Endgame (Voluntary Eradicators) (5 page)

“
Fifth. It's quite strange, being so high off the ground.”

“
Because the Arbatians mostly live in one-story dwellings, right?”

Surprise flickers over Tash's sharp features. “Yes, that's right.” She smiles haltingly. “I'm still not quite used to it. At this point, the curtains mostly stay closed or I get vertigo. Keeps the heat out, too.”

“
The heat?”

“
Floors six through ten — and parts of five — don't currently have electricity. They better fix it, soon. I wasn't the only recent
arrival and there are supposed to be more on the way.”

“
Interesting,” says Vol. “I hadn't heard that.”

“
What floor do you live on?”

“
Fourth. I have for a while.”

“
And there are only two gaming parlors so far, right? They must be planning on building new ones. I can't imagine why they would need so many new Players otherwise.”

“
Maybe. Maybe not. You could go mad trying to figure out why the Regent does what he does.” An odd twinge of unease uncoils from Vol's stomach even as she speaks the words. She can almost remember … something …

Tash's smile freezes. She shakes her head as Vol moves to follow her. “No. Sit down, grab us a table. I'll get the grub.”

She's ditching me
.

Vol plops into one of the metal chairs. Just in time, too, for her body feels about ready to give out. Even though Players are largely sedentary, the electric pulses from the game chair stimulate the user's muscles as if they are actually running, jumping, and fighting. It makes her feel a little guilty, as if she's cheating somehow; she has heard that, long ago, players were often flabby and out-of-shape. They played without biofeedback loops, on a flat 2D screen. Vol can't imagine interacting with a game with a flat screen. Even the holladramas are three-dimensional.

What would that be like?

Boring
, she decides.
Boring, but safe
. It must be comforting to have the monsters separated from you by a solid screen of glass. Excitement and danger walk hand-in-hand.

“
Here's your coffee.” Tash sets down her food-laden tray with a loud clatter that jolts from Vol from her thoughts. She misreads Vol's surprise and says, “Yum, yum,” rubbing her belly for emphasis. “Sure you aren't hungry?”

“
I — I'm sure.” She stares at the steaming cup in front of her. She feels like she might cry.

“
It's just coffee,” Tash says. “It won't bite.”

“
I just can't even remember the last time I had one. A real one.” The smell rising up from the cup reminds Vol of hot, dark chocolate. Another sensation all but lost. “It was a long, long time ago.”

“
Sure beats the hell out of synthetic Bastani swill. Arbatian coffee cannot be beaten.”

Vol closes her eyes and takes a long, deep sip. The heady, nutty flavor explodes in her mouth with a current of tingles she can feel all the way in the back of her throat. And something happens. Something strange. Because this sensation goes beyond taste; it bleeds into the other four senses as well, in a dizzying swirl of colors, textures, and scents.

And Vol is choking on it.

The temperature of the room plummets and the stupor falls like a wall. She doesn't even have time to be relieved as the agony rushes in like a tide to fill the void this sudden fugue has left in its wake. Then the blackness, too, recedes, and her blind eyes clear abruptly to see Tash staring at her.

Vol smiles weakly. “Did you say something?”

“
I asked if you were okay.” Tash's fork is loaded with food but she hasn't touched it. “You went pale. And your eyes were strange.”

Vol feels a flicker of fear. “No, before that. You said something else.”

“
What? Oh. I asked where you were from — are you all right?”

Vol sets the cup down, a touch unsteadily. “I'm fine. And I'm Bastani. Eastern Bastan.”

Tash's eyes widen. “But wasn't that part” — she breaks off, looking around surreptitiously, and lowers her voice, — “destroyed?”

“
I don't want to talk about it.”

“
Of course. I'm sorry.” Tash lowers her eyes, abashed. When she next lifts her gaze, the change in her expression is startling. Embarrassment has yielded to a profoundly deep anger. “Believe me, I'm the expert when it comes to fucked-up home districts.”

“
And here we are in Karagh,” Vol quips. “The very flower of virtuousness.”

“
It all comes down to that, huh? See how low we've gone, when Karagh is the most decent place in the Regency. Yet another reason to drink. No wonder people flock here in droves.” Tash grabs Vol's drink and takes a long, draining sip. “Mm, that is good — though they've burned it a little. I think I might take a nap. I'm going to need my energy to go to that ridiculous ball.”

“
You're going to the ball?”

“
Aren't you? I was led to believe we had no choice in the matter.”

Vol cracks a wry smile. “Ah. You've met Kira, then.”

“
If that self-congratulatory guinea pig in my doorway this morning was Kira, then yes. We're acquainted.” Tash yawns again. “Well, I'm out. See you at the ball. I'm sure you'll be the only one there worth talking to. Mind if I take this with me?” Tash raises Vol's now half-empty glass in a salute, turns, and heads for the elevators.

What a strange girl
.

Vol likes her — she thinks. Tash has all the sweetness of Suryan paired with Kira's scathing wit. And even if she didn't like Tash, Vol would still have to admit that the dark-haired Arbatian with the flashing eyes is the most interesting person to set foot in the Tower for a long time. Vol finds herself looking forward to the ball now, if only to see what kinds of hell Tash is going to raise.

The stranger in the elevator was interesting, too.

Vol blinks.

Interesting and menacing, and definitely not for her. Is he one of the new residents on the fifth floor? The ones Tash mentioned earlier? It explains why she hasn't seen him before, but not how he knows her — or why he thinks he does.

Briefly, she wonders if he'll be at the ball.
Probably not
.
He's probably out frequenting one of the brothels by now
.
And good riddance
. His behavior had been more than a little off balance. The way he looked at her — as if he were on the verge of doing something — something unimaginable. And wild.

