Ecko Endgame (51 page)

But Roderick’s face was turned upwards, etched in both joy and sorrow, his eyes closed at the sky. With another shock of insight, Ecko realised what the Gods had given Rhan as his final gift, his reward for his long service and his victory.

He was mortal. He would age, and he would die.

Finally, he would go home.

But the grave was changing. As the sky overhead glowed with sunrise light, so new grass was uncurling, growing where Amethea had fallen.

The Monument has my answers too, I can feel it.

She was the Soul of the Stone, the heart of the world, its new growth and recovery. Her life had cured the blight.

He blinked water, it slid down his face unheeded.

Eliza said gently, “Calm, Ecko. Watch.”

And there, in the centre of the screen’s curve, the rising streets of Fhaveon. People, blinking, stumbling from the Cathedral’s doors and out onto the broken mosaic.

Pushing through the heaving roadways, there was a woman, tired and road-stained. She was massive in shoulder and her skin was etched with myriad elaborate scars. Ecko recognised her as the young woman from the corridor – when the mad Ress had spoken to him about Kazyen. Jayr. She seemed older, somehow, and he could take a guess at why.

She came to the great doors of the Palace and spoke to the guard. Even as she did so, the door was opened and Roderick stood there, staring at her with his face a mask of shock. As Ecko watched, she held out to him an overshirt, as filthy as she was. It seemed to be covered in some kind of writing.

Roderick took it, turned it over and over, fascinated. And then he started to laugh, to laugh as if he would cry. When the woman looked at him sideways, he apologised and then – to her surprise – he sank to one knee right there in the doorway.

“My Lord,” he said. “Welcome home.”

Ecko thought he was smiling, but it was too small to see.

The images on the screen were fading, now, dissolving back to white noise. He found himself almost panicking, he didn’t want to lose them – he tried to think about Triqueta, about Amethea and Redlock. He tried to focus on the Bard, on The Wanderer – on the tavern created anew and
there
on the city streets of Fhaveon, warm lights in its windows. He needed it, couldn’t bear to let it go.

Or is it us?

“And so we come to the resolution,” Eliza said softly. “You’ve won, Ecko. The Lord Valiembor is returned, with her the world’s memory. Fhaveon will be rebuilt, with survivors to sing Amethea’s name, and Redlock’s. And yours. To sing of Triqueta and her Red Rage. Of Rhan and Vahl, and their endless war. And the Bard will tell your stories, over and again, until the end of the Count of Time. Take a moment if you need one, but then we have to move on.”

But…

How can he fucking sing if you turn him off?

“No.” The protest was immediate, instinctive. He was still watching them, though there was little now to see. He wasn’t here, in this clinical testing zone, he was there in that world, wanting it to survive and thrive and flourish. He wanted to know the rest of the story, to watch the cities rebuild, the grass regrow. He wanted to know what would happen to Triqueta without Redlock, without Amethea, without the Banned. Would she take command of the military in Fhaveon? With Jayr as her Lord and the ageing Rhan beside her? Where had Vahl gone? The Kas? He wanted to know how they’d rebuild, wanted to know if he’d missed anything, unlocked every level. He needed to be there as they recovered, needed to watch their story unfold, know what would happen next…

“You can’t just flick a switch,” he said softly. “They’re all real, they think for themselves, they
feel.
You can’t just—”

“They’re code, Ecko,” she told him gently. “They’re nothing.”

The word went through him like a shock, its symbolism knocking the breath out of him. His heart started to pound, the sound all around him, everywhere. Nothing – his ultimate bad guy, and with the flick of a finger she could condemn—

“Don’t!”

Her hands were reaching for the plug in the back of his head.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Sick to his belly, he was flooded with terror. Ferocious from their long hiatus, his adrenals screamed wonkily into life, making the sea of lights that covered him flicker like angry stars. “Don’t you
fucking
touch me.” Panicked, he wanted to take her wrist and snap it, break her to the floor and kick and kick and
kick
, but his legs were still too weak. “It’s all
real
, all of it. You can’t just turn them off.” He barely understood what he was saying; he was pleading, panicked, words falling over themselves. “How could any
game
be that complex? Those characters, how could—?”

