Idolon (27 page)

Zhenyu al-Fayoumi wasn't sure what he was doing, or why. He sat in the All the Raj caf
é
, sipping a chai latte and looking for a girl who matched the image the damselfish had left on his forearm, like a tattoo, when it sank back into his 'skin.

Not that the picture would necessarily help identify her. The girl had cast herself as a Ghost Dragon. Based on the image, al-Fayoumi couldn't tell if she was waring face paint or philm. Face paint seemed more likely. Ten seemed a little young to be 'skinned, but it was becoming more and more common.

Why had he agreed to come? What was he getting himself into? There was no reason to believe, let alone trust, the datician, sageware, or whatever it was that had spoken to him.

In the end it boiled down to curiosity, about the damselfish and the girl. Who was she? What was her connection to the flies and the idolon? If she really was in trouble, he could at least look after her long enough to call the police or her family, assuming she had any.

Al-Fayoumi checked the time. Almost eight. The cafe was busy, filled with late commuters and a few De Anza Community College students studying for exams. He sat at a table in the middle, making himself as conspicuous as possible.

Would the girl know who he was? Presumably, the idolon was guiding her here and would instruct her, the way it had instructed him.

A vague hope flickered in his stomach. Perhaps she wouldn't show. But just as quickly, the hope was doused.

"Here she comes," the damselfish whispered over his earfeed, as if it had been waiting there with him all the time. Al-Fayoumi looked up from the image on his arm to the door.

And there she was, looking small and afraid as a bus pulled away from the curb, leaving a group of passengers that quickly dispersed in its wake. The girl hesitated, then approached the caf
é
and peered between the resham-style curtains—but didn't enter.

Al-Fayoumi stood. When the movement didn't catch her eye, he lurched toward the entrance, jostling his way around tables.

Finally she saw him, and tensed, straightening her arms as she clasped her hands tightly in front of her.

But she didn't run. She nodded, as if listening to someone speaking, and held her ground when he pushed open the door.

What to say? He couldn't think. She must be scared to death, meeting a stranger on her own.

"Show her your arm," the damsel said.

Al-Fayoumi pulled his shirtsleeve back and turned his wrist so she could see her face. While her attention was diverted, al-Fayoumi took the opportunity to inspect her Ghost Dragon mask. NanoFX makeup, he decided.

She looked up and twisted her arm. A Vurtronic d-splay patch pasted to her left wrist looked out at him. The image was real-time; when he frowned, the simage frowned back, like looking into a mirror.

"My name's Zhenyu," he said, uncertain how much the damsel had told her.

"Lisette." The d-splay patch disappeared as her left hand sought the comfort of the right.

"You hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Thirsty?"

Another shake.

"How about some sorbet?" He started toward the gelato kiosk just down the street, but she refused to budge. Al-Fayoumi came back to her. "We can't stand here all night."

Apparently, they could. The girl remained rooted in place. She looked around at all the storefronts, ad masks, and signs, as if waiting for someone else to show up. The damsel perhaps, telling her what to do.

Al-Fayoumi squatted next to her and lowered his voice so the people lounging at the bus stop couldn't hear him. "I'm scared, too," he admitted.

The girl scowled. "I'm not scared."

"It's okay to be afraid," he said.

The girl bristled. Her hands knotted tighter. "I'm not!" she insisted.

"Where's your mother?" he asked.

The girl blinked, as if he'd grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her. "I don't have a mother."

"You don't?"

The girl's gaze dropped to the pavement and her cheeks, where they were visible, burned. "She left."

Something told him to let it go. For now. He could bring it up later, if he got the chance. "What about friends?" he said.

Lisette bit her lower lip. "I don't want anything bad to happen to them because of me."

"Is that why you're here?"

A nod.

