River of Blue Fire (46 page)

Even as Renie whispered soft words to the girl, words both of them could barely hear because their ears were still ringing painfully, something crackled beside them. What Renie had thought was a mirror suddenly began to radiate grainy light, then the eyeless face of the Tinman appeared on the screen.

“So,” it said cheerfully, “you outsiders are all still alive—and the special one, the wee mother-to-be? Lovely, lovely. Little bundle of joy unharmed, too? Excellent! Then I believe my line is supposed to be: ‘
Surrender the Dorothy
!”' The gate in its mouth clacked up and down as the Tinman vented its horrible, buzzing laugh. “Good, yes? But of course I hope you won't
really
surrender, and spoil the fun. . . .”

Renie snatched up the barge pole and hammered the screen into shards and powder, then sank to the floor, exhausted and fighting back tears.

CHAPTER 18

The Veils of Illusion

NETFEED/BIOGRAPHY: “The Man in the Shadows
”

(visual: slow-motion footage of Anford speaking at convention)

VO: Rex Anford, sometimes referred to as the “Commander-in-Absentia” or “The Gray Man,” is the subject of this biography, which traces his rise from small-town obscurity through his emergence in the new Industrial Senate as a representative for ANVAC, General Equipment, and other low-profile, bigmoney corporations, and to his eventual election as President of the United States. The controversial issue of his health is discussed, and experts analyze file footage in an attempt to diagnose what, if any, medical problems he might have
 . . .

A
swirl of colors grew out of the blinding golden light—black, ember-red, and at the last a deep neon blue just shading toward ultraviolet that seemed to enter him like a vibration—then Paul was through, still tangled in the grasp of the man who had kidnapped him. He struggled to protect himself, then realized that his opponent was not fighting, but only holding him passively. He set his hands against the man's chest and shoved. The thin, dark-skinned man stumbled backward, then threw out his arms and regained his balance.

The level ground beneath the stranger's heels extended only another few yards behind him before dropping away down a steep, grassy slope. Far below, a river threaded its way through the narrow canyon, foaming through descending cataracts until it wound out of sight. But Paul did not stop to admire the stunning view of water and hills and tangled trees, the skies so sunny the world almost sparkled. His attention was focused on the interloper who had stolen him from the England of the Martian invasion—a distorted version of his home, but still the closest he had found to what he had lost.

“Now,” the stranger began, smiling, “Of course I owe you an apol . . .” His eyes widened and he took a startled step backward as Paul sprang toward him.

Paul did not hit the stranger squarely, but he wrapped his arms around him and together they tumbled down the slope in a single rolling knot. For all Paul knew, they might bounce from some precipice and plunge to the distant valley floor, but he did not care. Chased and mistreated for unfathomable reasons, he finally had his hands on one of his tormentors and would take the man down with him, even if neither of them survived.

There was no precipice. They arrived at the bottom of the hill with a spine-jarring thump, but with several more descending slopes still between them and the valley floor. The impact threw them apart and they lay for a moment where they landed, struggling for breath. Paul was the first to move, rolling over onto his stomach to crawl toward his enemy, who saw him and scrambled to his feet.

“What are you doing?” The stranger danced back from Paul's swiping grab. “Are you trying to kill us both?”

For the first time, Paul noticed that the stranger was no longer dressed in the tattered Edwardian suit he had worn before. Somehow—by magic, for all Paul could tell—he had acquired a shiny waistcoat and pair of baggy pants that might have come from an Arabian Nights pantomime. Paul flicked a glance down and saw that he was dressed the same way, with silky pantaloons and his feet in thin, pointed slippers, but he had no interest in stopping to wonder what it meant.

“Kill us both? No,” he gasped, and dragged himself upright. “I'm just trying to kill you.” His ribs ached from the fall and his legs were weak. Still, he knew he would fight to the end if necessary, and felt a little pleasure at that realization—the warmth of someone who had not been good at games in school, and who had shied away from fights, realizing that he wasn't a coward after all.

Yes, I'll fight
, Paul thought, and it changed how he thought of himself, of his situation.
I won't just give up
.

