CODE DOES NOT become bored, or distracted, or driven to the brink of insanity by endless repetition. But this code construct carried a synaptic matrix so good as to be indistinguishable from a fractal bit of a human consciousness.
That echo of FlashMan was nearly gibbering mad.
When the seamless ceiling of his prison split open with a brand-new gaping hatch as broad as a maglev tunnel, the Flashworm didn’t notice. It was laboring up the wall near the dataport.
When the tunnel darkened with a submicronic lead, filling it solid, it didn’t notice. It was inching its way over the lip of the port to where data occasionally flowed.
When a blaze of white energy released from the ceiling like a deluge from a fire hose, it noticed. The codeworm was blown off its precarious perch, hurled to the floor by a cascade of incoming data that filled the room entirely. That blinding storm of energy had its own mission. Flash was simply in the way, and it tossed him about like a windblown leaf as it filled the buffer and began to coalesce in the middle.
Now a discrete column of energy streamed from the ceiling lead. It shocked the codeworm out of its practiced pattern. For the first time in eons, it began to assess its environment.
A figure formed in the pillar of light, gaining cohesion as he watched. But the Flashworm had long since worn its curiosity to a nubbin. It recognized only an energy stream filling the room, the excess running out somewhere unknown—possibly back through the same lead that channeled energy overhead.
The vestige of a cyberdecker came to its senses in that moment. Good enough for me, thought the fractal bit of FlashMan. The codeworm twisted in the backwash of energy and shot out a ropy gripping pod as it passed near the rezzing sim.
It clung. Another pseudopod, and another. Climb … up … was his enduring imperative, and the codeworm ascended, treating the coalescing form like a statue, full of toeholds and push-points that would drive it higher—
—until the statue fought back, trying to shed the grip of the codeworm. The more the sim-form squirmed and fought to lose the Flashworm, the more tenaciously it clung. The cascade of electrons made it difficult to cling, but the codeworm persisted with the same tenacity that had it crawling floors and walls for eons.
Now a second figure started to rez beside the first. The construct was half solid, half ephemeral, not yet fully there. In the flood of power that surrounded them, the codeworm tasted strong bi-directional data flow and a forgotten, primitive remnant of FlashMan felt a twinge of joy.
Good enough. Good enough.
Words, so long unused, sounded like a stranger’s voice even to his own mind that thought them. No matter. There was current flow here, something he could latch onto, and did.
With the next handshake cycle of syncing I/O bits, FlashMan released a burst of energy he didn’t know he had. He leapt to the new sim, flew up its pillar of light into the maw of the overhead tunnel and was gone.
KES FLED, THROWING her thoughts and her electron stream back down the linkage, back to her own brain-space and implant, safely away from the chaos in Janus’s head.
She severed the connection the moment she was safe, and yanked the jack from his temple. He swayed forward in her arms, not unconscious but not entirely present of mind, either.
What in the seven icy hells was that? she thought, angered, adrenaline fueling her reaction. She wanted answers. She pushed Janus from her and sprang to her feet. He sprawled across the marble flagstones, groaning, one hand groping his head.
She put hands on hips, nudged him with a toe of her stiletto-heeled, thigh-high boot. “What—” she began, but never finished.
The side door to the playroom flew open. It was the service entrance, concealed during sessions, used by cleaning staff and house mechos. Never was Kes to be interrupted that way in session.
She angled half-right to confront the intruder. Just as well the Winter Goddess’s client was recovering and could not see this. What entered her lair staggered her backwards.
It was Morya. And herself.
And herself.
“SHIT,” POL SAID in the control room that monitored sessions in progress. Helda, sitting with him to watch Kes and Janus, didn’t even have that much to say. She simply gaped.
On the monitor, she saw Kes as she had been when they’d bought her from the joyhouse. And Morya. And between them—Kes, again. Battered. Bloody. But unmistakably Kes.
As was the Winter Goddess, radically transformed with hair and stage makeup, but Helda knew who was behind that guise.
She clenched the arms of her chair, preventing herself from running down to the playroom that very second.
That Kes had been cloned was obvious. Here was the evidence. Her rages, her behavior since her return—so many discrepancies gelled into a sick kind of sense, and Helda began to swear, a stream of curses that caused her slave to study monitors and wisely hold his tongue.
Torn between the need to intervene and the knowledge that if she moved she would miss the exchange that followed, the Dosan stayed rooted in her chair and watched.
An alarm wheeped at Pol’s console.
“What?”
