She started over towards him.
'… Gadfium,' said a voice, whispering.
She turned and stared in horror at the white-coated woman on the floor. Blood was still flowing from the dark hole in her temple; her eyes stared straight up. Her jaw moved again, looking stiff and mechanical, like a puppet's. 'Gadfium!' the voice croaked.
She spared the collapsed man a glance then went over to the woman, kneeling so that she could still see the man crumpled in the corner.
'This one's still not quite dead,' said the voice. 'She's been crypted, but she's still alive. It's me; you,' said the voice. 'Listen; he's faking a faint; the man. He's faking it. You must kick or cosh him in the head; now. Use the gun if you must, but if you want to avoid killing him do it now.'
Gadfium felt she was going to faint. The room was spinning, or her brain was. 'I can't,' she said to the woman, watching in horrified fascination as the rich, dark red blood oozed slower and slower and the jaws and tongue moved beneath the open, staring eyes.
'You must; now,' the soft voice said.
'But he might just have —'
'Too late,' sighed the voice.
The man was whirling round, bringing his good hand back. Gadfium reached out with the gun and squeezed, closing her eyes. The gun shuddered once in her hands.
When she opened her eyes again the man was sprawled face down in front of her, a small thin knife still clutched in one hand.
She wasn't sure she'd hit him until the blood started to well blackly from beneath his hidden face.
She dropped the gun, then started when the woman said, '… I'm losing her. The girl's comb… quickly, Gad…'
She could not do it immediately. Gadfium sat against the curtain-concealed wall of the room for a few minutes, shaking and staring at the three bodies in the room, watching the blood flowing slowly across the tiled floor.
When the blood from the fallen man reached the pool spilled from the woman who'd spoken after her death, something broke within Gadfium, and she cried.
She had not shed tears since she'd been a teenager.
Then she sniffed, wiped her nose and went to the girl in red. She pulled the comb from the dead girl's tied-back hair. There were flecks of blood on it. She ignored them and shoved the comb into her own hair at the back of her head.
-… can you hear me? said her own voice.
'Yes,' Gadfium said, her voice trembling.
– Just think it, Gadfium; no need to vocalise.
– I can hear you. Are you me?
– I am. I'm the construct.
– You planned… all that?
– Yes. Are you all right?
– Oh, far from it. But what do I do now?
– Take the knife, its sheath, which is in his pocket, the gun and any extra ammunition and equipment the man has, then leave the shop. If you do exactly as I say I think I can get you out of there.
– Wait. Why was he trying to kill me?
– Because the conspiracy's been betrayed and you were about to enter the crypt. Please; there isn't much time; hurry.
Gadfium went shakily back to the young man. She fought the urge to vomit as she caught sight of her face reflected in the dark pool of blood. She felt in the man's pockets.
– Is he from Security? she asked her crypt-self.
– Yes.
– How did they know?
– I told you, you were betrayed. I don't know by whom.
Gadfium stopped, her hand clasping the bullet magazine.
– Betrayed? What about the others?
– I don't know what's happened to them. I haven't dared to try and contact them in case I'm being watched somehow and my movements are being traced. Look, hurry up, will you?
– Betrayed. Gadfium stared at the intricate pattern on the curtain in front of her. Betrayed.
– Yes; now please; you must hurry now. Take what you can and leave. Turn left when you leave the shop.
– Betrayed, Gadfium thought, pocketing the knife, sheath, gun and ammunition. Betrayed.
– Yes, yes, yes; betrayed. Now move!
3
Sessine was dressed in plain, utilitarian clothes and carried a light rucksack across his shoulder. He stood on the last ridge of the hills, where the land sloped away like some huge wave powering towards a beach. The dusty plain extended before him, the colour of a lion; not featureless, but almost so. Hints of hills lay upon the horizon, and patches of reflection promised water that probably was not there. The trees behind him, above him, made giant shushing noises.
The light came from every part of the sky, shining without a sun. The sky was light blue to the glance, darker blue then purple on closer inspection, and utterly black when stared at. On that blackness — just by willing it into existence — a network of shining lines appeared, and what looked like brightly coloured stars and fat planets shone beyond, in constellations and patterns never seen from the real Earth. He knew what these meant without having to think about it. He looked away, and the sky was light blue again.
He stared at the broad expanse of tableland, and in an eyeblink the plateau filled with a grid of tracks, roads and paths so densely packed and interlaced they created their own solid surface, overwhelming the plain. The network of trails and lines radiated away to the horizon, filling the view with blurred, flickering movement; vast broad highways buzzed and glittered with complex articulations travelling too quickly for any individual element to be discerned, but creating a conglomerative impression of streamed solidity. Elsewhere, on narrower routes, long trains of material flashed past, just glimpsed, while an unseen myriad of paths specked and sparkled with solitary packets of traffic.
In another blink, it was all gone again.
He turned to his other self.
'Well, here we are,' said the construct. 'The parting of the ways. You remember all you need to remember?'
'How would I know if I didn't?'
'Hmm-hmm. What do you remember?'
'I am going into the wilderness,' he said, looking back at the plain.
'For sanctuary?'
'For sanctuary. And to seek and be sought. To provide a container, a medium for whatever I find out there.'
'You will change.'
'I have already changed.'
'You will change forever, and may die.'
'I think you will find we have always lived with that knowledge; not all our betterments have really changed such matters.'
'I hope I've given you all you may need.'
'So do I.' He looked the other man in the eye. 'And you, now?'
Alan turned and glanced back to where a distant mural tower was visible through the swaying trees. 'I'll be back in there,' he said. 'Doing what I've always done; watching. And waiting on your return; preparing.'
'Well, until then.' He offered his hand.
'Until then.'
They shook hands, both smiling self-consciously at the physicality of the ritual, still germane even in this translation from base-reality.
The construct nodded out at the plain, where the ghost-image of furious movement still seemed to linger.
'Sorry it will be so slow.'
'Slow is safe, in this.'
'Good luck.'
'And you.'
Then they each turned, and one headed back uphill on the path between the trees, making for the vast cliff of wall towering beyond, while the other set off down the slope towards the plain.
He walked out across the semi-desert. The paths here were so densely packed there was indeed effectively one single surface. He watched dust drift behind him on a soft breeze and wondered what aspect of the crypt's nature it signified. He stopped and looked behind him, back to where the foothills rose, sprinkled with trees. The fastness hung half-hazed in the sky beyond.