“You had a world made for you, Ecko,” Eliza said softly. “A pattern crafted from your synapses, a fractal reality that grew with every question, that changed and shifted with every choice you made. Yes, you had characters that acted independently of your presence, that interacted with each other as well as with you.” Her voice was calm, soothing as milk. “It made them three-dimensional, stopped them being the town merchant that only ever has the weapons and treasure that you sell to him. But that doesn’t make them real—”

“What’re you now, Philip K. Dick?” His fear was becoming anger, cleansing. His adrenals gave him energy and he could feel his limbs respond, return to life. His targetters kicked, crossing her face, her throat. “World Goddess, they called you. You
made
that world: you built it, you built yourself into it. From its earliest mythology, all the way up. You, an’ Collator. An’
Grey
, my end-of-level Nasty. An’ whether the characters are code or not, they believe they’re real. You can’t just turn them off. They’ll die—”

“It’s a self-adapting program, nothing more.” Her voice was earnest, tense with the beginnings of irritation. “It’s not real, Ecko, it’s just smart enough to respond to your choices. To learn, if you like. Every decision you’ve made, however small, rippled out to affect the entire pattern of the program’s future. You were its centre, your path undefined and free to choose whatever you wished to do. And with every choice you made, the pattern changed around you to ensure that you would still reach its end. And face your trials. And win. Without you there, it has no purpose. Does that make sense?”

“Shove it, sister.” He was moving now, all pins and needles and returning circulation. He ran a hand over himself, dashing the LEDs out of his skin, then slid his feet to the floor. His knees buckled, but he stood up.

His heartbeat reverberated from the walls.

Eliza backed up a step. “Your cortical plug is still locked. You shouldn’t be moving.”

“You gonna stop me?” His remaining nerve-clusters sparked, ripples and galaxies. Some of the delicate hardwires were falling away, or breaking. He smashed at them again, clearing more.

His skin was stained with their light.

“If I have to.” Her voice was without threat, but absolutely assured.

He bared his teeth at her. “Yeah right. So you tell me one thing,” he growled, a suggestion of coming thunder. He was gonna tear this damn place to pieces, any fucking second. Anything, to keep that program alive. “You tell me
why.
If all that’s not real, then why the hell go to all this trouble – just for li’l ol’ me?”

“Because of your
passion
, Ecko. Your drive and savagery.” She backed up, glanced quickly over his shoulder to the chair behind him. “Good, Evil, Order, Chaos, Fire, Ice, Technology, Magick. Inside, Outside. All opposites, and, at the end of the day, all the same. Whatever side of something you’re on, you have to believe in what you’re doing, and
roar
with that belief. Vahl was never the enemy – Roderick told you that, right at the beginning. This has been about defeating apathy, about Kazyen. Grey –
Grey –
is the enemy of all things. The enemy we face here too.”

“So – what? – is this all some sneaky fucking plot to topple the bad guys? Thanks to my guinea piggin’, or some unique synapse you’ve learned from my broken brain, you now have a program to fuck over Doctor Grey?”

That question made her smile, then she said, “I think this has gone far enough. You need that plug taken out before you can start recovery proper. Hatchetcease.”

Like some damned safeword, his adrenaline was gone. His knees went and he caught himself on the side of the chair, feeling weak and hollow.

“Shit. You fucking
bitch.
”

“So you’ve told me often enough,” Eliza said, flickering another smile. “Denial is inevitable in the early stages, as is a certain amount of… emotional readjustment.” She glanced again at the chair-back, a sharp glance, as if looking for something. “Just sit down, and try and breathe. If you fight this, it’ll just make it harder.”

So – what was she looking for? Back-up?

The thought made his adrenaline spark again, then splutter and cough like a failed engine. He was sick with nameless dread, right to his belly – like there was some monster lurking behind him.

Yeah. Take more than monsters to scare me.

He turned slowly to face it. He looked at – then past – the back of the chair.

And then he saw something else.

Behind the chair, there was a pulled curtain, heavy, white and featureless.

Before the curtain stood a silent figure in an enforcer’s white suit. Her hair was cut in a strict black bob, and her eyes were covered in mirrored shades. She stood with her arms folded, and she made no move as Ecko clocked her, neither recognition nor reaction. She simply stood there, boots gleaming.

