A Game of Universe (25 page)

“Farewell,” the Queen said, her voice receding.

I channeled the energy, focused upon the statue in my living room—light-years away. Soldiers emerged from the cloud of dust. The Ambassador was nowhere to be seen.

The church distorted then dissolved.

One of the red knights pointed at me and shouted, “That’s him. He’s here.”

Shots fired at us, through us. The hair on my arms and the back of my head stood.

The world vanished.

17

T
he chapel fell away and we entered a dimension of blackness, frigid and quiet save the warmth of the princess next to me and the beating of my heart.

Pieces of another place solidified around us: the Louis XXXII sofa with its arms of delicate walnut double helixes, and the green and cream Chinese rug from the same century. Then my coffee table appeared, a floating slab of Cambrian mudstone, filled with fossilized trilobites. The statue upon the table faded, however. It was the ballast for the
Abridged Manifoldification,
sent to Castle Kenobrac in our place. The bronze sculpture was of a man and woman with their arms and legs tangled in a sensuous, anatomically improbable embrace, and they radiated a warmth that filled my simple abode. I would miss them.

Omar’s mnemonic lore dwindled, along with the last traces of the chapel and the empty in-between spaces. The same energies I had used to swap a pair of cards transported us light-years in the blink of an eye. I exhaled, relieved to be alive and safe and far from Sister Olivia’s men.

Beneath my feet I saw a section of the castle’s floor had been transported with us to balance the load. We had been fortunate that the mental construct had worked at all.

The princess wrenched herself free from my arms. She carefully collected her dress’s train, then sat upon the sofa and arranged the white silk about her so it was symmetric. Perhaps she thought my royal court would be parading in for her inspection. I’d have to set her straight about that.

Be extremely gentle with the girl,
the psychologist whispered.
In the span of moments, she lost her parents, left the only home she had, and married a man who is a stranger. You have brought her to an alien culture, one infinitely more complicated than her feudalistic society. She may undergo a complete breakdown.

Let her crack,
Fifty-five said.
Who cares? We’ve got a Grail to find. What time is it anyway?

I touched my mirror black desk, brought it to life, and neutralized the alarm system. The time from my gold diamond watch flashed into my eyes: sixty-six days thirteen hours remained before I lost my soul. Apparently even Omar’s mnemonic lore was susceptible to special relativity.

Omar had claimed “they” were waiting for me in Hell. That terrified me. What would I give for an extra month? Half of Erybus’s reward? Without hesitation. How long would the
Grail Angel
take to get from here to Golden City? More time than I had? Was I dead already? Panic rose from my stomach, acid that burned along my spine and touched my brain, gnawing upon my confidence.

Relax,
the gambler said.
All the cards haven’t been dealt yet. Get us a drink, then we’ll see if we can’t
find the assassin who stole Osrick’s cup.

A drink. Excellent idea.

Sensing my interest, the desk projected a list of favorites. I picked one at random. A shot of quantum ice materialized, which I downed before it boiled away. That was Virginia’s drink, quantum ice. The thought of her sat uneasy in my mind—not knowing why I felt the way I did for her. What did it matter? She was dead. Wasn’t she? Her pilot’s suit couldn’t have protected her from that blast. But even if she had survived, she was light-years distant. I would never know if she had been a spy or a victim. Loose ends like that bothered me.

How do you feel?
the psychologist asked.

About Virginia? Mind your own business. Otherwise, I’m tired, confused, almost normal I’d say.

And Sir Osrick?

Something is different.
Osrick was still with me, but more like a memory, distant, no longer part of my personality—or, at least, a very small part of it.

I, too, sense a shift in your thinking,
the psychologist remarked.
It is the change in venue. Sir Osrick was strong in Castle Kenobrac, his haunt, if you will. Here, however, deprived of a familiar environment, he is weak.

Is it permanent? Will I be myself from now on?

The psychologist gently touched Osrick with a psychic probe.
It is as if he sleeps,
he answered.
I dare not go deeper. The disturbance may arouse him.

So how do we keep him asleep?

The Osrick personality blended with yours has two major interests: foremost, the welfare of his princess, and second, his obsession to locate the Cup of Regulus. If you concentrate on these issues, then he shall remain satisfied, and dormant. For how long I cannot guess.

Why don’t you offer this princess a drink?
Fifty-five suggested.
That should keep her happy.

