The Conclave of Shadow (23 page)

“So you see, I'm not such a bad guy,” Lung Di murmured. Somehow he'd gotten close enough to touch the little scarab on my shoulder. Red Rover's carapace fluttered with a rapid
tick-tick
-ing, and he raised his back end like an angry stink bug threatening to let loose.

I was in complete agreement with the little guy. I didn't want to be grateful to Lung Di. I definitely didn't want to see him in shades of grey. Even if he had been the one to keep the Voidlands in check for who knew how long. I retreated and transferred Red Rover to my other shoulder. “Doing good sometimes doesn't make you good.”

“No. It doesn't, does it? I suspect the same could be said of many people. My brother. You. Your grandfather?”

I shivered at the way he lingered over that last taunt. Savoring it. “I'm going inside now. You're leaving,” I said. I'd learned my lesson several times over. Listening to Lung Di's truths brought me nothing but misery. I'd find some other way to get the information I needed.

“Of course. Enjoy your victory celebration.”

Victory celebration. Right. I trudged inside, Templeton's gauntlet hitting my thigh with every step.

A
rgent's China Basin
headquarters were too new to have found their own identity. I'd wondered during our brainstorming sessions to find Asha why they didn't have an extensive campus somewhere on the Peninsula – that seemed more Argent's style. Sadakat had informed me quite primly that Argent didn't follow the pack, they led it. Abby had laughed and said that Argent's huge, quasi-military base near Gilroy might have something to do with it.

I parked my replacement Triumph at the edge of the entry plaza and strode past the obligatory public art, a towering amoeba of polished chrome. In some ways, Argent's struggle was my own writ large – how to maintain identity in a world that was quick to discard old for new.

Tom was waiting in ambush for me in the lobby. “Hey, Old Man. You got a minute?”

My steps slowed. I diverted off my path to the security desk but didn't quicken my pace. I'd been dreading this conversation. Possibly avoiding it, even.

“Tom,” I said, softer than I usually was with him. “You're looking recovered.”

He smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. And I never properly thanked you for that.”

I looked for the uncanny valley, but it was all straight road and smooth skies where Tom was concerned. Sweet lord, Argent's techs were geniuses. They hadn't just nailed basic human expressions. They'd nailed earnestness. Gratitude. Charisma. I was more frightened of that than just about anything else I'd been through these past few weeks.

“No need,” I said. “As I recall, you also rescued me from a rather dire plight.”

Tom led me to the elevators. “Don't think that makes us even. The medics told me I was pretty banged up inside. Took ‘em days to sort me, and I'm still not feeling...”

I set a hand on his arm when he fell silent, staring at the lift console. “Perhaps you shouldn't jump back into things so quickly.”

“I don't remember much of what happened on that island. What they did to me. I guess they used some powerful sedatives to keep me out and get me talking. Who knows how much classified intel I gave up. At least nobody in our other facilities was hurt because I couldn't keep my trap shut.” He pressed a hand over his face. He looked tired. He looked... sad.

The lift doors opened, and it was as though his passing hand had donned a mask. He perked up. We stepped off the lift, and he smiled brightly at a middle management type as he held the doors open for her. Gave her a jaunty wave through the closing doors. It was as though that moment in the lift had never happened.

What Argent was doing to him was cruel. He didn't know who he was or what had happened, and he had every right to.

“Tom.” I planted my stance, refusing to follow when he would have led us further into the offices. I wanted to tell him the whole truth, but it would be a wasted effort. It might even cock up any chance I had to suss out a way to do it correctly in the future. Later. I had to bide my time. “Have you spoken to anyone? About what you're going through? If you ever need to talk–”

To his credit, Tom quickly stifled his laugh. “That's mighty kind of you, but I got all the talking people I need. Argent keeps the best mind docs in the field on their payroll, and they're used to dealing with a lot worse – and a lot stranger – than a bit of guilt. I don't need talk. I need action. But you went and tied this whole thing up neat as a Christmas present.”

“How rude of me,” I murmured, wondering if Tom's mind docs knew about Tom's special condition, or if they were as clueless as I had been. I wondered which was worse.

Tom shook himself. “Anyway. I don't want to keep you. All I really wanted was to say thanks.”

I tipped my fedora. “Please don't mention it.” We'd see if he still wished to thank me after I ripped his identity out from under him.

“You're here to see Lady Basingstoke, right?”

“I have an appointment and everything.”

Tom smiled fondly and led me through an open floorplan of collaborative workspaces divided by thick cement columns and the occasional industrial printer. “First it's tigers, then it's lions. You should try living a less exciting life, Old Man.”

I sighed and did my best to gird my proverbial loins. “Of that I am well aware.”

“
M
itchell
. You are looking far better than reports would indicate.” Sylvia Dunbarton rose from her desk to greet me. Tom, I noticed, made no delay in abandoning me to my fate, the coward. I let Sylvia take my hand, grimaced through the standard cheek kisses, and tried to put her desk between us at the first opportunity.

She was having none of it. “I've arranged tea. Come. Sit.”

Sylvia's office was closed off from the rest of the floor, a huge room on the bay side of the building with both a desk and a sitting area. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the bay and Alameda across the way.

It was to the sitting area that she led me and motioned me to take one of the low, deep-cushioned couches. I perched on the edge so that it wouldn't swallow me. She sat across from me and poured for the both of us. Whatever my qualms about her, Sylvia was ever a joy to watch when she was serving tea.

She wore wide-legged grey trousers today, high-waisted, and a silvery blouse, and she sat like a lady, knees together, ankles crossed. She watched me over the rim of her cup, smiling like a cat and
dear lord
did I develop an immediate and abiding antipathy for that expression – both the words and the look on Sylvia's face.

