Camera Obscura (30 page)

 
 

He was close, she knew. Somewhere nearby… he would set himself up close to the Fair. Like her, he was bound to the statue, changed by it. They were linked, the way the Kai man was, that lonely man she had only seen in her dreams… all three of them, bound by that alien statue and those terrible, insane voices that emanated from it. The Phantom would want the jade statue but more than that, he would want to be close to that sea of humanity, seeking out those vulnerable, lonely souls floating within. He would stalk them, slowly, patiently. He would isolate them, charm them, bewitch them and finally, when they least expected it, put an end to them. He was close – he could be watching – watching and waiting.

  Well, let him watch. They would meet again, and soon – and it would be Tômas who would scream for mercy then.

  She walked without hurrying, the streets alive with humanity, the outline of that strange, white city rising above the black. Mohawk and Sioux and Lenape mingled with English and Romanian, Zulu and Sotho, Egyptian and French, Chinese and Siamese and Indian – for the world had come to the World's Fair. They had named it for Vespucci, the man whose ill-fated voyage from Europe to the New World had brought back with it the awakened Les Lézards. Now the lizards sat on the green throne of England, ruling an empire over which, it was said, the sun never set. The machines, the old and patient machines ruled France, and in the Middle Kingdom the secret societies of the Wulin schemed to get back the power they had lost, and an Empress-Dowager ruled behind the throne…

  They had all come here, to this Chicagoland, and to the free continent where the Council of Chiefs ruled by consent of all. They had welcomed in the new immigrants, given them land to set their cities on, and kept a wary eye beyond the shore, fearing Victoria and her get.

  This is the future, they seemed to say. A human future, in a place you do not rule. When you come, come as guests.

  And yet the lizards, too, had come to the Fair. She saw a black hansom cab go past and as it did a curtain twitched, and she caught sight of the elongated skull inside, and alien eyes caught, for just a moment, hers…

  They had plans, she thought. Long, patient, ancient plans. What did they really want? Where had they come from?

  And she thought – perhaps the jade statue could answer those questions…

 

Pain.

  It came on her without warning. It ran down her arm and into her stomach and she doubled over. In the empty place of her eye the
thing
moved, that foreign presence, a beetle grasping, and she almost screamed.

  Pain. The taste of bile in her mouth, and her breathing came out ragged and short. She felt a shiver go down her spine, the hair rising on her arms, the back of her neck.

  A flash of jade, the pain arcing through her like electricity–

 

Then she was gone, the street disappearing, and she was standing somewhere high up, looking down at the White City.

  A balustrade of green metal – the lizards' metal, the stuff they had made Notre Dame out of, and their Royal Palace. The pyramid, she realised – the great pyramid that dominated the White City, towering above the white buildings, casting its shadow over the Midway. It was a not-so-subtle message. The Fair may have been the world's, it seemed to say – but the world belonged to the creatures who had, centuries before, cast their power over it. An exhibition space, in truth: displaying the power and glory of the Lizardine Empire, in rising levels – and she was somewhere high up, near the pinnacle, and looking down–

  It was quiet there, and the wind blew hard and cold, and black clouds came drifting from the lake. It smelled of coming rain, and cold.

  And in the voice of the wind she heard those other voices.

  They sounded excited. Impatient. They spoke of
Ninety per
cent completion rate
and
electrodynamic properties readjustment
and
spatial alignment
and the jade in her head shifted and turned as if it, too, was excited, and the pain throbbed through her and she screamed.

  She was not alone up there, she realised then. Down below, the mass of humanity, illuminated by the harsh white light, seemed as insignificant as an anthill, as featureless. What did a single ant signify? She was not seeing them with her own eyes, she suddenly knew. When she turned her body was a thing of metal and flesh, and the jade was everywhere in it, and her mouth opened and whispered, "Kai. My name is Kai."

  She saw herself reflected in the green alien metal. The face that stared back at her was
his
face, the Man on the Mekong, who was no longer on the distant Mekong river – he was here, on the top of the world, looking down at his own reflection. The sadness in his eyes arrested her.

  An image in her mind – a giant wheel, turning, a flash of lightning – then it was gone. She saw her hands – his hands – close over the balustrade as if trying to rip them apart. The pain arced through her again and she thought –
It is his pain I
am feeling.

  "Kai," she said, and the lips that weren't hers moved with her intent.

  Then they said, "Help me–" and the jade flared through him, through her, and the pain burned and they were severed.

  When she opened her eyes again she was lying on the ground, beyond the walls of the city, where she had fallen. A small crowd had gathered to watch. From down here they were not ants, she thought. Each one was different, each one an agent of his or her own fate. She raised her head, looking up at the pyramid. Lights spun in the air above the Fair. The giant wheel kept moving, carrying passengers in its hanging cars. Did they, too, see only ants? she wondered. She pushed herself up, trying to ignore the crowd. A carriage with black windows was parked on the other side of the street. As she stood up lightning flashed in the black sky overhead, and rain began to fall.