I turned to do just that, and saw that she was quietly sobbing on the arm of my sofa. Her white dress was in disarray and clashing with the green swirls of the carpet.

Go to her,
Celeste urged.
Let us comfort this sweet tidbit.

Osrick stirred from his slumber. He wanted to rush to her side, take her hand, and assure her it would all work out for the best. I needed a moment alone, to gaze upon the familiar, and to clear my head of his sophomoric emotions. I went to the eastern wall and made it translucent, then decided to just open the thing and air the place out. It had been months since I was here last, and the whole apartment smelled stuffy. It looked too cave-like for my taste, too much like the Bren’s sunken grotto.

The wall vanished.

Summer afternoon on Earth: cool breeze, sky spackled with clouds, and the scent of freshly cut grass from the vast lawns below. The sun felt good on my face.

My tower sat on the edge of the Corporation’s university, where raw recruits were transformed into cadets. There were parks with giant fig trees and shimmering fountains and red brick buildings covered with ancient ivy. I listened to the music of sighing leaves and splashing water, sounds that I knew well.

On the far side of this valley, gentle hills rose, and past them towered the rugged peaks of the Alps. Encrusting these mountains like jewels in a crown were thirteen gold-mirrored palaces. This was where Umbra Corp’s board of directors lived, controlled their private empires, and enjoyed as much stability as anyone in our profession could. The sun fell behind the mountains, and shadows swelled, a tide rushing in to lap at the edge of the campus where our mausoleum sat, Golgotha. It was a pyramid constructed of jet-black stone, a one-half scale model of the great pyramid of Cheops. This dark triangle stood out against the brilliant snowy summit as if a gigantic white dragon had curled up there, sleeping with one eye open, watching. The location, and the effect of dark on light, was no mistake. It reminded us of the truth of corporate life: advancement or death.

Behind me, the sound of silk rustling, then four delicate steps across the Chinese rug. The princess stood by my side. I saw tear stains on her face, but no grief, only wonder. She inhaled deeply, and with wide eyes surveyed the clouds overhead, then stared at the frothing water spit from the coiled dragon sculpture guarding the entrance to my tower.

I hardly felt a thing for this woman.

Osrick was small and dim in my thoughts, and that was good. Yet, as much as I hated to admit it, the tiny part of him that was me loved her. I had to make that feeling go away—at least until this mission was over.

Don’t let that egghead psychologist fool you
, Fifty-five said.
This so-called girl is dangerous. Remember she’s a sorceress and as old as all of us put together.

Her hand gently alighted on my arm, a lethal touch under those silver gloves. She asked, “My husband, what is this place you have brought me to? I have the oddest feeling that I have been here before.”

What did I tell her? That I was no prince but a professional assassin? That I had brought her to a fraternity of murderers? “It is a school,” I said (which was technically the truth).

“Where your armies and scholars are trained?”

“Something like that.”

She suspects deceit,
warned the psychologist.

“This must be a very special part of your castle then,” she said, “a private chamber where you come to meditate.” She peered into my bedroom, then looked appraisingly over my simple work area, but was drawn to the da Vinci on the west wall.

“Your work?” she inquired.

The
Adoration of The Magi
hanging there was the real one, not a copy. It was a token from the Florentine Emperor for killing his brother and clearing a path to the throne. All those angels and horses and people that stared at the newborn Christ—the image simultaneously attracted and repelled me. “No,” I said, “it was a gift.”

She examined it a moment longer, admiring the way the light illuminated the canvas, then she turned and asked, “This castle of yours, and those I saw in the distance, might I be given a tour of them? And will we begin traveling soon to find the Cup of Regulus? If there is time, I would very much enjoy a stroll through your gardens.” They were questions, but she asked them using an imperial tone, one that made them sound like commands, not requests. I didn’t like it.

“To feel the sun on my skin again,” she said and sighed, “even though its color is so peculiar. It would be a sensation most welcome. And grass! So long since I felt grass beneath my feet—”

“I am afraid, for the time being, that is impossible,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“Those castles you see are not mine. This room is safe for us, but to venture forth, especially dressed as you are, would attract attention. We must take care to—”

Her eyes narrowed, then she smoothed the silk of her dress and replied, “This dress, I will have you know, was woven by a hundred fairies from the sighs of young lovers, produced at an absurd expense. It is
designed
to attract attention.”