Stop that
. She scolds herself; she feels like a fool. Shaking her head, she rises from the table and walks out of the cafe. Karagh is a place for people who wish to meet their personal demons up close and laugh right in their faces. Vol thinks she has picked her poison well. Too well, maybe. Hers tend to laugh right on back.

The numbers projected by the atomic clock slowly blur into focus as Vol opens her eyes. They read 6:30pm. Her eyes widen. That can't possibly be right. She's just checked the time, and she has two hours. Vol blinks, and the unchanging numbers seem to mock her. As she watches, the zero turns into a one.

Shit
, she thinks.
Shit
. She has less than thirty minutes to get ready.

Not again
.
Gods damn
.
I thought we were over this
.

Chunks of missing time. Sometimes mere blips, sometimes
gaping tears that rip entire pages from her life. She is never aware of it happening, though occasionally the fugues are preceded a strange, tickling sensation at the nape of her neck. She scratches the skin absently, feeling her pulse rise. Has she been fugueing all day?

Maybe coffee aggravates whatever it is that's wrong with her.

Vol slips in her green contacts, carefully adjusting them to cover her irises' natural hue. Then she washes her face, brushes her hair, and attempts to apply her cosmetics. The result does not scream court jester, so she considers the endeavor a success. Slipping on her shoes, Vol opens the door and prays Kira is still in her room.

She steps out and her foot hits something stuff.

Vol looks down.

A package is in front of her door.

Vol can't keep herself from scanning both sides of the hall before bending to pick it up. She glances at the projecting clock, then at the package. Curiosity wins.

She plops back down on her bed, holding the box on her lap like a pet cat. The card fixed to the package explains nothing. It just says “Vol.” As if it weren't obvious enough that the gift is for her. The writing isn't helpful, either. Smooth and flowing, it looks like carefully practiced calligraphy and probably isn't the writer's normal hand.

She tears open the wrapping, revealing a bank of ice-blue fabric.
When she holds it up, the hem cascades to the floor in a waterfall of silk. It's a dress. Someone has sent her a dress. Kira? No. She knows instinctively that it wasn't Kira. Kira wouldn't want to run even the slightest risk of being upstaged at her big event. She wouldn't send something so nice.

Because the dress is beautiful. The strapless bodice is beaded with clear studs of glass in whorled patterns resembling the flowers of frost that blossom on the windows in winter. The beads trail like icicles in spiraling patterns to the skirt, which is a shade darker.

Vol checks the tag sewn inside the bodice. It is exactly her size.

She frowns, setting the gown aside. Her fingers touch upon something solid and hard hidden within the folds. It nearly falls to the ground — she catches it just in time, and gasps. In her hand is a silver latticed mask, so delicate and brittle that a single touch seems like it will cause the entire structure to crumble and melt just like ice.

She cradles the mask in both hands, cursing her clumsiness, grateful that her ungainly haste did not cause the destruction of something so beautiful. The metal gleams with a rainbow of color. The mask, and the dress, are both undoubtedly expensive. Far more than she can afford.

Gifts like these aren't given lightly, and certainly not without an ulterior motive.

Vol glances at the clock. Ten minutes now. She doesn't have time
to be particular. She unzips the dress and carries it with her to the bathroom. Showtime. She hopes she has some makeup that will match.

4.

One of the rooms in the bazaar generally reserved for private auctions has been cordoned off for the night's event, spangled with strands of LED lights, which hang suspended from the ceiling like the stars that Karaghassian residents can no longer see in their sky.

As Vol steps out of the Tower, a cold win nips at her skin. It smells vaguely of the sea.

A north wind
, she thinks.
Bad luck
.

Snippets of music float through the air as she hurries down the hallways, ignoring the odd looks she receives from the passing Marks. She can make out the staccato bursts of a snare, entwined with a baseline that, when paired together, remind her of the rain— dark, unrelenting, and inexplicably sad. As Vol nears the ballroom, she hears the high, sweet cry of an Arbatian violin, and the haunting chords of a ballad being played on an electronic keyboard.

“
Oh, the magic in this world has gone, but I've still got our favorite song,” a female voice sings. “So come away with me, darling, please — I'll bring the stars, you'll bring the cold, and together we'll paint the world in gold.” The singer is standing on a podium, her musical accompaniment surrounding her, swaying in time to the rhythm as masked dancers twirl on the floor.

It really is incredible. Karagh — and the Regent — are going to rake in a fortune.

So many people are crammed into the hallway that she can scarcely see the floor.
Which is a good thing
, she thinks, as her foot slides against something sticky. She weaves her way through the crowd. Each time she passes beneath one of the lights, dimmed by cerulean filters, the air seems to grow denser, heavier. Where she passes through the ethereal glow, she has the disconcerting feeling that she is moving through water.

Magic: bottled and synthesized like so much else in this sciolistic world of theirs.

Vol drifts, caught in the current of dancers, searching for a familiar face beneath the alien masks. She thinks she sees Kira, resplendent in a pastry-shaped gown that makes her look like a Selmairean cream-puff, but the girl whirls out of sight before Vol can be sure. She is relieved she didn't need to borrow a dress from Kira, after all. She might have ended up looking like lemon meringue. But she would choose the company of a cream puff over solitude. Even an ill-tempered one.

And how pleasant that would be
, she thinks.
Hi, let's hang out because I don't want to feel pathetic
.

Anyway, it isn't working. She feels ridiculous now. Frilly, matronly. Most of the women, and girls, have taken advantage of Karagh's nonexistent dress code. Fabrics ranging in texture from scales to satin to silk sparkle and flare beneath the lights, providing
more glimpses of skin than dress. Vol is beginning to feel like a character from a historical holladrama.