Whoever she was, she must’ve been there all this time. Watching. Listening.

And he’d had no idea.

“Extra security?” He rounded on Eliza. “Think I’m gonna go off the deep end? Got that much faith in your own success?”

“No need to worry.” Her response was half soothing, half amused. “Ducarl’s just… keeping an eye.”

“On what?”

“You’re not the only person in my care.”

Not the only person.

The words made him stand upright, a sudden, nameless fear closing his throat. His knees shook, but he wasn’t going down, no fucking way.
Not the only person.
It hadn’t even occurred to him, but… were there others, in programs like his? Layers of them, like in Grey’s boxes? The worlds of anywhere-but-here?

And if they were all saving fucking Narnia, why did Eliza need a criminal enforcer?

“Ecko.” Eliza was speaking, urgent and soft. “We need to complete your closure.” Her calm had evaporated, she sounded almost nervous. “You can’t deal with the outside world with your cortical plug still powered.” The smile was brief, brittle. She was jittery, fearful of something. “There are risks we don’t need – ongoing depression, social maladjustment, psychotic episodes. Please, it’s in your own best interests.”

“You’re hidin’ something.” His certainty was absolute. “What you got? Illegal organs? Brainwashed slaves? Human lab rats? Any combo?” He was standing straight, his energy levels rising. He was right on the edge of something – and the feeling was
good.

“Hatchetcease.” Her expression was almost panicked. “I say again, Hatchetcease.” She stepped back, glanced past him to where Ducarl stood silent. “Shit!”

The safeword was a blow, a double-fist –
slam!
– in the belly. But he’d faced Maugrim, Amal, Vahl, Grey – and that which hadn’t killed him was making him lace his shitkicker boots all the way to his fucking knees.

You made me like this. You deal with it.

Ironic much?

Legs firm, he took a step towards the curtain. The targetters on Ducarl’s shades tracked his motion, but he didn’t care, he didn’t
care.
What was she gonna do anyway, spike him with a boot heel?

Eliza said, “Ecko, don’t make me do this. That plug needs to come out before you leave this room. Please…”

“Please?” His adrenaline kicked again, and this time it caught, raced, sang, thrilling along his nerves, reverberating from the sensors in the room. “You put me through hell, and you say ‘please’? You tease me, and taunt me, and play with me, and now you want me to play nice?” The last of his starlights glittered, his pulse beat in his ears. On the screen beside him, there were still lingering ghosts, still wistful flickers of that other world – they seemed to lean in, as if eager. “Come on, bitch, what’s behind curtain number one?”

Eliza’s face went white as Fhaveon stone. She said, “Ecko. Stop this. I’ll put you down if I have to.”

“Fuck you. For the very last goddamn time. Fuck.
You.
”

So many times,
so
many times, those words had been in his mouth and his thoughts. Now, at last, he finally had the chance to tell her exactly what he thought of her, exactly how he felt about being forced and exposed and manipulated, exactly why he’d refused to capitulate for as long he had, exactly why Roderick’s sheer force of personality, his long faith and his love for his world, had affected Ecko deeply enough to make him change his mind.

But hell, she knew all that shit already.

He took another step. His adrenaline screamed at him.

He saw Eliza nod, her face a mask of regret and pain.

He saw Ducarl was moving.

His adrenaline shrilled even louder, higher than it had ever carried him – the rush was phenomenal. He wanted to cry out, laugh, cackle like some damned daemon. He wanted to tear the walls down. The world slowed round him, and he was faster than he’d thought, faster than he’d ever been.

For the first time, he was out of reach of Eliza’s will and power, now answerable only to his own sense of
must.

You can’t stop me now, bitch!

The robotic doc was just close enough for him to reach.

He lunged for it, heaved the thing off the floor. In exquisite slow motion, he saw the crosshairs in Ducarl’s shades track his movements, saw the pistol as she drew it from its shoulder-holster. He saw her elegantly taloned fingertip tighten on the trigger.

But he was a blur, faster than the pistol muzzle could track. The shot went off – he could almost watch the air ripple in response. He saw the screen flicker as it went through, heard the detonation as it took a chunk of plaster out of the far wall. Ducarl was swearing, her voice thick and slow; he heard her heels tick-tack on the lino. But he wasn’t waiting.