Camera Obscura (22 page)

 
 

"Would you like to see some of the others?" the fat man said. She had thought Mycroft Holmes was fat, but Sade eclipsed the other man entirely, the way the Earth eclipsed the moon. "We do have such a
wonderful
collection here. They do… excite me."

  Her gun arm was still raised. She said, "Step away from me."

  "But of course." He raised his hand placatingly, and smiled, the smile as fake as the rest of him. "What am I doing here?" she said.

  "The Council felt you should be kept out of sight, for a while," Sade said. "Until you recuperated sufficiently." He hadn't moved away. And his nuns were blocking her way… She said, "Well, I am recuperated."

  "Of course. I will inform the Council…"

  "I will go now."

  The smile disappeared. "I am afraid that is not possible."

  She tensed, getting ready to fire – the fat man said, "Wait."

  She waited. He said, "Perhaps we've started on the wrong foot, as it were. We did not expect you to wake so soon–"

  "You've been keeping me sedated," she said.

  "On Council orders! Your body had suffered severe trauma. It was deemed prudent you were kept… comfortable."

  "I'm still waiting," she said.

  The fat man sighed. "I shall send word to the Council. In the meantime, why don't you come and wait in my chambers? I can assure you, they are most comfortable."

  She watched him, his silent nuns behind him, and knew she was outnumbered. Slowly, she lowered the gun arm.

  "Excellent," the man said. "Come! You look like you could do with a drink."

  Not waiting for an answer, he turned – his wide back providing a tempting target.

  The cries of the insane rose around them. She followed Sade down the corridor. He said, "They are disturbed by your presence here. You seem to upset them."

  "Tough."

  He laughed, a thick, gluttonous sound, but made no comment. He waddled as he walked. The corridor was long, the doors all barred. She peered into rooms as she passed: in one, a man sitting bound to a chair, a wide, grotesque smile carved into his face – Sade said, "One of the Council's men – he had an accident with a vat of chemicals. It altered his face and loosened his mind, the poor soul."

  Howls came from another cell, animal sounds raising a chill up her spine. Looking inside she saw a young man with long, wild, matted hair prowling on all fours, growling when he noticed her. "Raised by wild animals," Sade said. "I am trying to teach him to speak but, alas…"

  All the while the silent nuns watched her. At the end of the corridor Sade walked down a flight of stone steps and Milady followed.

  Sade's quarters lay at the end of a second, shorter corridor, thankfully bereft of inmates. She could still hear their cries, but they were more muted here. "Please," Sade said. "Come inside."

  When he pushed the wide doors open it was onto an opulent room of shadows: the dim light came from thick fat candles scattered everywhere amidst a confusion of cushions, divans and sofas. Low tables held sweets, xocolatl, opium pipes, chess boards, books, writing implements, whips, chains, keys, leather gloves, goblets, feathered headdresses, totems, maps, compasses, brushes, plates of deboned chicken, roast beef, glazed potatoes, parsnips and devilled eggs. In one corner of the room stood a camera tripod, in another a Tesla set. The walls, she noticed, were covered in paintings of a kind she had last seen in Paris's Chinatown: Toulouse-Lautrec's writhing, almost alive joinings of flesh and machines.

  Sade said, "Please make yourself at home." He went over to the Tesla set, twiddled the knobs, spoke quietly, listened, and turned back to her. "The Council has been notified. Wine?"

  "Coffee, if you have it."

  He made a gesture with his fingers. One of the silent nuns approached, already carrying a silver tray on which sat a silver coffee pot and china cups. "Cream? Sugar? Brandy? Allow me." The nun put the tray onto a table, sweeping away a map of the Arctic region, a phallus-shaped pipe and a plate of halfeaten duck. One remaining eye stared up mournfully at Milady. Sade waddled to a nearby sofa, sank down, and set to mixing brandy, coffee, cream and sugar. Milady watched, fascinated. Then she said, "You are a machine."

  Sade laughed. "The original me died in this place," he said. "It seemed only fitting that the new, improved me should run it. I have been a good servant of the Republic, after all. And I am not entirely what you think I am."

  "Oh?"

  "Watch," he said. From one of the nearby tables he lifted a curved, long-bladed knife. The blade was dulled with dried blood. Sade raised the knife and brought it to his chest. Slowly, smiling and licking his lips, he pressed the blade against the material of his shirt, parting it. His flesh – if that is what it was – was the colour of rotten teeth. It was covered in a criss-crossing network of old scars.