“A spyeye,” he said. “Someone in there entered with a flycam on them.” A light flashed on the console and the alarm fell silent. “Neutralized,” he confirmed. Microsonics in the room were designed to destroy unauthorized recording devices. They’d done their work already. Whoever was trying to record inside the Winter Goddess’s lair was now deaf and blind.
THE FLYEYE LASTED just long enough to drive Ilanya into action. There: Janus lying at Kes’s feet. Was he dead already? Were they too late?
She saw his arm move feebly before the feed went black.
Still alive, then, if barely. She whirled and snapped commands.
“Teo. Activate the wire in our killer clone. Let’s immobilize her for now.”
“Done, Domna.”
“Obray. Order security teams in. Their first priority is to secure Janus. Amend the kill orders. Absolutely no shooting that may put Janus at risk, but lethal force is authorized to ensure his safety.”
“Yes, Domna Arcolo.”
“Second priority: remove those women from Tryst. The joygirl, too; she knows too much. Give the teams visuals on all targets. Any resistance, shoot to kill.”
“Done.”
She prowled the room and silently invoked Raem the Taskmaster, the mental construct of her Tolex chip. She was caught up in swiftly unfolding events, multiple variables. One misstep could shatter the fortunes of her Emperor and the Empire.
It was time for enhancement.
HELDA WAS OUT of her chair and dashing for the playroom when Pol called after her.
“Domna?” His tone was strangled. She’d never heard the like and it caused her to spin about before she reached the exit.
“What?” she demanded. His only answer was a finger pointing at the monitors.
Outside the broad front door of Tryst, green-uniformed assault teams crouched, about to rush the building. Three white-tuniced officers led them.
“Lyndir security! And Internal Security, too! Impossible! What are they doing here?”
“Coming in, looks like.” Pol’s voice was strained.
“Lock the doors,” she snapped, her mind racing. “This must have to do with those clones.”
Her slave’s fingers flew over console commands. “It won’t keep them out for long,” he warned. “It’s only festival lock-out.” He meant the bar-and-lock system that strengthened the door against break-ins. It was proof against unruly street crowds during special celebrations, but it was never intended to block an armed assault.
“It’ll slow them down,” Helda said. “Tell the Eosan what’s going on and get the guests out of the front of the house.” She headed for the door. “I’m in the playroom.”
In the hall, she began to run.
STEPPING INTO THE dominatrix’s inner sanctum after so long nearly took Kesi’s breath away. The chamber was the heart of her craft and high theater all in one, erotic and intense. Subtle lighting design shaped the room and the mood; the instruments of pleasure and pain were arrayed just so. It was like she’d slipped back into her old life, complete with her submissive slave naked on the floor, and standing over him—
Herself.
Herself as she appeared on vidverts: a divine archetype made real and demanding obeisance. White tresses, pale face, smoke-shadowed eyes, bloodred lips, the white leather and chrome of her garb both revealing and concealing her body. Her height was commanding, made taller with the heels of her thigh-high boots. Hands on hips, confrontational stance.
The Winter Goddess stared at the intruders; her eyes locked with Kesi’s own. She read surprise, anger, and shock on that face all at once.
Of course, she thought. She didn’t expect to see us again. And in this condition—
She flicked a glance to Kesada, supported by her left arm, Morya on the other side. Her clone-sister was nearly as pale as their made-up third. No time for niceties, then.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Kesi turned back to the Winter Goddess. “This won’t wait.”
Janus began to sit up, a frown on his face. The dominatrix ignored him and strode past to confront the intruders.
“Who are you?” she hissed, eyes taking in each in turn, settling on the last one she recognized. “Morya, what in the hells are you—”
Suddenly, she froze, lips moving soundlessly. Her eyes rolled up in her head as Kesi watched. Back arched, a moan issued from her lips. It was not a sound of pain, but of pleasure—overwhelming, devastating pleasure. As her body tensed further she lost balance and toppled to the ground, oblivious to her surroundings. The moan turned to a groan, then tension fled as she passed out on the floor, limp as a rag.
Kesi stared in astonishment; she heard Kesada’s breath hiss between her teeth. Shock held them in place for a moment—long enough for Janus and Morya both to scramble to Kes’s side. He felt for a pulse at her neck, then rounded on Morya and the twins before him.
Does he recognize us? Kesi wondered. There was no clue on his face; his eyes were narrowed with consternation, and his words were sharp, as if the women were responsible for Kes’s sudden collapse.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Kesi ignored his question. “What’s wrong with her, Morya?”
