Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 (13 page)

He looked at the body, and then coiled back, feeling sick. He heard a crunching sound and raised his foot, too late. On the ground were Hoffman's eyes, staring up at him in a silent accusation, and he had just crushed one of them beneath his shoe.

A shout rose in the damp air. He couldn't tell where it originated. He saw dark-clothed figures moving toward him from several sides, making their way through the many paths that criss-crossed the pools.

Then a hand grabbed him roughly by the elbow and a voice, smoky and rough and close to his ear, said, "You bloody fool. You utter, bloody fool."

A shot echoed in the air. The man who had grabbed him was long and tall and willowy, dressed in loud, summery clothes: he looked like a wealthy tourist but for the large Colt in his hand.

"Could you not wait?" he said to him, almost hissing. "Your instructions were clear enough, I should think. Now look at the mess you're in."

He waved the gun at the approaching figures and shouted, "Stay back!"

One of the figures threw something at them, and a cloud of smoke erupted around them. The man beside Orphan said, "Damn," and dragged him away. In moments they were racing over the path toward the exit, with the black-clothed figures in close pursuit.

The man shot back at them, twice. One of the figures fell, rolled, and hit one of the pools with a splash. The others continued to follow.

Orphan felt the breath tear out of him as he ran, following the thin man. They had reached the doors and burst outside into sunlight. "Come on," the man said and, still gripping him, stirred him over the bridge across the Seine, toward the Victoria Hotel.

The black-clothed figures did not come out of the cathedral. For the moment, there was no pursuit. The thin man and Orphan entered through the doors of the Victoria and the thin man led him directly up the stairs, until they were outside Orphan's room.

"Open the door," the thin man said. Orphan obeyed.

"Now shut it behind you and lock it," the thin man said. Orphan could no longer see his gun.

Orphan sat down on the bed. The thin man stood before him, gazing out on the cathedral through the open window.

"So," the thin man said.

"What just happened?" Orphan said, "And who the hell are you?"

"You can call me Mr. Fogg," the thin man said. "And what just happened is that you're an idiot."

Orphan digested this in silence. Fog, in his garish clothes and without his gun, looked ridiculous. His face, however, with thin lips curled in distaste and small, cold eyes, looked anything but.

"You were set up," Fogg said. "I don't know—yet—by whom. What were you doing in the cathedral?"

"Hoffman approached me," Orphan said. "I thought..."

"You thought he was an agent of the Bookman? That tin man? That mechanical shitting duck? Spare me."

"How do I know
you're
the Bookman's agent?" Orphan said with a courage he didn't quite feel.

"You ever want to see your sweetheart Lucy again, you better start knowing," Fogg said carelessly. "Here." And he pulled out a slim volume from his back pocket and handed it to Orphan. It was vellum-bound, with gilt lettering on the front that announced the title in Gothic script. The letters spelled out a single word:
Orphan.

Orphan opened it. The book was empty.

"Touch your thumb to the center of the page," Fogg said. Orphan did, and a moment later the paper changed and seemed to shift, and faint letters began to appear on the page.

It was, Orphan thought, a cruel joke: for what appeared on the opposite page was a line-drawing, and it was of Lucy, smiling, waving at him from inside the book, where she was held prisoner. And then the text, that said only, "Do as Mr. Fogg tells you. Remember our bargain. The Bookman."

"Now close it," Fogg said. He took the book back from Orphan and put it into the metal bucket underneath the sink. There was a small, almost-silent explosion, and sparse, pale smoke rose from the bucket.

"Satisfied?"

No, Orphan thought, but outwardly he merely nodded his head.

"So," Fogg said again. "It looks like the Turk's people were trying to subvert you, and someone else—I'd suspect
Les Lézards'
agents here on the continent—both got rid of that nuisance automaton and managed to frame you for its murder. You do know the French consider it murder? Barbarous, but there you go."

Orphan digested this new information. "So I'm wanted for murder?" he said, a hint of disbelief entering his voice. How did I get myself into this? he thought. A couple of hours ago I was meeting famous writers and eating lunch, and now—this?

"It looks like it," the thin man said. "You're going to have to leave Paris tonight."