  Sade pressed the blade against his skin, parting it. He gasped, and beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. Milady watched, horrified, fascinated: unable to turn away.

  Sade's flesh parted easily. What lay behind it…

  She had seen the inside of people before, more than she had wanted to. And she had seen the inside of machines. But what lay inside Sade…

  She saw silver-coloured bones, the traces of a skeleton not entirely that of a human being. She saw intestines, organic glistening entrails and from inside the exposed belly came the harsh, sickening stench of rotting organic matter, and she saw a heart that was half-alive and half-machine, an enormous, engorged device beating steadily, circulating blood through that weird, internal landscape of metal and flesh… The blade was almost all the way down to Sade's waist now and his enormous belly flapped open and the stench from inside was suffocating and she said, "Enough. Please, enough."

  The man's eyes were open and his face flushed and he smiled. He put down the knife. "Take a good look," he said. "I am something new. The Council needed volunteers, or conscripts, or both. I was both."

  "What did they do?" she said – whispered – and then she thought – Viktor.

  "They took my dying brain," Sade said. "My brilliant, lustful, delightful old brain, and they put it into a new vehicle, and they built me a new body, a human enough body to house a mind such as mine." His thick fingers reached for the open flap and pulled it closed. His thumb ran up the cut and, where it touched, the skin sizzled and hissed and the smell of it was like roasting meat. It closed where Sade touched, leaving a new, long scar. He gasped again as the last of the cut was closed, and the new scar stood dark against his skin, already fading to become just one more amongst the many. "I can assure you, all my parts are fully functioning." His eyes sought hers, and his tongue snaked out, fat and bloated. "
All
my parts, Milady de Winter."

  A sense of unreality stole over her then: suddenly, it was all too much – her own changed body, the asylum, the bloated corpse that sat before her, talking, all the while looking at her with that hungry, terrifying look. Sade said, "Coffee?"

  She took the proffered cup. The drink was sweet, laced with brandy, strong. It made her feel better. She said, "How long have I been… asleep?"

  Sade shrugged. "A few months," he said.

  "
Months?"

  He only shrugged again. She drank the coffee. It was very sweet. Sweet, and–

  "You kept me sedated," she said, struggling to get the words out. Her body felt weak, unresponsive. The cup fell from her fingers, crashed on the thick heavy carpet without a sound.

  "I had to study you," he said. "You fascinate me, Milady. I had to have you… for my collection."

  Two of the nuns had materialised beside her. She had not felt their approach. "You never called the Council," she said, or tried to. Sade shook his head sadly. "Oh, no," he said. "I could not let you get away. You must forgive me, but–"

  Her eyes, closing.
Both
her eyes. Mists behind her eyelids, and the whispering voices of the dead. The last words she heard were Sade's: "Take her to the examination room."

 
 

 
 

Flying through mists, her eyes throbbing – insidious green jade spreading through her brain, shoots of green taking root – she must have been dreaming, must have been asleep – drugged, she thought. Sade had drugged the coffee.

  And yet she was awake – alive – and this was, somehow, real, and she was flying, flying through the clearing mists: they parted before her.

  The air thrummed, a sound like a physical sensation invading her mind. Around her the dead whispered, talking softly of lives gone by. A silver river snaked down below – she was descending lower, above her a full moon cast silvery light. The air was humid, tropical. Two worlds juxtaposed, this one and the next – one seen through her remaining eye, and one through a haze of green jade…

  The river fled ahead and joined another, and in the place they met a half-island rose like a green-shelled turtle, and on top of the shell was a city.

  She saw a temple rise in the distance, its dome shining in the silver light of the moon. The sound – the beat of a drum – echoed inside her, a vibration of force running through her bones.

  Flying over narrow cobbled streets, houses of dark wood and bamboo, lanterns hanging in doorways, shadows scurrying – going lower still, until she came to the gates of the temple.

  Saffron-robed monks walking in procession – candles held before them, shaved heads reflecting the moon. Walking around the temple, slowly, while the drum beat – she raised her head and saw it, on top of a tower, a giant drum the size of an ox, beaten by two monks – with each beat the sound fled across the city, a human-made sound of thunder. The beat worked itself into her bones, her soul – the monks walked in silence, slowly, the candles held before them, a procession of lights.