 
 

 
 

"Milady de Winter."

  The voice was chilly, the voice of a long winter. She knew it well, from another time, another place…

  Hated it, feared it – respected it, too.

  She wished someone had told her it would be the Monsignor.

  They had picked her up when she was still trying to recover from the flash of pain. Two of them, out of the black carriage, expressionless mannequins, coming to her aid. When they closed on her, one on either side, she knew who had sent them.

  Now she was sitting in the moving carriage, the silent manshaped automatons on either side of her, and the Monsignor before her.

  One of the oldest of the Quiet Council… modelled on a man who had lived long ago. His robes were dark purple, his eyes lifeless. The voice was old, scratched, and came slowly. The voice said, "Need I remind you of your obligations?"

  She didn't reply. A bald head, a scratch running down one side. The semblance of humanity was fleeting. He was one of the oldest, with a skin of yellow rubber and jerky motions, primitive technologies patched and haphazardly upgraded over the years… She said, "You are the resident agent in charge?"

  He snorted. "I am the Council," he said, the words each of them, those secret masters of France, said when they took their place. All for one, and one for all – she remembered that, too, from another time and place. It was cold, and she was wet from the rain. On either side of her the Monsignor's mannequin bodyguards were motionless.

  "I have not been told–" she said, and his voice exploded out of the unmoving lips: "You are not meant to be
told
! You are meant to
listen
!"

  "I'm listening," she said. A pain in her head. Dim jade light bursting and fading in her field of vision.

  "I doubt it," the Monsignor said. "You were told to secure the
item
," he said. "Do you have any
concept
of its importance?"

  "To France?" she said.

  "To all of us!" the Monsignor said. "Humans, machines – anyone on this tiny, fragile world. In the wrong hands it could end us all."

  "I am working on locating the–" she began, but he cut her off. "No," he said. "Do not lie, Milady. Do not lie, not to
me
."

  "Locating the Phantom…" she said, almost whispering.

  "Yes…" the ancient automaton said. "Truth, now. A rare and precious ingredient in our mix of spices, is it not? And so refreshing…"

  She said nothing. Could machines taste? Could they smell? Did they really comprehend what spices were, or what they meant? She did not intend to ask. The Monsignor said, "You will
not
pursue Tômas."

  Tension knotted in her stomach. She raised her head and stared directly at the automaton. "He is killing people. Women."

  "The lives of the few matter little," the Monsignor said. "The lives of everyone living now and still unborn are in danger. Tômas… can be useful. You will not pursue him."

  It was said with a finality she could not abide. She said, "He can't be allowed to remain free!"

  "Tômas will answer to the Council in due course," the Monsignor said, sounding amused. "As will you. For now, you must seek out the item and secure it. There are many, here, in both the black city and the white, seeking, searching – and it is close, Milady, is it not so? Can you not feel it?"

  And as he spoke she saw it – a tiny glimmer of jade as the Monsignor's head moved. So there
had
been other fragments. "Sometimes I believe I can hear voices…" he said. "Speaking too softly for me to understand. They do not use Tesla waves nor light nor anything I understand, and yet they speak, and the world shakes… It is a machine, Milady. A very dangerous machine, held by a very dangerous man. They must both be contained."

  She wanted to shake her head then, to explain – about Kai, about being trapped by the statue, about having no choices – but it was the Monsignor before her, the Cardinal, they once called him, and he had no mercy – none of them ever did.

  I am the Council, she thought, and shuddered, and the cold seeped deeper into her.

  "You are wet," he said. "Unwell. Return to your quarters, dry, rest. Leave Tômas… to me. And find the item!"

  The carriage stopped. The door opened, by itself. The bodyguard on the left stepped out, scanned the area, gave a tiny nod.

  "Goodbye, Milady," the Monsignor said. "Remember our conversation."

  Outside, puddles of water on the grimy street, and fog curled in the air around them. Gas lamps burned here, yellow flames fighting the night, not the blinding white of the Fair. This was the old city, the black city – and they had deposited her outside her boarding house.

  The bodyguard returned into the carriage. The door closed. The carriage moved away and shortly disappeared into the fog, and she was left alone.

  I should do what he says, she thought. I should go back inside, and wash, and rest, and tomorrow go hunting for Kai. I could find him, too. He is nearby, and the voices have plans…

  She nodded. When she clenched her phantom arm the gun it had become wanted to fire. Soon, she thought. She looked up, at the closed doors of the boarding house. Then she thought of the dead mutilated girl left for her to find.

 
 

 
 

She thought of what Master Long had told her, all that time ago, beneath the Seine, in that dark half-world of the undercity of Paris.

  The code of Xia, he had said.