Al-Fayoumi let out a breath. Now what? He was an only child. He didn't have the benefit of nephews or nieces. Come right down to it, he'd never been a kid himself. Between school and piano lessons he'd never had the chance. Maybe she hadn't, either, but for different reasons. Maybe they had more in common than either of them realized.

"We could just hang out for a while," he said. "You know. Look around, check stuff out. Whatever."

She nodded at the sidewalk.

He held out his hand. She didn't take it, but when he started down the street she followed a step behind.

Where they were headed was anyone's guess.

Nadice stood transfixed as Mateus mounted the stairs, shouldering his way through the downward press of women in the stairwell.

His gaze was tarnished, flat, and pitiless. He no longer needed her alive. His only concern was the ware, and he would do whatever it took to get it.

Nadice shuddered. If she'd just gone with him as agreed, none of this would have happened. No one would have been hurt.

"Gurl." He reached for her. "It's good to see you. I been worried sick I might not find you in one piece."

She shrank from him, and found herself caged by the LED strips on the chill walls. It felt as if his tattoo-blackened fingers were entering her chest and closing around her heart.

Nadice gasped.

"This way!" Marta hissed. She pulled open a door next to her.

A hand gripped her upper arm, dislodging the one around her heart.

"Bitch!" Mateus lunged for her, shoving aside several women who had paused in confusion. .

Nadice stumbled after Marta, into a carpeted hallway. The door swung shut with a click.

"Come on!" Marta said, tugging her down the hall.

In the stairwell, someone screamed.

"No." Nadice sagged to a stop. There was no place to go... no place to hide. All of the rooms would be locked. "I'm tired of running."

"You can't stay here."

"I know. I'm going with him." The resolve calmed her. It was what she should have done all along. She'd been an idiot to think she could escape.

"He'll kill you," Marta said.

"It'll be better this way," Nadice said. "I don't want any more people to get hurt. I don't want
you
to get hurt."

More screams echoed from the stairwell.

Determination and anger flared in Marta's eyes. "You are
not
giving up. I won't let you. You're too important."

"No, I'm not."

"If you weren't, they wouldn't be coming after you."

Nadice wavered.

"If you go with him, a lot more people are going to get hurt. You understand what I'm saying? You can't let him have whatever you've got inside you."

The door to the stairwell opened. A boot appeared, followed by a hand and a bare forearm.

Marta threw herself against the door. It slammed shut against the arm and the side of a face. Something popped, a bone or a joint. The man bellowed. His clenched hand opened and a large gray grape with a single pomegranate-red seed suspended in the center rolled onto the Jacquard-pattern carpet.

"Run!" Marta shouted.

She shoved Nadice ahead of her, just as the grenade went off.

MEMS sprayed the hallway. The micro-electromechanical devices, embedded in globs of sticky gel, slammed into Nadice. The gel burned. When she went to wipe the goop off, it smeared, spreading the spiderlike bots. They scuttled over her on thin legs, jabbed her with thousands of stinging, needle-sharp proboscises.

Her legs went numb, then buckled under the toxins. Nadice sprawled sideways onto the hallway carpet, breathing in the floral scent in the thick pile. She tasted blood on her tongue.

Get up, she told herself. Keep moving. Wasn't that what they always told you to do?

She grew cold all over. Her bones felt heavy, as if covered with ice. Her muscles tightened, rigor-stiff in the chill. Her lungs ached.

Marta lay unmoving in the hallway a couple meters ahead. She groaned. One arm flopped sideways, spasmed, then quivered uselessly next to her.

Nadice heard the stairwell door rattle open. The clamor in the stairwell swelled, then quieted as the door slammed shut.

Gray smoke swirled in the hall, blending with the white static philm on the ceiling and walls. Down the corridor, past an open service elevator, a door to one of the outside garden terraces banged open. She shifted her gaze toward the sound.

An indistinct figure materialized out of the smoke. The figure approached slowly, growing larger but no clearer.

Mateus. No—it couldn't be. The stairwell was behind her. There was no way he could have gotten onto the balcony.

