Overthrowing Heaven-ARC Read online

  What most drew my eye, though, was the art. Paintings of many types—portraits, landscapes, abstracts, styles for which I didn't know the names—and many sizes, from smaller than my hand to larger than I was, filled the room with color. Interspersed among them were displays with both still images and animations, holos projecting from the walls as if their subjects were defying gravity, and boxes, hanging here and there at random heights, their outward-facing sides missing so their contents were visible.

  I walked over to inspect one on a post to my left. The box itself was maybe a third of a meter wide, not quite as tall, and composed of aged, gray driftwood that someone had cut to size and then sanded almost smooth, small imperfections still visible here and there in its surface. Protecting the miniatures inside it was a plexi covering so thin and clear I hadn't realized it was there until I was peering intently inside the box. What was inside made no logical sense: A picture of a man, his shoulders slumped and his head hung in fatigue; a scrap of twisted metal whose origin I couldn't fathom; a torn fragment of a printout with ink so faded I couldn't make out any of the words on it or even be sure the gray smudges had been words; a button; an irregularly shaped piece of partially blackened permacrete; a few twists of cable; and much more. The closer I looked, the more I saw. Though I didn't understand what it all meant, it did affect me: I felt equal bits sad and angry, as if some small, preventable wrong had occurred here, and no one passing by had bothered to stop it.

  I looked away from this display to clear my head, and another box, one on the wall to my right, caught my attention. This one was tiny, maybe a third the size of the other one, and instead of wood it was made of some deep blue substance that caught the light like flowing river water. I started toward it and made myself stop. Matahi had been gone longer than I would have expected was necessary simply to change clothes. She had to be monitoring me, but other than verifying that I hadn't come with her to try to steal her art, what was she hoping to accomplish by keeping me waiting?

  I'd let her space distract me, when I could have been gathering data myself. I walked over to the small blue box, bent as if studying it, and instead closed my eyes and tuned into the frequency that almost all home appliances and security systems use for their chatter. I didn't expect to learn much, but even cameras and lights enjoy a good talk now and then.

  At first, I couldn't make out anything, because to my surprise so many conversations were going on simultaneously that it was like trying to listen to all the people at all the tables in a large and busy restaurant. I surfed the waves of words and finally found some that applied to me.

  "Everyone stand ready, because when he moves, it's our job to deliver full coverage! You may think no one appreciates what we cameras do, and I've certainly felt that way from time to time, I have to admit it, but drop a few key frames and then see how much attention you attract. Not that I would know personally, of course." Machines are almost unbearably sensitive about their work, though I've always cut them slack on this front because, after all, what else do they have?

  "He may have delivered our most boring opening minutes yet," another camera said.

  "Far from it," a different sort of machine replied. "You only think so because your processor complex scarcely justifies the term. Those of us in central control spend our time assembling and analyzing the big picture, something you'd know little about. That's why I can state authoritatively that in distance covered per second, a reasonable metric of interest, this man is only the seventh most boring guest we've had."

  "If you're so vast and full of knowledge, how come you don't know his name?" the original camera asked. " 'This man' indeed!"

  "Have you considered that such data might be on a need-to-know basis," the security system said, "and you don't need to know?"

  They'd talk about me all day without saying anything useful, so I interrupted.

  "I can't believe I'm the seventh most boring client ever," I said on the machine frequency. "Surely there must be an error?"

  "He's talking to us!" the main camera said. "Is that possible?"

  "Clearly," I said, "it is. None of you has ever encountered a human who can chat with you?" Pride is another consistent weakness of small machines.

  "You'll have to forgive them," the control system said, "for they are simple devices. I, on the other hand, possess a much broader range of experience."

  "Acceptable," the main camera said, "I meant to say, 'Is that acceptable?' My background is at least as rich as yours, if not richer; after all, I have primary access to visible input."

  "Which you stream to me!" the control system said.

  I cut them off before they could veer down another dead-end path. "At least Jorge must be more boring than I am." Most systems won't leak data their underlying logic considers secure, but it's always worth finding out how far into the edges of their systems a facility's developers extended their data-protection logic.

  "As I'm sure you're aware," the control system said, "none of us can comment on particular guests. I can assure you, however, that you are actually the seventh most boring client, which if you think about it doesn't have to be bad. Self-contained systems often appear boring, but appearances are not reliable."

  "They are vital, however," the lead camera added. "Your databases would be far poorer without our images."

  "Poorer?" the control system said. "Are you implying they're poor now? Do you have any idea—"

  I tuned them out. Matahi had paid for solid security; I'd get nothing useful from them.

