The Devil's Eye Page 7

  “You’re not suggesting there’s a connection?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then why—?”

  “It’s just a coincidence. But I went back years and couldn’t find another instance of an incursion. Not one. And suddenly we’re getting all these sightings.”

  “How many?”

  “Well, four.”

  “That’s not exactly a rash.”

  “It is when there weren’t any previous ones during the whole of recorded history. When you’re a zillion light-years away from the Assemblage.”

  More half-dressed women paraded by. He gave up trying to hide his interest and laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s hard to concentrate here.”

  SEVEN

  Do not let them mislead you. Your fate is indeed written in the stars.

  —Wish You Were Here

  The Mainline Distribution Services not only saw that Vicki Greene’s work was made available, but they also handled the public relations. Its head-quarters operated out of a gleaming structure that soared into a steeple, located in a park complex that it shared with IQ, Inc., which sold, serviced, reprogramed, and replaced AIs. (And claimed to be run by AIs.)

  Cirilla Kopaleski occupied a suite near the top. We were ushered in by an impeccably dressed young man who smiled too much. Kopaleski was seated on a long, lush sofa, looking through a folder. She glanced up as we entered, raised a hand inviting us to be patient, turned another page, made a face, and closed the folder. “Sorry,” she said. “It seems as if we can never get things right the first time around.”

  She was a tall, stately woman with gray hair, a trim body, and the presence of a queen. She put the folder down with a resigned sigh. “Come in,” she said. “Please make yourselves comfortable. You’re here about Vicki Greene?” She shook her head sadly. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure,” Alex said.

  I decided to try something called a carolla. She pushed a tab and relayed the request. “So tell me what happened,” she said.

  Alex gave what had now become our standard answer: “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “We’re going to miss her,” she said. “And not only because it will hit us in the pocketbook, but she was genuinely likable. I can’t understand it. She had everything to live for. Whatever could have possessed her?”

  “Ms. Kopaleski, it might help if you tell us what you can about her visit. When did she first contact you?”

  “I knew in advance she was coming.”

  “You mean to Salud Afar?”

  “Yes.” She was wearing an emerald-colored blouse and white slacks. “She let me know before she left Rimway.”

  “Had you met her before?”

  “No.” She shook her head sadly. “We connected right away. She went to dinner with us, with me and my husband. She was a good woman. Not often you meet someone that talented who hasn’t let it go to her head.”

  The drinks arrived. We were in a place where everything was unfamiliar. I had no idea what was in the glass, so I took it cautiously. It was okay, but I decided I wouldn’t have any more.

  Kopaleski picked up her glass, sipped from it, studied it in the daylight that fell through a set of blinds. “It’s a disaster.”

  Alex bowed slightly. “For everyone concerned,” he said. “May I ask what services Mainline provides for its writers?”

  “We handle distribution and publicity, arrange their appearances, and so on. And, if they wish, arrange quarters.”

  “Did you do that for Vicki?”

  “Yes. I set her up at the Schuyler Inn.”

  “That’s here in Marinopolis?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did she stay? In town?”

  “I can check. But I think she was here only two or three days.” She consulted a display and nodded. “Three days.” She gave us the dates, which, since they were expressed in the local calendar, meant nothing to me.

  But apparently Alex had done his homework. “That would have been immediately after her arrival from Rimway,” he said.

  “That’s correct. I’d set everything up in advance.”

  “Did you see her the first night?”

  “The second.”

  “How did she look?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did she seem upset? Depressed? Bothered by anything?”

  She shook her head. “She seemed perfectly fine to me. I don’t know if you’ve ever met her, but she’s very energetic. Laughs all the time. She certainly seemed to be looking forward to her stay.”

  “Did she tell you why she’d come?”

  “She said she’d never been to Salud Afar, and she wanted to do some touring.”

  “That’s it? Nothing more?”

  “That’s all I can recall. Why? Do you think what she did to herself is connected with her visit here?”

  “I don’t know, Ms. Kopaleski. Did you have any contact with her after she’d left?”

  “I got a posting from her several days later. She said she was enjoying herself and wished I were there.” She smiled. “You know the routine. But that was all.”

  “Do you still have the posting?”

  “Yes, I’m sure we do.”

  “Might it be possible for us to take a look?

  “Of course,” she said. “Mr. Benedict—”

  “Alex is good.”

  “Alex, I know who you are. Your reputation has preceded you even out here. Marvelous work with that Margolia business last year.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’re looking into this. It’s just a terrible loss. Where will we ever find another like her?”

  She gave instructions to her AI, and Vicki Greene appeared in the center of the room. She looked the way Molly Black had looked in those jungle adventures we’d all grown up with: intense eyes, sharp features, a scrambler strapped to her hip, and a devil-be-damned attitude. She wore khaki shorts with enormous cargo pockets and a gray pullover top. She had a billed sun cap, with an “M” mounted prominently on it. A red scarf was slung casually around her neck, and sunglasses shaded her eyes.