The shadow seemed to be just that, an absence of light and nothing more. It didn't appear to be cast by anyone. It seemed to exist independently, as if it was not connected to the world.

"Nadice," Mateus said. The voice behind her was calm, reasonable. "Don't get all scared, gurl. I ain't gonna hurt you. Word."

The shadow in front of her stopped, suddenly rigid, as if the MEMS had paralyzed it, too.

"I know you're there," Mateus went on. "I can see you now." His voice was closer, louder, but no less soothing.

She swallowed, and imagined him crushing her windpipe.

The shadow moved. Four quick steps and it knelt on one knee next to Marta, head bent close to hers.

Help!
Nadice wanted to shout.
Call the police!

As if in response, the shadow looked up, directly at her.

"Who's this?" Mateus said, still a few meters behind her. "Who you got with you, gurl?"

Nadice heard the click of a safety being released, followed by the compressed hiss of a flechette gun spitting needles.

The shadow turned from her, rolled Marta onto her back, grabbed her by the arms, and pulled her down the hallway. As Nadice watched, Marta seemed to dissolve into the smoke, become one with it.

A new shadow drifted across the edges of her vision. A couple of seconds later an ad mask settled onto her face, momentarily blinding her as it fitted itself over her nose, cheeks, mouth, and chin. Nadice couldn't breathe. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest and throat.

Mateus chuckled. "Thought you could fool me, gurl. Thought I wouldn't recognize you behind a mask."

She thought he would remove it. Instead he stroked her hair, traced a finger along the outer cusp of her ear. His familiar cologne, mixed with sweat, washed over her. The scent caught in her nose and her eyes started to tear.

"Might work with other folks," he went on, "but I'll know you anywhere. There's no way you can hide from me."

Some of the feeling had returned to her arms and legs. Her lungs weren't as icy or as heavy. She managed to open her mouth.

"What's that?" Mateus touched her lips.

"You win," she gasped. "I won't"—she took several deep breaths—"run again. I promise."

The first shadow reappeared, an unsteady blur that solidified slightly as the smoke dissipated and thinned.

"Take care of her," the shadow said.

Jeremy. His voice wobbled. Nadice thought he might come closer, but for some reason he held back.

"If anything happens to her," the TV continued, "you'll regret it. I promise." He stepped back, retreating into the haze.

Nadice blinked tears. Instead of trying to help her, he was leaving.

A second barrage of needles whispered through the air.

Jeremy seemed to disperse, contracting inward from the edges as he grew smaller, until all that remained was a blurry smudge... the persistent afterimage of an eye-watering brightness.

Mateus lifted her by the arms, draped her over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and headed back to the stairwell. "Time to take care of unfinished business," he said.

The blemish on Pelayo's philm reappeared on the elevated magtube from San Jose to Santa Cruz.

Eight minutes into the fifteen-minute trip, the eyefeed from the ad mask flickered back on. Jittery snatches of a dimly lit stairwell, crowded with women, snarled Pelayo's optic d-splay.

"What's going on?" he asked Atossa. He wasn't sure if she'd regained control of the mask or hijacked another one. "I found her."

"Marta?"

"I'm pretty sure. She's wearing that brown leather jacket of hers, the one with the really colorful lining."

At the mention of Marta's name, Lagrante came out of his meditative silence long enough to cut Pelayo a quick sidelong glance from the adjoining seat.

"How is she?" Pelayo asked.

"Unconscious, I think. It was really smoky in the hallway, and the mask cut out before I could get a good look at her. I've been trying to call for help, but I can't get through. It's a total zoo over there."

The d-splay died and Pelayo closed his eyes for a moment, giving his stomach an opportunity to settle.

Striated bands of yellow light from the magtube's LEDs flickered across his lids.

"Where are you?" Atossa said.

"We should be there in about ten minutes. We're in a car that bypasses the main downtown station and goes directly to the Boardwalk."