The black-haired woman shook her head in ignorance and fussed ineffectually over the unconscious domina. All she could do was ease her limbs so she lay comfortably.
“Get help.” Janus was curt. “She needs medical attention.”
“She’s not the only one.” Kesi moved them closer. Janus took in Kesada’s bloodied gaping shirt and came to his feet. Kesi read his body language as her twin must, also—they knew this client too well not to. He was tense, now, leery of the unknown. Thinking of his own safety, probably. Kesi knew he was some kind of kingpin in the derevin world. This was no longer a normal session, and a derevin boss did not loiter where things were not safe and predictable.
Janus stepped away from Kes’s unmoving form. He went to the wardrobe where his clothes were stored and hurriedly pulled them on. As he did so, he shot worried looks at the Winter Goddess, now a mere mortal, unconscious.
Kesi looked from Janus to Morya and back again. Their mutual body language, their attention to Kes, their very energy, spoke volumes. Now she saw it for the very first time.
My gods. He’s in love with me. Really in love. Just like Morya.
She felt Kesada’s arm tighten against her, and she looked at her twin searchingly, saw her studying the man they’d always dismissed as just another infatuated client. Kesada turned and gave her a look.
She sees it, too, Kesi realized.
Janus scooped his last oddments from the valet shelf, stuffing a key pad in his pocket and slipping his medallion necklace back over his head. His superstitious god token, Kesi remembered—another thing she’d scorned about him. Now it was a neutral memory, the scorn vanished since her awakening as a clone.
He started towards Kes, moving with urgency, when clattering footsteps burst in on them. Like a woman chased by devils, Helda flew through the antechamber and into the playroom proper. Her mouth was open to speak, but she saw the Winter Goddess on the floor and instead let out a cry. She rushed to Kes’s side, pushing past Morya, felt her shigasa unresponsive to her touch. She looked up, eyes flying from face to face in the room.
She’s in a state, Kesi thought, just as the floor shuddered beneath their feet.
The muffled boom that came a millisecond later drove Helda to her feet again, reeling. She reached out to Morya, caught her balance, fingers clenched on the joygirl’s shoulder. For an eternal moment, she looked completely torn.
I’ve never seen her at a loss before, Kesi realized at the same time Tryst’s Dosan visibly came to some decision. She spun first to the twins. “I don’t know what the story is with you, but you’ve brought security in after you. That means you’re leaving right now.” A quarter turn to face Janus. “This is not about you, Dom, but if you value your privacy, I suggest you come with us and slip out the back way right now. We’re being raided.”
To Morya: “Stay with her.” She gestured to Kes on the floor. “Pol will call for medical help.”
Kesi felt Kesada stiffen, wasn’t surprised when she pushed her way free of her twin. Hand clutching her side, she rounded on Helda.
“We need her, Helda, and we’re not leaving without her.”
“You’re crazy. There’s no time for this.”
“You were in on it, weren’t you? We have questions for you, too.”
Janus and Morya looked baffled; Helda blanched, looked from Kesada to Kesi, then, with concern, at Kes. Her head jerked at the sound of screams from the front of the house.
“Fine,” she spat. “Talk later. First, let’s get you safe.”
She looked to Janus. “Will you carry her?”
She didn’t need to ask. The tall man was already scooping up the dominatrix, holding her as lightly in his arms as if she were a child. Helda pushed past the twins to the service door they’d entered through. “Back this way. Hurry.”
She led, Janus followed. The twins came behind, and Morya shut the service door that sealed near-invisibly in a dark side recess of the playroom.
Kesi heard a clamor as they left that room. Male voices shouted, then they were too far down the hall to track the sounds. Morya took Kesada’s other arm, and they moved faster. Kesi’s skin crawled, waiting for a stun beam or a blaster bolt in her back as they half limped, half ran through the hidden service hallways of Tryst.
HELDA LED THEM through a narrow servant’s door into the corridor by her office. In that passageway she turned left and took them to her private stairs. She paused at the landing. “Down is back alley. Up is roof gardens.”
“I had a run-in on the roof,” Kesada said tersely.
It gave Helda pause, but Janus had no such hesitation. “Get me to the Salon,” he said, “and I can get us out of the Shelieno entirely.”
“The Salon?” Helda did a double take. The twins and Morya stared as if he’d suggested a walk in the jungle without a coolsuit.
“Not a good place for any of us,” Kesi snapped.
“No choice, if you want out of this fix.”
“They won’t help us. Fucking Franc already tried to kill me once today.”
