Ecko Endgame (49 page)

“It really isn’t that hard,” Grey said. “Your boss has resisted me for years. Collator is her whole organisation, mind and matter, plot and personnel. That you would undergo her Rorschach was inevitable. When she brought you home from your fall, she linked you up, and my virus became a part of your Rorschach’s very earliest coding. You might say I was there from the beginning, from the world’s very creation. I gave your world its nemesis.” Ecko was staring at him, his oculars fixed on normal vision and his blood freezing in his veins. His friends lay at his feet, unmoving.

Inside and outside – it was like they were the
same.

Watching Ecko’s expression, Grey was unceasing, relentless. “I was there from the concept stage. I was the void into which the Goddess was born. I was the vast creature bound by the arrival of Time. And then, in my limitation and worldly exile, I dwelt upon Rammouthe, long before the Kas came. I destroyed the Ilfe, so the world would forget. I am the horror that Roderick witnessed in the water, that Ress found in the Library. I am the virus that infected Collator, infected your crafted world. As Eliza is your World Goddess, so I am Kazyen.”

Oh motherfucking shit.

Kazyen.

The Final Boss.

Of
course
he fucking was. He’d been there all along. In the core code.

Forgotten.

Waiting.

Ecko had a momentary flash, a memory of the Bard in this very room saying, “…I believe you’re a part of that vision. That future.” He stared at Grey, could find no words, no smart-mouthed comeback. He was kicking himself.

But Grey hadn’t finished.

“Of course,” he said, “Eliza knew the virus was there, and she fought me. Nivrotar was her core strategy, and she orchestrated well, but not well enough.” Grey loomed, right in Ecko’s face. “Despite the Lord of Amos’s manipulations, despite the success of the pattern she crafted, the virus has proven the stronger.” He gestured at the others, fallen blank to the floor. “In short, I won.” He smiled. “And so here they lie, all those little snippets of carefully crafted code, your friends, now abandoned in nothing, never to awaken or return.”

I won.

Never to awaken or return.

The world created for you has died, Ecko, because you failed to save it.

Time you bid your world farewell, your Gods tonight…

Ecko’s knees had folded, he was back on the floor. Triqueta still stared across Redlock’s chest, empty. The Bard’s Mom-crafted throat was just so much cold-steel piping.

“I am the void,” Grey said, “the first God and the last, the beginning and the end. In me, all love dies, all light fades, all darkness flees. I am Grey. I am the true heart of all things.”

Ecko could see it now – see it like rot in the rug. In London – his London – Grey was the crafter of passivity, of somnolence and social obedience, of the passionless drift in which the people lived their lives. In the Varchinde, that emptiness was manifest, like an elemental soul in its own right, and it had sucked all of the life from the world.

Ecko stared at the decay in the carpet, at the dust that had settled in the eyes of his friends.

His friends who had fallen because he’d failed.

“You’ve given this a brave effort,” Grey said. “Yet believe me,” he dropped to one knee to lay a hand on Ecko’s shoulder, a sympathetic older brother, a priest blessing a damned man, “you could have done many things better.” His gaze fell on Triqueta, and he smirked. “Your friends suffered horribly because of your distance and stubbornness. You could have saved Redlock, saved Amethea, saved the Bard his transformation.” He shook his head sadly. “So, so many mistakes.”

Mistakes.

You could have done better.

You could have saved Redlock, saved Amethea, saved the Bard his transformation.

…They sleep in hell.

His friends stared at the tavern’s crumbling roof, their eyes full of Nothing.

Nothing surrounded them, surrounded the dead Wanderer.

There was no way out, and no way Ecko could live with what he’d done.

He saw again the scars on Grey’s wrists and he understood that eventually, when it was all too much to be borne, the numbness offered was actually welcome.

He didn’t feel himself topple sideways.

Didn’t feel the Nothing as it settled into his soul.

But he did hear the heavy boot, the splitting, juddering impact as it struck.

And he did hear the door slamming back hard onto its hinges.

What?

Ecko blinked and stirred, trying to focus through engulfing layers of grey. There was dust in his mouth. The door teetered and swung crazily, one hinge broken. His vision was blurred, but there, in the dark of the hallway…

No. You can’t be…

He swallowed, spat. His adrenaline kicked, struggled to fire, failed.

