City of Golden Shadow (28 page)

"Shit." Orlando led his friend back out of the recording. "Let it run."

They watched in silence as Thargor leaned forward to stare at the still-unbroken wall. Then they heard Fredericks, as Pithlit the thief, shouting: "There is something coming into the chamber! The tomb's guardian! Thargor!"

"It didn't happen that fast, did it?" Fredericks sounded a little uncertain, but Orlando felt a surge of relief. He wasn't crazy after all.

"It sure as hell didn't! Look, here it comes." He pointed to the Lich shambling in from the edge of the cube, battle-ax flailing. "The whole sequence takes ten seconds, maybe, according to this. But you know it was longer than that, right?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure you were staring at that wall for a much longer time. I thought you'd had to break your connection, or the link had gone dead or something."

Orlando snapped his fingers and the cube vanished. "Beezle, investigate that section of the game record for editing or tampering of any kind. Check runtime discrepancies against the game clock. And send a copy to the Table of Judgment, noted as a possible improper character death."

The spidery agent popped into the room from out of nowhere and sighed deeply. "Jeez, boss, anything else you want me to do? I got the first download of search records."

"File 'em. I'll look at them later. Anything seriously interesting? Anything right on the nose?"

"Golden cities and/or super-real phenomena in virtual media? Not really, but I'm giving you everything I can find that's even a little warm."

"Good." Something was tugging at the back of Orlando's mind, a memory of the strange metropolis, its shining pyramids and towers of folded amber and gold leaf. At first it had seemed a personal vision, a gift for him alone-was he ready to give up on that possibility? "I changed my mind about the Table of Judgment. I don't want them involved-not yet, anyway."

Beezle grunted. "Whatever. Now, if you don't mind, I got work to do." The creature produced a cigar from out of the air, stuck it in one corner of its wide, wobbly mouth, then exited through a wall, ostentatiously blowing cartoon smoke rings.

"You gotta get another agent," said Fredericks. "That one's scanny, and you've had it for years."

"That's why we work so well together." Orlando crossed his legs Indian-style and floated half a yard up into the air. "The whole point of having an agent is that you don't need to worry about commands and stuff. Beezle knows what I mean when I say something."

Fredericks laughed. "Beezle Bug. That's so woofie."

Orlando glowered. "I named it when I was a kid. C'mon, we've got some weird stuff happening-tchi seen major sampled. Are you going to help me think, or are you going to sit there making stupid comments?"

"Sit here making stupid comments."

"Thought so."

Christabel's daddy and his friend Ron-but Christabel had to call him Captain Parkins-were sitting in the living room having a couple of jars. That's what they called it when they drank her father's Scotch and talked. But when her daddy drank some by himself or with Mommy, it wasn't called that. One of those grown-up things.

She was wearing her Storybook Sunglasses, but she was having trouble paying attention to the story because she was also listening to the men. It was a treat for her daddy to be home in the daytime even on a Saturday, and she liked to be in the room he was in, even if he was talking to Captain Parkins, who had a silly mustache that looked like it belonged to a walrus. The two men were watching some football players on the wall screen.

"It's a shame about that Gamecock kid, whatever his name was," her daddy said. "His poor parents."

"Hey, football's a dangerous game." Captain Parkins paused to drink. She couldn't see him, because she was looking at Sleeping Beauty on the Storybook Sunglasses, but she knew the sounds he made swallowing, and she also knew his mustache would be getting wet. She smiled to herself. "Most of them are ghetto kids-they'd never get out otherwise. It's a calculated risk. Like joining the military." He laughed his loud ha-ha-ha laugh.

"Yeah, but still. It's a helluva way to go."

"What do you expect when you've got kids who are four hundred pounds of muscle and can run like a sprinter? One of them hits you and pow! Even with that new body armor, it's a wonder there aren't more deaths."

"I know what you mean," her daddy said. "It's like they're breeding them special in the inner city, extra-big, extra-fast. Like they're a whole different species."

"I was in the National Guard during the St. Louis riots," said Captain Parkins. There was something cold in his voice that made Christabel squirm even across the room. "They are a whole different species."