He began to pace around the room, like a man used to the exact confines of a cell. Three steps up, three steps down. Never varying. His hands were clasped behind his back. The smoke from the bucket had stopped. Orphan looked inside and saw only a fine black powder.

"Leave that alone," Fogg said irritably. "I need to think." Orphan settled on the bed and glared at the wall. I didn't ask for any of this, he thought.

Finally, Fogg stopped moving. "Stay here," he said, "keep the door locked. I will come back for you. Don't let anyone else in."

Before Orphan could say anything he was gone, and the door closed behind him with a bang. Orphan was left alone in the room, wishing he was somewhere, anywhere, else.

A loud knock on the door woke him. He felt groggy and bad-tempered; for a moment he could not recall where he was.

"Open up, and quickly!" said a voice behind the door. It was Fogg's.

Orphan stood up. Outside the sun was setting over the cathedral. The building glowed in its greenish light, like a sore in the wounded land of the island it rested on. He opened the door.

"Come with me!" Fogg said. He was now dressed in a somber suit and, bizarrely, wore a convention name-tag that announced him as
M. Lecoq.

"Hurry up!" Fogg said. Orphan took his small traveling bag and followed Fogg through the corridor and down the stairs: but instead of leaving the hotel as he felt sure they would, Fogg led him to that same hall in which the convention's opening ceremony had earlier taken place.

The room was already in darkness, but for a few scattered lamps casting a dim light from the walls. The room was also, Orphan saw with surprise, full, and he and Fogg took seats at the last row at the back. "Now keep quiet," Fogg said, "and wait."

Suddenly, bright light illuminated the empty stage, and Jules Verne strode onto the platform, smiling like a conjurer.

"Mesdames et messieurs!"
he said, spreading his arms wide, "Ladies and gentlemen!
Bienvenue
and welcome back!"

Orphan half-heartedly joined the clapping.

"We are gathered here for perhaps the most important part of today's festivities," Verne said, and his eyes twinkled. "At least, I am sure it seems that way to the authors in question."

There was general laughter. Orphan saw Herb sitting in the front row, looking tense.

"I refer, of course," Verne said, "to the award ceremony. The annual presentation of
Le Prix Hugo!"

His voice was drowned in clapping. Verne beamed and spread his hands wide. Orphan sat tense in his chair, not understanding why they were there instead of getting out of Paris. Beside him Fogg sat serenely in his seat, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even.

I can't believe he's
sleeping,
Orphan thought, aghast. I need to get out of here.

"Stay where you are," Fogg said, and one eye opened and looked at Orphan. "And keep quiet." And he closed his eye and looked as asleep as if he had never even spoken.

Orphan subsided with a grimace.

"The
Prix Hugo,"
Jules Verne said, "or the Hugo Award, for our Anglophone friends, is named after that great writer of the imaginary and the marvelous, of the unknown and the unexplained, the one and only Victor Hugo." He took a deep breath. "Hugo, one of the founding fathers of our genre, was the first president of the
Société du Roman Scientifique et de la Fiction Étrange,
which was founded in the wake of the Quiet Revolution. It is in honor of Victor Hugo—who passed away only three years ago—that we give this award, for the best works in the field of scientific romance and weird fiction." He stopped and gazed over the audience, and it seemed to Orphan, if only momentarily, that Verne was looking directly at
him,
and that, before he turned away, had nodded to him.

"E.T.A Hoffman was meant to present the awards," Verne said, his voice booming over the enraptured audience, "but, alas, he has gone missing."

There was a small burst of laughter from the crowd. Orphan felt sick.

"Instead," Verne called, "we have the rare honor, the great privilege, of presenting none other than—"

He never finished the introduction and, subsequently, Orphan never did learn who was to present the awards; nor did he ever find out who won the
Prix Hugo
that year.

The doors of the hall opened, and two men entered. On the podium Jules Verne fell quiet. The crowd, with a confused murmur, turned to the doors.

He knew one of the men, Orphan realized. It was Fix, the detective from the train. The man beside him had dark, curly hair, with a fastidious moustache and a high forehead that seemed to gleam in the light of the room.

