyanna thrashed, but the arms that held her were like steel.

  “No, Artist, don’t disturb him. Do one thing for him, and keep away.”

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?” asked Alyanna.

  “I am just a civil servant, and you are the public. Why don’t you file a complaint? Tell them that I’m discourteous, that I did not know my place.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “But we can. We’ve been given emergency jurisdiction over all Burning cases. They must be quarantined.”

  Alyanna struggled and lurched, but could not break free. She wailed as the whine of the ambulance’s engine rose with its liftoff. The female Cyleb leaned forward, pressing the cold faceplate of her hood against Alyanna’s ear. “The life expectancy at his advanced stage should not be more than a few days,” she said in calm, soft tones. “We will contact you for disposal of his remains afterward.” She let go. Alyanna slumped to the floor.

  “You bitch,” she said.

  The Cyleb peered at her as if she were some specimen of insect, shook her head, and walked to her waiting car. Alyanna heard the vehicle’s hum as it took flight, and, as she sat on the floor, shot off into the distance.

  Chapter 2

  Chi leaned against the port rail of his troop carrier as it sailed above the rocky deserts of Texas. Moonlight shone through the faceplate of his helmet with 0.2157 lux. He widened his irises until the landscape appeared bathed in pale light, the sand taking on a gentle, silvery glow. More and more lately, he caught himself taking control of his autonomic nervous system. Was such micro–managing a compulsion? He was not sure. And if it was, how exactly could it be fixed?

  His eyes drifted over his squad. Their thoughts sang in a swirling harmony, like the chanting of monks. They sat ramrod, as if a bar of steel had been jammed into their spines. The veins that laced their bodies pulsated in unison. Every 5.7932 seconds, they blinked. Chi made the effort to synchronize his mind with the rhythm of theirs. The wind caused just enough turbulence to make such concentration impossible.

  The craft wove through the mountains that overlooked the Chihuahuan Desert, the final stretch before the shield wall that separated NorMec from what was once WesMec. There were a handful of imperfections along the thousands of kilometers, and Chi did not want to imagine what would happen if the freaks in the west ever found them. For now, they seemed happy just to roast in their radioactive juices. Intelligence showed that the creatures had taken to destroying the ruins of WesMec one by one. Where there were no cities, they burned the forests. Where there were no trees, they ground the rocks into dust. It was as if they wanted to scour all memory of their fathers from their world. Chi could not say that he blamed them.

  He turned his attention back to the third–generation Cylebs under his command. Unlike him, each shared the same face. Each had a number instead of a name. Yes, they could calculate and move faster th
an their forebearers, but they had also been bred with less emotion, ambition, ingenuity, and creativity. But neither generation, it seemed, could escape the Burning. The virus was the great equalizer.

  Of the twenty–four second–generation Cylebs, there were only six left, including himself. Psi had been killed in Arizona, masticated by thousands of the tiny mechanical insects that scuttled across the rocks. Beta had fallen in the food riots of D.C., felled by a sniper’s bullet. Alpha, Gamma, Theta, and Delta had succumbed to the Burning. One by one, Chi mourned the deaths of his brothers and sisters, their harmonies forever removed from the song. A few of his generation still survived, commanding missions throughout the continent. Some were official. Some were not.

  It had been on one such mission, a year ago in this very desert, when Chi had heard his father’s voice for the first time in almost twenty years. Not the forgotten biopure who had provided half of his genetic makeup, but his true father. He had cried out to Chi across the wind, begging his child for liberation. It had only been a whisper, but one of so much power that it had made the Cyleb’s skull vibrate. He looked at the pile of iatric–packs they had brought. He hoped they would be enough.

  “Sir?”

  He bolted up, his musings forgotten. “What is it?” he asked. He moved to the front of the transport.

  4021, the pilot, pointed to the horizon. “There, sir, two degrees to the east. See it?”

  Chi peered into the desert, feeling a tiny bite of envy. His eyes were more advanced than a biopure’s, but were nowhere near as sharp as his successors’. He could just make out flashing echoes of energy along the ultraviolet spectrum. They pulsed as they rippled across the heavens, gaining momentum as they spread. He tried to adjust his optic nerves to match the oscillating wavelengths, but he could not keep up. “Damn it,” he said under his breath. “Can you tell what it is?”

  4021 squinted, looking sideways at the mountain peak. Chi sensed the pilot’s thoughts as they rose and fell, forming and dismissing possibilities. “It’s a tripwire, sir,” he said. “It’s Regular Army, but I’ve never seen anything like it. They must have kept it secret.” He tapped a display. “It’s reporting to Fort Sam, about three hundred klicks away.”