"Well, I wish the 'Heels would start recruiting a few more of them," her daddy said, laughing. "We could use some muscle on our defensive line."

Christabel got bored with listening to them talk about sports. The only thing she liked were the names of the teams-Tarheels, Blue Devils, Demon Deacons. They might have been from a fairy tale.

The picture of the handsome prince had been frozen for a little while. She touched the earpiece and let it run. He was sliding through a forest of bushes covered with thorns, big long sharp ones. Even though she'd seen the story many times, she still worried that he might get caught on one of them and really be hurt.

"He made his way through the ring of thorns, wondering what might be hidden inside," the voice said in her hearplug. She was only wearing one so she could hear Daddy and his friend talk, so the voice was quiet. "Now you read the next part," it told her. Christabel squinted at the lines of print that appeared beneath the thorns as though written on a cloud of mist.

"Sev . . . several times he was snagged on the thorny branches," she read, "and once he was ca . . . ca . . . caught fast so that he feared he might never escape. But he carefully pulled his shirt and cloak free. His clothes were torn, but he was not hurt."

"Christabel, honey, could you read a little more quietly?" her daddy called."Ron doesn't know how that one ends. You'll spoil it for him."

"Funny. Very funny," said Captain Parkins.

"Sorry, Daddy." She read on, whispering, as the prince broke through a wall of cobwebs and found himself at the gate of Sleeping Beauty's castle.

"Oh, I've got a story about our little old friend," said Captain Parkins. "Caught him yesterday mucking about in the records for the PX. You'd think with the way he goes through food that he was trying to double his meals quota, but he was just trying to increase his allowance of a certain key product"

"Let me guess. Plant food? Fertilizer?"

"Even stranger. And, considering he hasn't been out of that place in thirty years, downright bizarre. . . ."

Christabel stopped listening because there were new words forming across the bottom of the Sleeping Beauty story. They were bigger than the others, and one of them was her name.

HELP ME CHRISTABEL, it read. SECRET DON'T TELL ANYONE.

As the word "SECRET" appeared she realized she was reading out loud. She stopped, alarmed, but Captain Parkins was still talking to her daddy and they hadn't heard her.

". . . I told the PX to refuse the order unless he could give them an acceptable explanation, of course, and I also asked them to reroute any unusual requests to me. Now what do you think he's after? Making a bomb? Spring cleaning?"

"Like you said, he hasn't been out in decades. No, I think he's just senile. But we'll keep an eye on him. Maybe I should drop by and check up-after I've shaken this cold. I'm sure that place incubates viruses like nobody's business."

Christabel was still reading the words in her Storybook Sunglasses, but she was reading them silently now, and holding her breath, too, because it was such a strange secret to have right next to her daddy. ". . . AND BRING THEM TO ME PLEASE HURRY DON'T TELL ANYONE SECRET."

The regular words came back, but Christabel didn't want to read about Sleeping Beauty any more. She took off her Sunglasses, but before she could stand up, her mother appeared in the living-room door.

"Well, you boys look comfortable," she said. "I thought you were sick, Mike."

"Nothing that a little football and a few judicious doses of single malt won't clear up right smart."

Christabel stood up and turned off the Sunglasses in case they started talking out loud and gave the secret away. "Mom, can I go out? Just for a minute?"

"No, honey, I've just put lunch on the table. Have something to eat first, then you can go. Ron, will you join us?"

Captain Parkins shifted in his chair and put his empty glass down on the coffee table. "I'd be delighted, ma'am."

Christabel's mother smiled. "If you call me ma'am, again, I'll be forced to poison your food."

"It'd still be an improvement over what I get at home."

Her mother laughed and led the men into the kitchen. Christabel was worried. The message had said hurry. But once lunch was on the table, no one went anywhere. That was the rule, and Christabel always obeyed the rules. Well, almost always.

She stood up, a stalk of celery in her hand. "Can I go out now?"

"If it's okay with your father."

Her daddy looked her up and down like he was suspicious. For a moment she was scared, but then she saw he was playing a joke on her. "And where are you taking that celery, young lady?"