  Singing coming from inside the temple. She walked slowly across the courtyard, feeling like a ghost. Through a green of haze, the ghosts – silver strands and the white of mist and she thought – this is what it does, this thing, this
device – it records the dead.

  Why?

  The sound of chanting, a reedy old voice singing inside, the drum beating, beating, and she climbed the steps up to the temple and stood a moment between the columns before going inside.

  What – who – waited inside? She tensed, and it seemed to her that, back in the waking world, her body was shivering, and sweat was forming on her body, as if she were trying to fight an illness. She shook her head, and stepped into the hall of the temple.

  Four elderly monks sitting cross-legged on a carpeted floor. It was very hot – a fat mosquito flew lazily in tracing figures of eight, as if drunk on the heat and humidity. The carpet worn from countless bare feet. A green jade statue rising ahead – a lizardine Buddha, looking at her with amusement.

  She knelt down on the carpet. No feeling in her new leg but it obeyed her easily. The monks paid her no attention. The chanting continued, the air smelled of incense and sweat and gun oil.

  Gun oil… she looked down at her arm and the Gatling gun shone silver in the light. She ran a finger, lightly, across her arm. Then she waited.

  The drum beating like a heart – her heart. The ghosts of the dead whispered around her. She closed her eyes, giving in to the rhythm of the drums. She began to hear voices, babbling. Somewhere nearby. They said things like:
Compilation of bio
data records approaching fifty percent
and
quantum pattern
combination incomplete
and
attempt to locate source fail!
and
cali
brating trans-dimensional gateway penetration routines
and then another voice, a human one or mostly so, said, "Shut up!"

  She opened her eyes.

  Standing between the four elderly monks was a… was a man.

  
Mostly
a man.

  He was a grey armour, a hybrid of human and machine – complex shapes of silver darted across his skin, forming and re-forming, their patterns vastly complex, hinting at unsolved mysteries – his eyes were dark, his hair cut short, his hands were weapons. She thought – he is as beautiful as a gun.

  The man, paying no heed to the monks, said, "Manchu!"

  A hunched figure crawled to the man's feet. "Master," it said.

  "Have you made the arrangements?"

  "Everything is ready, Master."

  She stared at the man, that beautiful, dangerous
thing
, like her a combination of human and machine.
The Man on the
Mekong
, she thought. She stared at the jade statue of that alien, lizardine Buddha. The voices rose again, penetrating her mind:
Geo-temporal relocation desirable – source of quantum burst un
known – entity nascent – trace patterns inconclusive–

  A sense of sadness, a deep, ancient loneliness that almost overwhelmed her. The Man on the Mekong said, "Do be quiet. Manchu, prepare the boat for departure."

  "Yes, Master."

  The hunched figure slithered away. The man stood silently

for a long moment. His eyes, dark as the heavens, were populated with jade stars. He raised his head, looked around, his face revealing sudden doubt. The monks continued their chanting, the drum continued to beat and Milady's heart beat with it.

  She found herself looking into his eyes.

  He took a step back, then held himself still. He was as still as a statue, as still as a gun waiting to be fired. He said, "Are you a ghost?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out of her mouth. The voices babbled in the background about
estab
lishing contact protocols
and
rerouting physicality
and
lunar orbit
station checksum negative
, whatever any of it meant. The man said, "They are mad, you know."

  She tried to speak again, but her voice was gone. "They send assassins after me," the man said. "Sometimes I wish they would succeed."

  She stepped towards him, each silent footstep echoed by the drums. The ground seemed to shake beneath her. The monks continued to chant. Her eyes were still on his. His eyes were the deepness of space, and filled with the tiny, distant lights… "I am going from here," the man said, very softly. She stood close to him. When she reached out it was with her gun arm. His hand rose too, a metal hand, and clawed. They stood that way, not touching, not speaking, and the drum beat like a clock.

  "Tell them…" he said. "Tell them that–"

  Then his head moved back, his eyes shifting from hers, looking beyond her, and his eyes widened – "Get back!" he said, and then he
pushed
her, or
at
her, and she flew back from him, rising, dissipating like mist, through the roof of the temple, and for a brief moment looked down and saw the river alive with lights, an endless procession of candles floating serenely down the river, and a dark steamboat moored to a wharf–

  She rose and the mists swallowed her and the drum beat and his voice echoed in her ears, a warning, and though she fought the pull it dragged her back, back into her body and she woke up, covered in cold sweat, in a dark red room, and an enormous, grotesque figure hovered above her.