"Auguste Dupin," the man announced into the expectant air of the room, "of the
Sûreté."
He motioned to his companion. "Detective Fix, Scotland Yard. Please, do not attempt to leave the room. I have stationed officers outside."

Verne had left the podium and sat in the first row, looking bemused. The same short, balding man who earlier concluded Verne's opening speech, and was patently one of the organizers, rose and began speaking in rapid French.

"Please," Dupin said, raising a hand to silence him. "Detective Fix?"

Fix coughed pointedly. "Inspector Dupin has asked me to come along on this investigation. Due to the nature of things"—he didn't quite elaborate what that was— "we shall use, aha, the Queen's tongue for the moment."

There was an angry murmur from the crowd, but Dupin smiled. He had the smile of a charming snake, one used to capturing its prey. Beside Orphan, the apparently sleeping Mr. Fogg sank deeper into his chair.

Dupin barked an order, and a man came shuffling in through the door. He was a punk, Orphan saw. His head was shaven and painted in stripes of yellow on green, and he hissed into the air, a forked tongue darting out in a grotesque imitation of a lizard. His clothes were black leather, torn in places to reveal a skin that was striped like his head.

"Can you point him out?"

The punk unhurriedly scanned the room of faces, beginning near the podium and working his way to the back. Orphan shrank back in his seat, feeling helpless and afraid. His palms sweated, and his heart beat faster with the approach of that unrelenting gaze.

"Him," the punk said laconically. His long finger ended in a sharp-looking talon.

He was pointing directly at Orphan.

Two uniformed officers appeared through the door and moved toward Orphan. Beside him, Fogg did not stir. Orphan wanted to shout at him, to rouse him from inactivity, to make him do something.

But there is nothing either of us can do, he thought, and he rose slowly, feeling helpless, at the approach of the officers.

The officers, flanking him on either row of chairs, led him to the doors, and left him before Dupin and Fix.

"You!" Fix said. He smiled suddenly, a cold, victorious smile. "From the moment I saw you I knew you were up to no good," he said, looking satisfied. Then the smile left him and he said, "If only I had been more diligent, perhaps monsieur Hoffman would still be alive."

"What?"—"Who?"—"What are you saying?"—"The Hoff?"—"Impossible!" were the exclamations from the audience. Orphan suddenly felt as if he were playing a part in a bad French farce.

"You know him?" Dupin said, and then, "Of course. He must have come over at the same time you did."

"Precisely," Fix said.

Dupin gave Orphan a long, calculating look. Then he smiled, and the smile transformed his face and made him appear both young and warm. "Your papers, please, monsieur," he said, reaching out his hand. Orphan, who had not said a word so far, reached into his pocket and brought out the passport.

"Homer Chapman," Dupin said. Then, "Interesting."

He clicked his fingers. The young punk was taken out, still hissing, and the two uniformed policemen then shut the doors of the hall and stood with their backs to them, guarding the exit. Fix looked surprised.

"Are you not going to arrest him for the murder?" he said.

"Not so soon," Dupin said, and his smile curved around itself. He began pacing up and down the room, to the podium and back. The heads of the audience followed his movement, a sea of eyes fastened on the detective. Not Herb, though. He was looking at Orphan, and his eyes betrayed confusion, but also an obvious sympathy for Orphan, as if he were asking his friend to keep up his spirits, that this was obviously just a ghastly mistake.

Dupin spread his hands wide; a theatrical gesture, Orphan thought irritably. Since coming to France he had been locked into some grotesque production, cast in the main role by unknown architects. Charge me or let me go, he thought. Fogg was still seemingly asleep in the shadows.

"Mesdames et messieurs,"
Dupin said, opening his hands wide as if to embrace the whole room. He reminded Orphan, and no doubt some of the assembled cast, of Verne's own antics. What was it about the French, Orphan wondered—they do so like their public performances.

"A heinous crime has taken place in our beautiful city. It is to my great regret that you, our honored guests, must be faced with such evil—" he brought his hands together in a clap, and several people in the audience jumped at the sound—"but there it is. Evil has struck, here, in your very midst."

"What is the meaning of this?" said the short balding man. "I do not know who this young man, this
Homer Chapman,
is. He is not one of us. If he is guilty, please take him away. What has it to do with us?"