  There
was
a code, she thought. It was not something you could put into words, as such. It was not set down in writing, not signed, not displayed. It was a… a feeling, a sense of right and wrong.

  She had been told to follow the statue, and let a murderer go free.

  And she knew, then, that she couldn't do it.

  It was not a matter of choice. It was simply what she had to do, the path she had to follow – against orders, against sense, perhaps. There was a choice, the Monsignor had told her: of saving a world, or saving a handful of lives. But she could not quantify one against the other. Perhaps it was too big for her, too incomprehensible – a world was a hazy concept, ill-defined: but a murdered woman was a murdered woman, and a killer was a killer.

  She turned her back on the boarding house. It was raining again, and the streets were dark. It suited her. The flames of the gas lamps cast yellow light that shivered over broken cobblestones. This was a place she understood.

  She ran her fingers over her gun arm. The Gatling gun was fully loaded, she knew. She felt awake then, alive. She walked down the streets and watched the shadows, and they watched her back, and knew her for one of their own. People disappeared in the black city. The river washed corpses away. It was a place of profound change, this Chicagoland. For here, the city of the past met the city of the future, and yellow light gave way to white. It was a dream-future, dreamed up by humanity, a shiny, alluring future – but was it real?

  There would always be killers, she thought. And there would always be people like her, to try and stop them. Nothing more, nor less, than human. There were no eternal champions, no guardians of the ages at the end of time… there were only the laws, the kind humans made, and the guns they made to keep them.

  And so she went, to keep the law. She knew the Phantom would be somewhere nearby. He would stay close to the white city, to the future city, but not within it. He would prey on the unwary, the dreamers, those who came to see the future, to be mesmerised by it, and forget this was still the old world, and predators lurked in it – not in the dark but in the light, with charming smiles and pleasant words…

  A boarding house, she thought.

  A shiver ran down her. Her hair was a dark halo in the gaslight. Did she guess it, intuitively, or did she sense it, through that fragile link that joined her to the Phantom? He would open a boarding house, and welcome in those lonely, trusting souls, those visitors to the great Fair. A boarding house near enough to the white city, and cheap enough – for the right boarder. For there would be a different price to pay…

  She prowled the street, restless, her gun arm ready at her side. Though he had not been so easy to kill, the last time… But then, neither was she.

 

She tried something then. The same way it had happened on Scab: she reached
inside
herself, reached for that alien thing lodged in her empty eye socket, wakening it. The pain tore through her, worse than ever. The thing
shifted
, and she imagined the groan of bones and flesh as the jade moved in her head like a living thing. Jade flashed, inside her head or outside, she didn't know. The pain was terrible, and she was bending over, bile rising in her throat again, through her and onto the street. She blinked away tears. Flashes of jade, and she tried to control them, tried to
direct
them.

  Dead… the dead were all around her. She could sense them, in that other world –
quantum representational matrix, data storage,
the voices seemed to whisper – minds trapped, studied, analysed, and stored, like victuals. There was a body floating down the river, and silver snaked across its skin. There was a body in a cart, being driven to a hospital – two men in the front talking of the price it would fetch, not aware that, behind them, underneath the tarpaulin, the corpse was twitching, moving… and beyond, beyond, pushing through the pain: searching for
him.

  She was retching, blind now, on her knees, but still she pushed, still she searched – voices coming from afar:
Ninety
five percent lockdown, opening sequences checksum correct!–

  And then she saw him.

  He stood before a tall mirror. He was changed again – Tômas with his thousand faces, dressed now in a respectable black suit, his face different, a pleasant countenance – but she could see the silver strands run like eels down his arms, beneath the cuffs of his ironed shirt. He was smiling at the mirror, practising. Did he know she was there? Did he know she was watching through his eyes?

  "How do you do, Mr Holmes?" the Phantom said to his mirror-self. He bowed, then reached out and put on a tall beaver hat. "How do you
do
, Mr Holmes?"

  Holmes, she thought. It was the name of a well-known British detective. Had Tômas taken on the name?

  "A pleasure to see you again, my dear."

  She startled back, thinking he was speaking to her. But no – he was still practising his patter – like a magician before a show, she thought. The pain throbbed through her. She didn't know how long she could keep watching. "I have missed you, terribly. I trust you enjoyed your visit to the Fair?"

  Mimicking again – a girl now. "Oh, it was wonderful! The lights, the buildings! How do they build them so tall?"

  "A marvel of the age–" Tômas again, a charming smile. "But come, I have a surprise for you."

  "You do? Oh, how wonderful! What is it?"

  "It's a secret," he said. "I will have to show you…"

  "Is it far?"

  "It is right here… in my cellar," he said.

  Then he chuckled. Staring at himself in the mirror, his face changed again, the silver flowing into it, the skull elongating, teeth growing. His eyes shone with jade. "You will like it there," he said.