“That is exactly my point. There are others who search for the Grail, the Cup of Regulus. If I am seen here, our quest would be jeopardized.” I tried to remain calm. I was exhausted though, and irritated that I had to pamper this princess to appease the ghost sleeping in my mind. “Please, I need you to remain here and stay out of my way.”

“Out of your way?” Her mouth, beautiful and full as it was, straightened to a hard line running parallel to her angry eyes. “How dare you. I shall not be locked in this tower like a prisoner.”

I shut the window, darkened it, too. My patience was at its end.

“You are not leaving,” I said, my own voice rising to match hers. “You’ve waited two hundred years to be free of Osrick’s curse, you can wait another two days. Otherwise, you’ll get us both killed. Do you understand?”

“First,” she pointed a gloved finger at me, “I am not truly your wife to order thusly. Our marriage may be complete in the eyes of the church, but it has yet to be consummated. Second,” another finger sprang forth, “no one may order me to do anything, husband, prince, King, or emperor. And third,” she retracted her hand and folded it across her chest, “I require no one, particularly you, to escort me through that park. I shall go alone.”

She spun about and marched to the door, her silvery train flowing behind her like a small stream. She looked at it, confused, then demanded, “Open this.”

There was no handle on it like the doors she was accustomed to in Castle Kenobrac. This door was eight centimeters of solid alloy and would only budge after my DNA pattern registered upon its surface.

“No,” I replied. “Like I said, you will be staying.”

She hissed through clenched teeth, and for a second looked much like her mother. “I demand to see your King. If he knew that a princess was being treated with such disrespect he would place you in irons.”

I had had enough of this.

“There is no King,” I told her, “and I am no prince. There are no more Kings, nor Queens, nor princesses, my dear Lilian. The last of their kind were buried in that little castle of yours.” This was not exactly the truth. There were plenty of empires ruled by monarchies, but she didn’t need to know that. “You are an antique, a relic I unearthed from the past. Unless you realize that your world has changed and adapt, I’ll have nothing more to do with you. You can find the Cup of Regulus by yourself.”

Her mouth dropped open and her face flushed lavender. She tried to speak, but the words strangled in her throat. She screeched in rage, marched into my bedroom, and slammed it shut.

The psychologist said,
The girl must be treated
—

I ignored him and massaged my temples, tried to regain my focus. The Grail, the Grail first, then I’ll decide what to do with her.

Let me take over,
Celeste said with a heavy sigh.
I can straighten everything out.

I ignored her too and sat at my desk, allowed the display to paint the insides of my eyes with images. The mail icon blinked an urgent orange. With a flick of my eyes, I opened it. The usual junk: anonymous threats, feeble blackmail attempts, and an announcement of the death of number seventeen, which happily advanced my rank from twenty-second to twenty-first. Also, there were two assignments offered. The first I declined immediately, but my eyes lingered on the second. A junior member of our brotherhood defected to the Army of Justice, and betrayed to them our skills and secrets. Umbra Corp wanted him captured alive. I knew they would put him in the top of the pyramid mausoleum, in a special chamber of horrors reserved for such traitors. He’d be kept alive at great expense and tortured for a hundred years.

It’s the least scum like that deserve,
remarked Fifty-five.

I agreed, but secretly sympathized with the renegade. I’d leave the Corporation too if I could. Fifty-five and Medea, however, had too much loyalty to the brotherhood; they’d never let me go.

The thought of this doomed man stuck in the back of my mind as I entered the Corp’s obituary files. My fate would be infinitely worse if I didn’t find the Grail in time.

Numbers and names filled a matrix trailing off into the infinite, over six hundred years of glorious deaths. I’d be lucky if the thief who pilfered Osrick’s tomb was in here. If he lived, his files would be sealed and impossible to access. As it was, locating him in all this would be no easy task. I only had the dim memory of Osrick to reconstruct his face, and he could have altered it a dozen times before he died.

Carefully, I selected the appropriate features: a square jaw line, smooth high forehead, small black eyes, and a nose that had been broken a few times. When I had a decent match to Osrick’s recollection, I let the desk search the database.

In the reflection of the desk, I saw my own face, slightly blurred. With so many other personas with faces of their own, and me changing my features after every mission, it was impossible to remember what I looked like before I came here.