“Stop, man,” the stranger said, lifting his hands. “I am not your enemy. I have tried to do you a kindness, but I have been terribly clumsy.”

“Kindness?” Paul wiped sweat from his forehead and took another step forward, but did not press the attack. “You kidnapped me. You lied to me, and then you shoved me through that, that . . .” He waved his hand toward the hill above, and the place they had arrived, “. . . whatever it is. What sort of kindness is that?”

“As I began,” the man said, “I owe you an apology, and here it is—I am very, very sorry. Will you strike me once more, or will you let me explain?”

Paul eyed him. In truth, he was not looking forward to grappling with the stranger again. Despite his thin frame, the man's body had felt hard and resilient as braided leather, and unlike Paul, he did not seem injured or even winded. “Explain, then.”

The stranger sat himself cross-legged on the ground. “I saw you in that market. You did not seem to belong, and I watched you. And then I saw your companions. They were not what they appeared to be, but you did not seem to notice.”

“Not what they appeared to be. You said that before. What does that mean?”

“I cannot say, exactly.” The stranger's smile appeared again, a broad and self-effacing thing so sympathetic that Paul felt he should not trust it on principle. “They had the appearance of an average Englishman and Englishwoman, of the type that should be in that place, but something in them, some shadow beneath the seeming, spoke to me also of hunting beasts. My lord Shiva put it in my head that they were not what they appeared, and that you were in danger.” He spread his hands, palms upward. “So I took it on myself to get you away.”

Paul remembered his own moment of fear. The Pankies had indeed resembled the creatures who hunted him, although they had demonstrated no other similarities. His distrust of the stranger eased a little. “Then why didn't you just warn me? Why drag me through—what was that, anyway? What are these things that take us from one place to another?”

The stranger gave him an odd look. “Gateways? Portals, doors, they are called those things, too. What do you call them?”

Now it was Paul's turn to frown. “I don't call them anything. I don't even know what they are.”

The stranger stared at him for a long moment, his deep brown eyes intent. At last he shook his head. “We must speak more. But we must also move through this place to another gateway, for this is the country of the fiercest of my enemies and I cannot stay long.” He rose, then extended a hand toward the distant waters. “Will you come with me? There will be boats down below, and we can speak as we go upon the river.”

If the man intended to harm him, he was going at it in a very roundabout way. Paul decided he would stay on guard, but give him a chance. Perhaps he could give Paul some information. Anything that might dispel the cloud of ignorance and confusion that had been surrounding him for so long would be worth almost any risk.

“Very well,” he said. “If you will answer my questions honestly.”

“I will answer as much as I am allowed. Some secrets there are that have been given into my care, and those I may not tell anyone, even at the cost of my soul.”

Paul had no idea what that was supposed to mean. “Who are you, then?” he asked.

“I am Nandi,” the stranger said, and touched his palms together in front of his chest. “Nandi Paradivash, at your service. I am sorry our meeting has been so upsetting. And you are. . . ?”

“Paul,” he said without thinking, then inwardly cursed himself for using his real name. He tried to summon another name, but could only think of the madman who had dragged him through the palaces and deserts of Mars; he hoped Nandi had not met him. “Paul Brummond. And I have another question. Where the hell are we?”

Nandi did not appear to have noticed anything amiss with Paul's name. “I am surprised,” he said. “You are English, are you not? Surely you should recognize one of the catechisms of an English school career.”

Paul shook his head. “You've lost me.”

“Ah? ‘
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree
;”' the stranger declaimed, “‘
And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery
.' You see, there are the forests, there are the trees—sandalwood, spruce—can you not smell them? And we will soon be upon the River Alph, traveling, perhaps, through ‘caverns measureless to man. . . .”'

Paul felt something tickling his memory. “The River Alph. . . ?”

“Yes.” Nandi nodded, smiling again. “Welcome, Mister Paul Brummond . . . to Xanadu.”