  “Hello, Cirilla,” she said. “Greetings from Boldinai Point, Home of the Undead. I got here yesterday and went to see Barryman’s Tomb last night. I’m sorry to report that local myth to the contrary, everything was quiet. Here’s a look at it.” She vanished and was replaced by a stone block. A grave marker. But a big one. Someone had inscribed on its side the legend LIE STILL. The imager moved back to give us a wider view. The block lay in the middle of a cemetery. “This is it. The locals insist this is all that keeps him in his grave. Anyhow, having a great time. See you when I get back.”

  She gave us a wide, self-satisfied smile. The world in her lap.

  “But you never heard from her again?”

  “No. Of course, there was really no business reason for her to contact me. And I assumed she was otherwise occupied.”

  “What’s Barryman’s Tomb?” I asked.

  Kopaleski was delighted to tell us the story: “Forrest Barryman lived four centuries ago. He died in an experiment gone wrong, Chase. A treatment that was supposed to make him a supercop or something. But according to local tradition, he wouldn’t stay dead. Eventually they put that rock over his grave to keep him in it.”

  I looked at Alex.

  Alex smiled. “Okay.”

  She maintained a neutral expression. “Don’t be too sure. Boldinai Point is a strange place. Over the years, there’ve been other odd claims.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “They have a beach that seems to encourage suicide. People with no reason to kill themselves go down there and walk into the water. It happened again just last year. The locals stay away from it. And then there’s a patch of forest—”

  “Hold on,” said Alex. “Let’s stay with Vicki. She said she’d see you when she got back. But she left without getting in touch.”

  “That’s correct.
Next I heard she was back on Rimway.”

  We sat looking at one another. “You didn’t make any effort to contact her after the message from Boldinai Point? Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. Alex, she’s an important client. I didn’t want to seem intrusive.”

  “Of course. Did you try to get in touch with her after she’d left?”

  “No. I had no reason to. I knew if she needed me, she’d contact me.”

  Alex got up. “Thanks, Cirilla. We appreciate your time.”

  “I hope I’ve been some help.”

  “Where’s Boldinai Point?”

  She had the AI show us. “If there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” She gave us her private code. “By the way,” she added, “if you find out what this is all about, I’d appreciate it if you let me know.”

  I set up our trip to Boldinai Point. That evening, while Alex buried himself in a book, I went back to the ocean. When I was a kid, the big thrill in my life came every summer when we took the train to Seaside. We built sand castles and played in the surf with a beach ball. But I especially loved going out in the evening and seeing the ocean at night. I can still remember standing on a place they called Gorgon’s Pier and looking at the stars.

  So that night, in that very distant place, I did it again. It was a way to feel at home, I suppose. But the sky above that ocean was different. There was only a single star.

  Callistra.

  I wondered what might have happened had a sentient race developed on that world. How they would have perceived that single bright light peering down at them? It was a beautiful star, its azure glow amplified by the dark night surrounding it.

  The eye of a compassionate deity, perhaps.

  I wondered whether Vicki Greene had stood out there, perhaps in the same place. What would she have thought? She with her vampires and demons, under so striking a sky?

  EIGHT

  Yes, Colton. It is quite true that we enjoy the sun, that it illuminates our lives, and serves as a metaphor for all that is good. But the reality is that we love the night. It is where all women are beautiful, where the imagination has free rein, where plots are hatched and terrible things happen. And we would have it no other way.

  —Love You to Death

  Boldinai Point was best known for its cemetery. Maybe it was the only claim to fame the place had.

  It was located in an area called the Outland, on a large island a quarter of the way around the globe. We caught a morning flight and landed three hours later in a coastal city. From there we rode a gravity train inland to Boraka. We stayed there overnight, and in the morning rented a skimmer, sat back, and let the AI take us the rest of the way to Boldinai Point.

  It was rough country. Dry, flat, sandy, with lots of rock. To the west, a chain of mountains cut across the horizon. The Point itself is a town of about four thousand. I couldn’t imagine how the term Point had gotten into the name. It was located in the middle of nowhere.

  It had a distinction, though. It was one of the few places where people had been relatively free under the Bandahriate. Though it had been part of Cleev’s domain, it was a long way from the center of power, and so small as to be apparently not worth worrying about. So it was the place where, for three centuries, rebels and malcontents and renegade scientists had retreated. It looked remote enough that they wouldn’t have been able to cause any trouble, so the dictator might have been just as happy.

  Salud Afar did not have—and still does not have, so far as I know—the minimum payout system that allows a citizen to loaf for a lifetime if he so desires. No one in power on that world had thought it was a good idea, so they never incorporated it. There, you worked or you became dependent on the charity of others. Or worse. As Alex and I descended into that lonely place, I wondered how the inhabitants made their living.

