‘And now here you are with your golden thread,’ said Gates.
‘Somehow I can’t really see myself as Ariadne,’ said Dallas. ‘But there will be a labyrinth. And there is a kind of creature. A robot, anyway.’ He explained a little of the Byzantine way in which most blood banks were designed and built and how architects of such high-security environments, like himself, were always vying with one another to create something of utmost complexity and esotericism.
‘I think it’s fair to say that despite our being armed with my unique foreknowledge into the way our target blood bank operates, this will be as hazardous an undertaking as anything to be found in classical mythology.’
Gates shrugged. ‘How else do you get to be a hero?’ he said. ‘Frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
V
How else indeed? What is a hero? It’s only recently that the elements of nobility and self-sacrifice have come to seem important in defining what makes someone a hero. But it was not always thus. In classical times the hero cult included many master thieves. Did not Jason steal the golden fleece? Was it not Heracles who stole the girdle of Queen Hippolyta? And Theseus, who has already been mentioned here — was it not he who stole the golden ring of King Minos, not to mention the actual person of Helen, the daughter of Zeus and, later, the captive of Troy? If myth is a language, then theft is one of its most important nouns. However, the really important factor in the semiotics of heroism is the notion of ordinary men and women, noteworthy because of their actions, becoming superhuman — ultimately, even gods.[69] ‘Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy,’ wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald. But the present author will give you something much more inhuman than mere tragedy. I will show you a story of men and women rising above their very human condition, in the truly heroic sense. I will show you a completion.
8
I
Be sanguine. That’s what the director had told her, and Ronica took this to mean that she should aspire to the mental attributes characteristic of the sanguine complexion, in the medieval physiological sense of that word, in which blood predominates over the other three humors. In becoming courageous, hopeful, confident, even amorous — for blood is always lusty — she would overcome any obstacles in her path. To this end, she dosed herself with a couple of tabs of Connex[70] the minute she was alone in her office. Ronica figured it was best to be fully prepared for anything that her new mission might throw at her. This was her big chance to shine in the director’s line of sight, so she didn’t want to make a mess of it. And there was nothing quite like Connex for boosting your sense of self-confidence. It was much better than cocaine, and the effect much longer lasting. The drug was not without side effects: High doses of Connex could cause powerful hallucinations, while even small doses could assist in the creation of vivid sexual fantasies. Minutes after swallowing the drug, Ronica was the willing victim of a reverie as vivid and lickerish as the most sensational dream.
The ringing phone returned Ronica’s amplified thoughts to her office. Still able to taste the man in her fantasy, Ronica picked up a thin, flat disc and stared into its reflective surface. As soon as she touched the disc, the ringing sound — more like someone stroking the rim of a wineglass than a bell — stopped, and the reflection of her own lightly perspiring features was replaced with those of the director ordering her back to his office.
‘Right away, sir,’ she said as his face vanished from the phone. Holding onto the disc in her fingers, her reflection on the phone’s polished prismatic surface bisected by a laser-thin spectrum that made a livid scar across her face, Ronica checked her appearance, wiped her cheeks with a sheet of nanotissue,[71] took a deep breath, and stood up. There were times when she thought Connex should be remarked as some sort of aphrodisiac. She straightened her clothes, and went to find the director.
II
With its many faux fenêtre English landscape paintings (he owned all of the originals) and its antique furniture, the director’s office was like the drawing room of a beautiful country house. It didn’t matter that she had been there not half an hour earlier; Ronica found herself once again mesmerized by Simon King’s good taste, overawed by such a conspicuous display of wealth. She estimated the desk alone had probably cost more than her apartment.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said impatiently. ‘Come in, come in. This is the girl I was telling you about.’
Ronica hardly minded the fact that by describing her as a girl, and not a woman, the director was in breach of employment and gender legislation, as she walked across the thick Persian rug toward an ornate sofa. He was the director after all, and as far as Ronica was concerned, he could have called her anything he damn well liked. It was a moment or two before her distracted senses registered that Rimmer was already sitting on the sofa scowling at her. As she turned to sit alongside him, the director raised a hand bearing an enormous cigar — smoking in the workplace, another breach of employment legislation — in the air.
‘No, don’t sit down,’ he said. ‘You’re not staying. Neither of you are.’ He glanced meaningfully at Rimmer, who pulled a face and rose reluctantly to his feet. ‘There’s no time to lose. Rimmer has located Dallas. I want you to go with him and, as we discussed earlier, see how he handles the situation. Observe and learn and give him any assistance you can. Understand?’
‘Yes, director,’ said Ronica, and she followed Rimmer out of the door.
Neither of them spoke until they had collected their coats and were standing in the elevator, heading up to the ground floor.
‘So you think you want to join Security, do you?’ Rimmer sniffed with obvious contempt.
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘And what makes you believe that you’re cut out for it?’
Ronica shrugged. ‘I like tying people up,’ she said. ‘And beating them. Punishment’s always been my thing. So I figured I might as well get paid for it.’
‘A sense of humor, eh?’ remarked Rimmer. ‘You’ll need that.’
‘Anything else I’ll need?’ she asked as the car delivered them into the entrance lobby.
Rimmer strode forward, acknowledged the parking valet standing on the far side of the security screen, and, glancing back over his dandruffed shoulder, said, ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ With a show of mock courtesy he waited for Ronica to pass out of the front door ahead of him and then ushered her toward the electric car parked out front.
‘That’s your job, I guess,’ she said. ‘Finding things out.’
‘Depend on it,’ said Rimmer, opening both doors remotely.
‘You’re sort of an armed information-retrieval service,’ said Ronica and slid into the passenger seat. The inside of Rimmer’s car smelled strongly of nickel cadmium, as if there was something wrong with the battery. Rimmer sat down beside her and the doors shut automatically.
‘Perhaps I’ll find out just what it is that makes the director think so highly of you,’ he said.
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