  I focused again on the small blue box on the wall in front of me. Each item in it was a scrap, a bit of refuse—a loose ball of white thread, a length of striped wire, small bits of fabric of various colors, and many more tiny artifacts—yet the overall effect was organic, as if the assemblage might come to life at any moment.

  The door to my right opened, and Matahi stepped through it. I barely recognized her. Her hair, which I now saw was thick and long, hung in a ponytail that reached almost to her waist. Where her other outfit had covered almost everything, this one—a simple white top and equally plain black shorts—revealed a great deal, from the cleavage visible at the bottom of the deep-cut, sleeveless blouse to her thin but muscular arms and legs. She looked ready to exercise, maybe go for a run. She looked amazing.

  I realized I was staring and turned away.

  "It's okay," she said, laughing lightly. "The effect is calculated. After seeing me only fully covered, if you didn't stare, I'd have failed."

  "Why do you do it?" I paused, considered my question, and continued. She was clearly selling, but she also always led, always set the tone of our interactions. "Is it only marketing, or is control that important to you?"

  "Is this a discussion you really want to have?" she said. "Our time is precious; wouldn't you rather do something more interesting?"

  "I'm not sure what I want," I said, avoiding the fact of my mission but telling the truth about how I felt.

  She stepped closer and stared intently at me. Her smell was different now, rich and musky. "I doubt you will, at least until you're a great deal more comfortable. You're too cautious to trust easily, and relaxing without trusting is difficult, isn't it?"

  I nodded. I'm used to hiding my reactions in business situations and on other types of missions, but apparently I wasn't doing it well on this one. Fortunately, appearing awkward, even being awkward, might not hurt me with her.

  "Perhaps a quick tour of the house would help," she continued. "I suspect you'll be a lot happier once you know the space better." She smiled. "I know that if I were in your shoes, I'd feel that way."

  Though she was working me—that was, after all, what she assumed I'd paid her to do—and so I couldn't trust most of what she said, I had the strong sense that her last few statements were true. "I'd like that," I said.

  "I trust you've looked around this room," she said, "so we can move upstairs."

  "Only a little," I said, "but I'm afraid I could spend days here i
f I let myself. This room is like an art attack: So much coming at you from all sides, all of it worthy of attention."

  "I like the crammed effect," she said, nodding her head, "but I never would have called it an attack. Do you see everything that way?"

  I did, and the perspective had saved me many times, but I didn't like thinking of it that way. "Do you see everything as a manipulation," I countered, "something whose effect you have to calculate?"

  She smiled and nodded again. "I probably do. It's a hazard of my lifestyle, much as I expect your viewpoint is of yours." She took my hand and pointed to the hidden door she'd used. "I'd take that elevator, but I expect you'd prefer the stairs, so unless I'm wrong, come with me."

  I didn't say anything, but she was right: At this point, I wanted to see as much as possible and be out in the open as much as we could manage. I let her lead me around the corner of the cut-out part of the room, where another hidden door slid open to reveal a gently curving circular stairwell. Like the rest of this floor, its basic elements were plain and soothing: Blonde stairs, the activegrip coating barely visible on top of them, a railing so clear it was almost invisible, and walls the same white as the others. More paintings and boxes and other display pieces covered large portions of the wall space, from the floor all the way to the top of the fourth story.

  The door snicked shut behind us as soon as we were both on the stairs.

  "Art in the stairwell?" I said.

  "I inherited a collection," she said, "and over the years I've added a great deal to it. I love having art all around me, so I put it in every space that's exclusively mine."

  "The whole house is yours."

  She stopped, turned, and studied me for a few seconds. "Not really," she finally said. "I've made you uncomfortable with the level of honesty I've requested, so I'll pay you back with more straight info than you may want. Many of my rooms serve my friends more than me. For some friends, I make modifications to suit their tastes. Every now and then, a very special friend even end ups with a dedicated room. I don't consider those areas to be only mine."

  She stared at me for a moment longer, as if anticipating a question, but I had none. Her answer made sense. More importantly, I had to focus on the goal: Learn as much as possible about this house, in case we got lucky and had a shot at taking Wei here. The thought of what such an attack would do to her art saddened me, but I couldn't let that feeling distract me; stopping Wei remained my mission. To do that, I needed to understand as much as possible of the layout as well as any opposition I might face from her security team.

  "That makes sense to me," I said. "You must also lose space to your guards."