"Okay." Atossa exhaled sharply. "I'll stick with her as long as I can. Keep you updated."

"How's she doin'?" Lagrante said when Atossa dropped off-line.

"Hanging in there."

Lagrante nodded. The LEDs leached the color from his zoot suit. "What's that on your face?"

Pelayo turned to examine his reflection in the window next to him. "I thought it had gone away," he said.

Lagrante's expression soured. "This ain't the first time?"

"It showed up a few hours after I got out of the tank." Pelayo touched the blotch. It had changed shape, the way a shadow lengthened and warped, and now resembled the inkblot wings of an insect.

Lagrante lowered his smoky black shades. He peered at Pelayo over the tops of the lenses, needle-sharp pupils set in slate-gray eyes. "What'd Uri say?"

Pelayo withdrew his finger. "I haven't told him."

"You got a reason for keepin' him in the dark?"

"It went away. I figured if it was a serious problem, it would have showed up as a red flag on his end."

"Right." Lagrante slid the spex back into place. "You didn't tell him because you were afraid he'd nix you as a test subject. 'Skin someone else."

_______

Six minutes later, the bullet car dropped them off at the parking lot just outside the main entrance to the Boardwalk.

Except for emergency lights and the flashing racks on police cars and ambulances, the TV center was dark. Pelayo couldn't tell what condition the hotel was in. He jogged along the seawall, past the entrance to the pier, and up the hill. Lagrante huffed a couple of meters behind him, keeping pace. Despite the Hongtasans, he seemed fit, in much better shape than Pelayo would have figured.

Halfway up the hill, the eyefeed from the mask kicked back in. Grainy pavement bounced on the d-splay. Every now and then, he caught sight of a heavy boot and a pant leg.

"You there?" Pelayo said.

"That's the best I can do," Atossa said. "The mask was damaged in the blast and I can't get the visual array to sync up properly."

Pelayo slowed when they came to the smob scene outside the hotel. Through the crowd, he could make out debris, strewn across the parking lot, including the twisted wreckage of what had once been the building's front entrance and lobby. SARbots had begun to reconnoiter the debris-choked structure, the little helium-buoyed drones spearheading the initial search and rescue effort in preparation for full HUMOP support. Network and newzine COMbots jockeyed for position, darting toward fleeting breaks in the smoke and mist as they hunted for a clear view of the carnage.

"Shit," Lagrante said.

Over the eyefeed, more feet came into view, stepping back. Then a car tire and a polished black side panel, mirror-smooth, that reflected the fog-saturated lights from the demolished building.

"It looks like she's being carried," Pelayo said. He elbowed his way to a pair of ambulances and squad cars.

On the eyefeed d-splay a car door opened and Marta's head lolled sideways. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a man's face, as she was lifted into the backseat of a sedan, followed by a heavily inked hand, riddled with gang tattoos. Then he was staring up at the ceiling. Not an ambulance. Or a squad car: there was no barrier between the fronfseats and the rear.

"I don't see her," Lagrante said.

Pelayo skirted the crowd, searching for other vehicles. Past the first responders, the headlights on an old Mercedes parked next to the curb snapped on. He couldn't make out the color of the car behind the glare, but when the Benz eased away from the curb the eyefeed from the mask jostled just before the image sparked and dissolved.

"That her?" Lagrante said. He shrugged off his suit coat and bent over, arms on his knees, to catch his breath.

"I'm pretty sure." Pelayo's throat burned, scraped raw by smoke and frustration.

"I'm not getting anything," Atossa said. "I can't get it back."

"Keep trying." Pelayo followed the path of the Mercedes down the hill, toward the pier and downtown.

"They're probably taking her to a hospital," Lagrante said. "Dominican. That'd be my guess. In which case she's in good hands."

Pelayo grunted, noncommittal. Something about the man who'd been carrying her was familiar.