The hillsides were glorious with wildflowers, tiny static explosions of yellow and white and pale powdery blue, and the soft breezes did indeed waft exotic scents. As they made their way down to the river, from slope to ever-lower slope, Paul found that he was struggling to hang onto his wariness. It had been a long time, if ever, since he had been in a place this lovely, and at least for the moment he felt almost safe. His protective reflexes, coiled like springs, began to relax a little.

“It is indeed beautiful,” Nandi said as if reading his thoughts. “Those who constructed it did their work well, but it is not an Oriental place at all. It is a representation of an idea—an Englishman's idea of an Asian paradise, to be accurate.”

At first Paul thought that “those who constructed it,” was another religious reference, like the man's citation of Shiva, but after a few moments he realized what he had heard. “Those . . . who constructed
this
place?”

Nandi watched a bright green bird streak overhead. “Yes. The designers and engineers.”

“Engineers?
People
?”

Now the stranger turned. “What do you ask, Paul?”

He hesitated, torn between the need to blurt out everything, his fear and ignorance, and the urge toward secrecy which was part of his armor—and woefully thin armor it had been. “Just . . . just tell me what this is. This place.”

“This simulation, do you mean? Or the network?”

Paul's legs turned wobbly. He took one staggering step, then had to sit down. “Simulation? This is a simulation?” He flung up his hand and stared at it, then took it away and stared at the valley in all its intricacy. “But it can't be! It's . . . it's real!”

“Did you not know?” Nandi asked. “How could that be possible?”

Paul shook his head, helpless, reeling. A simulation. Someone had implanted him, then covered it up. But there were no simulations as perfect as this. It simply wasn't possible. He closed his eyes, half-certain that when he opened them all would be gone, and he would be back in the giant's grinding-house again, or Humpty-Dumpty's Castle. Even those insanities made more sense than this. “It can't be.”

Nandi crouched at his side, his face full of concern and surprise. “You did not know you were in a simulation? You must tell me how you came here. This is more important than you realize, Paul Brummond.”

“I don't know how I got here—and anyway, it's not Brummond. I lied.” He no longer cared enough to deceive. “My name is Paul Jonas.”

His companion shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. “And you do not know how you came here?”

Numbed and listless, Paul told him all that he could remember—the worlds seemingly without end, the unanswered questions, the frightening blackness that covered his recent past. It was like listening to someone else talk. When he had finished, Nandi let his chin fall to his chest and closed his eyes, as if for some perverse reason he was taking a nap; when he opened his eyes again, he was clearly troubled.

“And all this time, Paul Jonas, you have been pursued through the creations of my enemy. That must mean something, but I cannot imagine what it is.” He stood. “Come. We must hurry to the river. The longer we spend here, the greater the danger, I suspect.”

“Your enemy—you said that before, too.” Paul began to follow the slender man down the hill again. “Who is this enemy? Do you mean he owns this place?”

“We shall not speak of him. Not here.” Nandi Paradivash put a finger to his lips. “Old folktales say that to name a demon is to summon it, and that might prove true for us as well. Who knows what name or words may trigger a search agent?”

“Can we talk on the river? I . . . I have to know more.”

“We will speak, but be careful what words you choose.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I should have known that He who dances the Dance would not put His hand upon me and point me toward a stranger for no reason. A few moments of Maya, of illusion, and almost I forgot the smoke of the burning-ground that was in my nostrils when I learned truly to serve Him.”

The beauty of Xanadu impinged on Paul more than ever as they covered the last mile down to the riverside. Knowing what he knew, he could ignore nothing: this delicately scented flower, that tree, the grass rustling soft beneath his feet—all false. Constructs. But there could be no simulation of life so faultless. He did not consider himself anything like an expert, but he was no hermit either. He had seen the much-touted “photorealistic” VR environments out of China advertised all over the net, and his friend Niles had even let him try out one of the government's better simulation engines, an embassy dinner with lifelike opportunities for political gain or loss. Paul had been very impressed by the experience—the puppet actors who could actually make conversation, the small objects like silverware that vibrated convincingly if you pinged them on the edge of a plate—but even last year's state-of-the-art had been miles, no, light-years behind this!