“What?” I snapped, perhaps a bit too peevishly for the gracious welcome she'd offered. I didn't want to be here, didn't want to be doing this, but I'd weighed all my options and I didn't see any other choice.

Sylvia balanced her teacup and saucer on one knee. “You gave me a report. A real report. With details and explanations and useful information and everything.” She beamed at me like I'd given her the moon.

“Yes. Well.” I fidgeted. Stared into my tea. Someone who made tea this good couldn't be all bad, could they?

No. Best to stop there. That line of reasoning would lead to madness. “I am very grateful for all the assistance Argent gave to me. Both for the ritual and afterward.”

“Yes. There was quite a bit of cleanup needed. Physical, social, and political. But we – I – am likewise grateful to you. For Tom. And for not saying anything about his condition.”

My teacup hovered halfway to my lips. I lowered it without taking a sip. I hadn't said anything, but several pages of my report had been dedicated to a tirade regarding my feelings on the matter. Whatever secrets Argent needed to keep, it wasn't right that they be kept from Tom. The man – robot – whatever – had a right to know who he was and where he came from.

As did we all.

“Of course,” I murmured. “I will leave it to you to decide how best to handle the matter. For now.” Until I could come up with a way around Tom's programming. “That isn't why I asked to speak with you.”

“Is it about Mr Morris? I instructed that you be given full access.”

“No, he has been forthcoming enough. Only, he doesn't have what I need. Nor, would it seem, do the Brothers Anglin.” I set my teacup aside and stood, moving to the windows. A cruise ship was docked, its white hull obscuring most of the view. Morris hadn't known much more than he'd said when we captured him – that he never thought Mr Mystic was dead. Of the Lady's accusation that the Conclave and Mitchell had stolen something from her, he claimed to know nothing.

Of the Lady herself, I'd still seen no sign. Her camp remained abandoned. None of her army came when I tried to call them. Nor did my scarabs. Nor did Templeton. All I had was the jeweled gauntlet that Lung Di had given me. And Red Rover.

“I understand Alcatraz has been closed until the full extent of the damage from the earthquakes can be assessed,” I said, skimming a finger down the side of my reflected cheek. Or rather the shadow where my cheek should be reflected.

“Yes.” Sylvia stood as well, puzzlement as clear in her reflection as it was in her voice.

“I would like access to do a thorough sweep of the island – the Shadow Realms side – so that I may ensure that all traces of the Conclave's influence have been removed.”

“Of course. I'll see to the arrangements. Mitchell, you're acting oddly. Even for you.”

I sighed. Snorted. If only she knew. “Sylvia, I need to speak with you privately.”

She gestured at the empty room. “I don't believe it gets more private than this.”

I turned to face her. “No. I mean privately.”

Her bemused smile faded, revealing it to be a mask for the cool, hard face of the grande dame of Argent. “You mean–”

“I don't want any record of this conversation. And neither do you.”

“Ah. I see. One moment.” She swished over to the credenza behind her desk, opened a panel, and tapped several sequences into a small tablet. The windows darkened until the glass was smoke black and nearly opaque, the only indication that she'd shut down whatever surveillance she used in her office. She turned back to me, folding her hands before her. “Very well, Mitchell. It's just the two of us. What is this about?”

I removed my fedora and set it on her desk. Then I let the shadows fall from my face and dropped the illusion I'd been maintaining. My hair bled back to its natural color. I relaxed into a more comfortable posture and smiled in the face of Sylvia's slack-lipped astonishment. I did so enjoy rendering her silent.

“Lady Dunbarton. My name's Melissa Anne Masters. Missy. And I need Argent's help finding my grandfather.”

E
veryone I know
who has experience with second books told me they were challenging. They were right. I am so grateful to the people who held my hand, who gave me encouragement when I needed it and a whole lot of alone time when I needed that.

Special thanks go to Marie Brennan, who talked me down off many an authorial ledge and did the most lightning-fast beta read in history; to Adrienne Lipoma for doing the second-fastest beta read and for walking all over the city with me for “research”; to Wendy Shaffer (and Adrienne again!) for tromping around the California Academy of Sciences so I could work out fight blocking (and look at butterflies); and to Jason Pisano and Avery Liell-Kok for helping me brainstorm through story issues. Love, as always, goes to my CW2012 littermates for daily challenges and encouragement, and special love goes to my mom, Conna, and my brother Devon for all the ways they support me, big and small.

I suffered a lot of losses this past year – family, job, home – and the folks at Angry Robot were incredibly understanding about the delays this caused in my writing process. I am endlessly grateful to my editor, Phil Jourdan, for his patience and understanding, and to my agent, Lindsay Ribar, for stepping in and being the cooler head when the stress got to be a little too much for me.

Finally, huge thanks go to my cat, Thrace. He's mostly content to sit by my side – when he isn't trying to sit on my shoulders or my keyboard – and keep me company while I work. But he also dedicated endless hours to making sure I understood at a visceral level exactly what it feels like to be hunted through my apartment by a cunning and capricious feline. He is the best of cats.

A
lyc Helms fled
her doctoral program in anthropology and folklore when she realized she preferred fiction to academic writing. She dabbles in corsetry and costuming, dances at Renaissance and Dickens fairs, gets her dander up about social justice issues, and games in all forms of media. She sometimes refers to her work as “critical theory fanfic,” which is a fancy way to say that she is obsessed with liminality, gender identity, and foxes. She's a freelance game writer and a graduate of Clarion West, and her short fiction has appeared in
Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Daily Science Fiction, Crossed Genres
, to name a few.

A
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n Angry Robot
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Copyright © Alyc Helms 2016

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his novel is entirely
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