No…

It was a massive, heavy-shouldered shadow – a looming shape that didn’t give a motherfucking shit for the Nothing outside the broken tavern, or for the despair that dwelled within.

Ecko tried to sit up, tried to remember fear, anger, friendship, betrayal. So many times, so many things he’d wanted to say – Christ, he couldn’t recall any of them now.

Grey had turned from the window and smugness both and was staring at the doorway like a horror-movie victim.

Caught.

He whispered, “You can’t be here.”

But the figure was moving, black-clad and bristling with fury. Unable to stand, his muscles water, Ecko had no words, no belief. He stared.

I’ll only have to tell you that I failed…

His stirring emotions evaporated, and left a dirt that felt like dread.

The figure came into the light and Ecko saw that his blond beard was long and ragged, untrimmed as if for weeks, that the hair on the back of his shaven head had grown into a comedy-thin blond fringe. His eyes were wild, pupils the size of hubcaps. But his heavy leather, the jeans, the oil stains – they were all just the same.

Lugan.

He managed the word, but couldn’t say it aloud.

Lugan.

Beyond hope, beyond the end of all things, Lugan was
here.

Stupidly, Ecko wanted to apologise.
I didn’t do it, I didn’t know about the virus, I swear, I didn’t, I tried my hardest
… But his vision was clearing and there were so many questions and Lugan was moving too fast. The big man crossed the mouldering carpet and dragged Ecko off the floor, holding his shoulders and staring into his face like some long-lost fucking brother.

“You fucking twat,” he said.

Grey had retreated to the far wall, his eyes wide. Whatever the hell game he was playing, Lugan was not a part of it.

Ecko stammered, “You’re… you’re not here.”

Lugan released his shoulders and held up a tiny, light-emitting diode. “You little bastard, I’ve come all this bleedin’ way!”

But Ecko’s legs wouldn’t hold him, and he fell back to the floor.

Grey was shouting, striving for authority and failing, “You! Eastermann! You’re not supposed to be here! How did you…?”

“I’m the contingency, mate. Y’know, just in case.”

Ecko stammered syllables, his heart hammering.

Grey stared at Lugan as if The Wanderer would tumble down around his ears.

But Lugan stood like some black-clad Goliath, more solid than the tavern itself. He looked along the line of the others – his eyes stopped briefly on the Bard – then he turned away.

Turned back to Grey, grinning stains and nicotine.

“You been double-crossed,” he said. “But you’ll stew in that shit soon enough. What matters now is finishin’ this.” He said to Ecko, “You didn’t get all the way ’ere to go arse-over-tit at the final jump, didja?”

“Final… what?” Ecko licked cracked lips, struggled for words. The nothing was still in his head, filling him with his regrets, with failures and losses. Better to give up than live in pain. His gaze dropped to the rotted carpet, to his own now-bared feet, the colours of the mould in his skin. “I fucked this
up
, Luge.” Tails of misery chased though his system. “It’s over an’ I lost. They,” he glanced at the others, “they’re all here ’cause of me. The program failed. Collator got a fucking virus. The world
died
!”

Lugan brandished the diode. “I didn’t follow you ’ere to let you
quit.
”

Pain twisting, Ecko said, “But why the hell should I believe you? You’re just another trick, another layer, another fucking game—”

“Bloody ’ellfire, enough with the melodrama.” Lugan chuckled. “I’ve chased you all the way from fuckin’ London. From Mom’s lair. From batshit Escher ruins on the wrong side of the Kartiah. Through my very own fuckin’ vision quest. I followed you, you little shit, because I ain’t a quitter – and neither’re you.”

“But I failed!” Ecko gestured at the empty eyes of Triqueta. “It was all for nothing – all the fighting, all the hate, all the anger. All that kickin’ back an’… Chrissakes, Luge, I did it all
wrong
…”

Something in him was saying,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
, as if the figures on the floor could hear him.

“Quit whinin’.” Lugan closed a hand at the front of his shirt. He glanced briefly at the scar Amal had given him, then glared into Ecko’s black eyes. “It’s all bullshit, mate, virus an’ everythin’ – all spin an’ bollocks to make you quit. You’re not ’ere.”