Janus looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “They’ll help me,” he said, completely certain of himself, “and they won’t lay a finger on you.” He sounded grim. To Helda, he said, “Which way’s most discreet?”
“Security’s on the streets, but I’m not sure where. They might not be on the roofs yet. They can’t get in easily unless a house rolls over for them, or they’ve forced entry. Maybe they haven’t, yet.”
Trampling footsteps and more shouts from intruders came from the floor below. Helda glowered thunderously back down the hallway. “Go,” she said. “I’ll deal with these pricks.”
“You’re not leaving us,” Kesada began grimly.
“Get out while you can,” Helda cut her off. “The Dosan has to handle this. If they come looking too closely, they’ll see where you went. Just go. Now!” She looked at Kes, still cradled in Janus’s arms. “Keep her safe. Keep all of you safe.” A hand on Kesada’s arm, a squeeze in passing. “I’m sorry. When this is over, come back. I’ll tell you what I know.”
A woman’s scream echoed through the halls, then cut off as quickly as it began. With a look of fury, Helda darted back the way they’d come.
“Fool,” muttered Kesada.
Janus had a strange, intense look on his face. He ignored Helda’s departure, the muted sounds of danger and threat in the building. “Who knows the way to the Salon?” he asked.
Morya stepped forward. “Follow me,” she said, and led them upstairs.
JANUS CONCENTRATED ON the moment, focused only where he could take direct action. Avoid security’s raid forces. Get medical help for his Mistress.
He trotted behind Morya, but spared more than one glance for the woman in his arms. Her flesh was warm against his hands. He held her for the first time ever, more intimately than he had ever hoped. He relished that one aspect of an otherwise disturbing experience. Everything had gone wrong from the moment she’d jacked into his implant and a malfunction had blown them both out of the system. That she had collapsed and still not come to was a dagger of concern he did his best to ignore. He was doing what he could in this moment. Soon he’d be able to do more.
Hold on, Kes, he thought. Just a little longer, and I’ll see you taken care of.
He barely allowed himself to think her name. She didn’t know he knew it. He had permission to call her Mistress, and that was as familiar as she allowed. It had not been enough. He’d made inquiries about the Winter Goddess as only a man in his position could—but even then, very little, and very respectfully. He’d only wanted to know her real name, and that’s what he’d found out. She’d started work at Tryst two years ago and was a registered shigasa with the name Hinano Kesada.
He was probably the only client of hers to know that fact, and it was a secret he held more closely than he did her unconscious body. But there was no time now to dwell on such things. His first priority was to reach safety with his precious burden, and he was eager to leave the open-air greenways of the roof gardens. His body modifications served him in good stead now: reinforced skeleton and subdermal armor served defensive purposes, but the enhanced strength that let him move comfortably with those additions also enabled him to carry his Mistress without breaking a sweat. He could have easily out-paced Morya, if he’d wanted.
The thought reminded him of the two women following, and he was forced to slow his stride. They were falling behind, and he waited impatient seconds to let them catch up. His curiosity and his duty to help Kes demanded it.
Who are they? he asked himself, not for the first time. They might think their unstyled appearance would disguise their relationship to Kes, but Janus wasn’t so easily fooled. He had long since done what any man with an insatiable desire and the right tools must do: he’d imaged the object of his fantasies and stripped her naked in his sim systems, taking away not only her costumes but also her makeup and the stage lighting that sculpted her face into an archetypal mask. It wasn’t just to have her body to admire or use in his VR fantasies. It was more important than that. He wanted to be able to recognize her on the street, if he ever should encounter her incognito outside Tryst.
That was why he knew that the women following him were her twins. Or, rather, the three appeared to be triplets.
It didn’t seem possible, yet here they came, limping and chasing him as fast as their long legs could carry them. He regretted now that he hadn’t run a full dossier on her. The solid reality of the newcomers left him disconcerted, and doubly peeved at the black-haired one who’d acted so proprietarily towards the Winter Goddess. Why the interruption and the confrontation?
What the hell was going on here?
He was already tired of not knowing the answers and of not being in control.
Janus was famously slow to anger, but he felt it building now. This was turning into a day of fiascos and near-disasters that left him fleeing from an armed incursion in his Between-World sanctuary. Unthinkable, all of it. Then this incidental bombshell, that Franc had tried to kill one of them—Franc?! Efficient, ambitious Franc, from the Red Hand’s most promising derevin subsidiary on Lyndir? It set the triumvir on a slow burn.
He made his way towards the Salon with his unconscious love in his arms and a dark expression on his face.