  The Point was a collection of weatherworn buildings erected along a small series of cross streets. Its celebrated cemetery was located north of town. From the air, it had looked like every other cemetery I’d seen, just a collection of markers inside an iron fence. Outside the fence, the land was flat and gray and ran unimpeded to the horizon.

  The hotel and the restaurant were crowded. “I guess it’s a fairly prosperous tourist spot,” said Alex.

  “Is there something I’m missing?” I asked. “Or is it just the cemetery?”

  “I think it’s just the cemetery,” he said. “And don’t get that look on your face. It’s not every town that has an unquiet grave.”

  The elderly owner of a souvenir store told us the story: “Peter Cleev started it.”

  “Cleev?” Alex said. “One of the dictators?”

  “Four centuries ago. He got upset because some of his enforcers were being killed by rebels. So he launched a program to develop a better enforcer. Somebody you couldn’t take down with just a shot or two from a scrambler. He wanted something that wouldn’t feel pain.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Alex.

  “Do I look as if I’d lie to you?” The shopkeeper laughed and showed us a print of Peter Cleev. Long, thin guy with a pointed beard and satanic eyes. The evil emperor right out of an over-the-top HV. “He didn’t want anybody to know about it because it would undermine his image. The Cleevs thought the rest of us were damn fools. Thought we believed they were compassionate, easygoing types who only had the welfare of their people at heart.

  “It’s why they always had to have people around them who smiled a lot. The world, under the Bandahr, was relentlessly happy. Or else.

  “So he sent a team out here to produce his—” He tried to think of the term.

  “—Android,” said Alex.

  “Android, yes. And the townspeople watched as a lab and support facility were set up on Route One.”

  “Route One?” I said.

  “That’s it running through the center of town.”

  “It’s the only road you have.”

  “That’s right. Route One. You know, if you’re going to keep interrupting—”

  “No. Please. Go on.”

  “Okay. Anyhow, when they got everything built, the lights burned all night, and they started burying stuff in unmarked graves at the back of the cemetery.”

  “Experiments gone wrong?” asked Alex.

  The shopkeeper nodded solemnly, as if the truth was to go no further than the three of us. As if it were something for which the world was not yet ready. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what they were burying. They brought prisoners in at night and did their goddam experiments. And they stayed at it until they succeeded. Or thought they had.

  “Forrest Barryman was a high-school history teacher when they grabbed him and brought him here. He’d said something in one of his classes. Or somebody thought he did, and that was enough. They made him proof against most small weapons. Made him so he didn’t feel pain. But Forrest, he didn’t like what they’d done to him, so he got loose one night and tore up the lab. And tore up some of his tormentors, too.

  “Then he took out the security people and disappeared into the woods. By then he’d gone crazy. One night he came into town and went on a rampage, strangling and beating everybody he saw. They couldn’t stop him. Eventually, an enraged mob was able to drive him out. They tracked him into the nearby hills, took a few more casualties, and finally brought him down with a plasma shell.

  “They buried him in the cemetery, along with their own dead. Members of his family were notified, and several came for the service. They were horrified to hear what had happened. Forrest had simply vanished. Nobody had known what had happened to him. When it got out that he was behind it, Cleev had been so worried he went public and denied the story. Claimed it was renegade scientists. Within a week of the burial, somebody descended on the ruined lab and removed everything that could connect it with the government.”

  “My God,” I said. “Is that really true? Did that actually happen?”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes we
re gray. His hair was also gray, and his skin was sallow. I remember thinking that he needed to get away from the souvenir shop. Get away from the cemetery.

  “It gets worse,” he said.

  “What else happened?” asked Alex.

  “Several weeks after they took down the lab, something attacked the town again. They didn’t know what it was. But they started finding bodies. Beaten to death. Clubbed. Strangled. Witnesses swore it was Barryman. A reporter went out to the cemetery.”

  “The grave was empty,” said Alex.

  “Yes.”

  That part of the story I’d heard before we left Marinopolis.

  “They asked for help from the authorities. But they just laughed. And so did the media, which, in those days, wasn’t worth a damn anyhow. So the town got up an action committee. They went out after him, tracked him down a second time, and killed him again. Everybody agreed it was the same person. This time, they encased the body in concrete before putting it in the ground. They brought in a priest to perform an exorcism ceremony, and they put a stone block on top of the burial site to keep him in his grave.”

  Had the shopkeeper by any chance seen Vicki Greene? Had she actually come to town?

  “Who?” he asked.

  So we moved on. To one of the town’s two restaurants. The hostess was tall and looked a bit too sensible to be living in a place like Boldinai Point. I doubted the town had much in the way of prospects. As we were getting seated, I asked whether there was anything to the Barryman story, no kidding, and she said sure, where had I been all my life? “I’ll tell you something else,” she added. “There’s a connection of some sort with Callistra.”

  “With Callistra?”

  “Most times you go out there, everything’s quiet. But do it at night, when the star’s directly overhead, and you can feel that thing trying to break out of its tomb.”

  Welcome to Boldinai Point.