“What?” Ecko’s response was a whisper, “What the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

“We’re still in The Wanderer, you twat. We’re under the Varchinde. This is the final level, the last confrontation. I came ’ere to tell you – you’re still plugged in.”

We’re still in The Wanderer.

Under the Varchinde.

Ecko couldn’t process the knowledge, but Lugan hadn’t stopped. “Think about it, you dozy bugger. This is Grey.” Lugan jerked a thumb at the doc. “We know ’oo ’e is. An’ all this time, you’ve been fightin’ against the program makin’ you normal – breakin’ down ’oo you are. You been tellin’ Eliza you weren’t gonna give in, be good, take all your tablets an’ go to bed with a nice ’ot cuppa tea.”

Ecko’s oculars suddenly focused sharp, his understanding swelling.

What the fuck?

He pieced it together, staring demented.

Grey’s the bad guy. Grey, with his social conformity, his lack of freedom and expression, his fucking pacifier drugs…

And if Grey’s the bad guy…

“Then I’m s’posed to be manic,” Ecko said, slowly. “I’m s’posed to be out of control. Insane. Inane.” His thoughts were gathering pace now. “Oh yeah, add your own descriptions for good measure…”

It was filling him now, elation, relief, understanding. The glorious irony of it made him cackle, and then laugh aloud – a full-on belly laugh that was unlike any sound he’d ever made in his entire life.

All this time – and the joke was on him – and fuck it was
funny.

Framing this realisation, finally and completely, felt like some huge relief – like all the tension and anger had just drained out of him, down into the carpet.

Time your world farewell be kissed, unless you find the catalyst.

The thing that makes change, without being changed itself.

Ecko felt like he could laugh forever, laugh until he cried. Lugan was right – this was his final confrontation. And he would win it by simply being who he was. Had always been.

The program ended here.

It ended with the death of Doctor Slater Grey, his Final Level Boss.

The death of Kazyen.

Ecko was falling.

Down between sleeping and waking, between dreaming and consciousness. Even as he felt the sensation, he jolted awake like he’d smacked into the sidewalk.

What the…?

He was startled, confused, had no clue where he was. His dreams had been so absolutely clear, but there was no remaining lassitude in which to reach for them. They were gone like they’d still been falling when he’d been jerked so rudely away.

His heart was thundering and he…

Christ. He couldn’t breathe.

He panicked, gagged, heaved a crisp and antiseptic lungful. It made him cough. His mouth tasted like a bear’s ass.

Jesus, what the hell’d he
done
? Meth?

There was a cold touch on one eyelid, then colours in his vision, bright in his brain. They were blinding, and he flinched, tried to blink and turn away.

“Oculocephalic response indicates consciousness.” The voice was female, warm and calm. The metal touch came again, carefully lifting the other eyelid. More colours exploded – electrons, neurons, fractals. He tried to raise an arm and bat the invader aside. “Ascending reticular activating system functional, brainstem stabilising. Sensory input via thalamic pathway stable. Integrity of cerebral cortex plus ninety-seven percent and climbing. Oxygen levels good; no evidence of hypoxia. Heart rate, breathing, circulation all elevating nicely.” The woman gave a slight chuckle. “Take a note: subject regained consciousness at… 5:03 a.m.” She exhaled, relief or weariness. “And that, would be project complete. In the words of the prophet – I think we bloody did it.”

The light withdrew, and the touch let his eyelid drop once more.

We bloody did what?

Ecko grimaced, swallowed, licked gummed lips. He wanted to tell this woman where to shove it, prophet and all, but his face was lined with ulcers where he’d chewed the insides of his cheeks, and everything was lead weights and slo-mo. Chrissakes, he felt like his whole damned body belonged to someone else. And there was this odd, ticklish shimmer in his nerve-endings, like everything’d been numb…

The sensation was a frisson, a first skittering of alarm. What the hell’d hit him? A truck? As he slowly allowed his awareness to expand, he picked up the hum of a purifier, and a soft, soothing double-thump that kept pace with his heart.

Uh-oh…

Carefully, he tried to open his eyes, but they, too, were gummed and squicky. Instead, he said, “Whmf…?”