"I like to eat it when I'm walking." She took a bite to show him. "I like to make it crunch when I walk, so it sounds like a monster going crunch crunch crunch stepping on buildings."

All the grownups laughed. "Kids," said Captain Parkins.

"Okay, then. But be back before dark."

"I promise." She scurried out of the dining room and took her coat down off the peg, but instead of heading directly for the front door she went quietly down the hall toward the bathroom and opened the cabinet under the sink. When she had filled her pockets, she moved as silently as she could back to the door. "I'm going now," she shouted.

"Be careful, little monster!" her mother called back.

Red and brown leaves were skittering across the front lawn. Christabel hurried to the corner. After peeking back to make sure no one was watching, she turned toward Mister Sellars' house.

Nobody answered when she knocked. After a few minutes she let herself in, even though it felt funny, like being a robber or something. The wet, hot air pressed in all around her, so thick it seemed like something alive.

Mister Sellars was sitting in his chair, but his head was back and his eyes were closed. For a moment she was sure was dead, and was getting ready to be really scared, but one eye opened like a turtle's eye, really slow, and he look at her. His tongue came out, too, and he licked his ragged lips and tried to talk, but he couldn't make any sounds come out He held his hand up toward her. It was shaking. At first she thought he wanted her to take it, but then she saw that he was pointing at her bulging pockets.

"Yes, I brought some," she said, "Are you okay?"

He moved his hand again, almost a little angry this time. She pulled the bars of her mother's face soap out of her coat and piled them in his lap. He began scratching at one of the bars with his fingers, but he was having trouble getting the wrapping off.

"Let me do it." She took the bar out of his lap and unpeeled it. When it lay in her hand, white and shiny, he pointed to a plate sitting on the table beside him. On the plate was a very old cheese-it was all dry and cracked-and a knife.

"You want some food?" she asked.

Mister Sellars shook his head and picked up the knife. He almost dropped it, his hands were shaking so much, but then he held it out to Christabel. He wanted her to cut the soap.

She sawed away at the slippery bar for some time. She had done soap carving in class, but it wasn't easy. This time she concentrated very hard, and at last she managed to cut off a piece as wide as two of her fingers side by side. Mister Sellars reached out a hand like a melted bird claw and took it from her, then popped it in his mouth and slowly began to chew.

"Yuck!" she said. "That's bad for you!"

Mister Sellars smiled for the first time. Little white bubbles were in the corner of his mouth.

He took the soap and the knife from her and began to cut himself more pieces. When he had swallowed the first and was about to put the second in his mouth, he smiled again and said: "Go get changed." His voice was weak, but at least he sounded like the Mister Sellars she knew.

When she returned wearing the terrycloth bathrobe, he had finished the whole first bar and had begun to cut up another.

"Thank you, Christabel," he said. "Zinc peroxide-just what the doctor ordered. I've been very busy and I haven't been getting my vitamins and minerals."

"People don't eat soap for vitamins!" she said indignantly. But she wasn't completely sure, because since she'd been in school she'd been getting her vitamins in a skin patch, and maybe old people had a different kind of vitamins.

"I do," the old man said. "And I was very sick until you got here."

"But you're better now?"

"Much better. But you should never eat any-it's just for special old men." He wiped a smear of white from his lower lip. "I've been working very, very hard, little Christabel. People to see, things to do." Which was a silly joke, she knew, because he never went anywhere or saw anyone but her and the man who delivered his food, he'd told her that. His smile went away and his eyes started to close. After a moment, he opened them again, but he looked very tired. "And now that you've rescued me, perhaps you'd better head back home. I'm sure you had to make up some story about where you were going. I feel guilty enough about having you lie to your parents without getting you in trouble by keeping you too long."

"How did you talk to me in my Storybook Sunglasses?"

"Oh, just a little trick I learned when I was a young cadet." His head wobbled a little. "I think I need to sleep now, my friend. Can you let yourself out?"

She sat up straight. "I always let myself out."

"So you do. So you do." He raised his hand as if he were waving to her. His eyes closed again.