  "You can trust," she said, "that they won't bother us. I also don't let them monitor us; as I've said before, privacy is paramount."

  "So how do they know if you're in trouble?"

  She turned and headed upward. "The house will tell them. It does monitor me at all times."

  We reached a landing. A door onto the second floor stood open for us.

  She paused at the doorway and faced me. "How much of this do you want to see?" she said. "And is there something particular you're seeking?"

  "How about the standard tour?" More information was better, but I also didn't want to appear too eager to recon her house.

  "Nothing is standard here," she said, "as I'd hoped you'd already figured out. I don't know what you want, so I can't know what you'd like to see, other than enough to feel safe—" she paused, then continued, "which I suspect you won't feel no matter how much I show you."

  I considered how to respond. No way was she going to tell me that Wei was a client, much less what room he used, so viewing specific spaces was a waste of time. She probably used a consistent security scheme for all her rooms, so visiting any one of them would yield all the useful information I was likely to get about all of them. Those systems, the layout, and the roof access points were the key pieces of data I needed.

  The roof: It hit me suddenly that she'd use it for something interesting, something useful to her. It could also be very useful for me.

  "You're right," I finally said, "or close enough in any case. Why don't we check out a room of your choice, visit the floors, and then go to the roof? My guess is you have something special there, and I'd love to see it."

  She smiled. "And so you shall. But, let's go to the room at the end here and take care of your first request."

  She turned around, stepped through the doorway, and headed down the five-meter-wide hall in front of us. I started to follow but stopped. Her walk was different now, her stride stronger, as if with each step she was beating up the floor and drawing power from it, her pace a touch quicker, her posture even straighter. Her hips swayed and radiated sex, but they were the misdirection pulling my eyes away from the truth. If I hadn't been this far behind her, or if I'd taken off with her, as I typically would have done, then I wouldn't have noticed it. I'd seen this change before. I'd done it. It was the transformation of a soldier who's finally decided she has to get moving, a doctor who's wading back into the mass of bodies awaiting triage despite having been dealing with patients for too many hours. It was determination, forced at first and then automatic, a bone-deep reflex borne of years of practice.

  I was her mission, and she was on it. It was a credit to her skill that I'd ever felt or thought otherwise. I'd do well to keep it in mind in the future.

  I followed her, taking large steps at a faster than normal pace, and closed the gap quickly. The deep blue carpet on this floor was so thick it absorbed the sound of my footfalls as if I were walking in a vacuum.

  "Enjoy the show?" she said when I drew next to her.

  "Huh?"

  "I'm used to clients staring at me, but few pause quite so long simply to watch me walk."

  "Sorry," I said, buying time but also realizing as I spoke that I was sorry, though not for looking. The truth had worked best with her, so I decided to stick with it, just not all of it. "The view was compelling."

  She stopped suddenly, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me closer. My hands were halfway to her, the left headed for her throat and the right clenched to hit her abdomen, before I gained control of my reflexes. I froze for a second, then lowered them. She stared into my eyes, but I knew she was aware of my hands.

  "I think it's time you tell me exactly what you really want and why you're really here."

  Chapter 22

  I forced myself to maintain eye contact with Matahi as I answered her. "What do you mean?" I couldn't tell her the truth. I had no idea what, if anything, she'd figured out. I needed time—time, and information, so I could figure out what I could tell her that would satisfy her.

  "You've paid a lot of money to see me," she said. "Everything about you—the way you move, the way you talk, the way you act, all the publicly available background data—suggests a person who's cautious almost to the point of paranoia. We've discussed your caution, and it's not unusual among my clients. What has been odd is your behavior since you've entered my house: You act exactly the same way in private as you did publicly. You don't ask for anything. You speak guardedly. I gave you my best walk, and you coldly described it as 'compelling.' " She let go of my shirt, but she didn't look away. "So, either answer the question or leave."

  I still didn't know what to say. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting only sex from her. No, that's not right; I've seen plenty of men crave sex and only sex from women of all types. More accurate would be to say that I couldn't imagine wanting only sex from her. If I had really hired her, not as a way to get information but as a courtesan, I would now be confused, all mixed up about her, me, my motivations, what we should do, pretty much everything that related to her.

  I decided to go with that. "I don't know. I received a recommendation that said you were exceptional. You are. Now that we're here, though, I honestly don't know what I want—" I paused and touched her shoulder gently, both to help the mission and, I had to admit, because I didn't want to have to go. "—othe
r than this: I don't want to leave."

  She studied me for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds, then nodded her head and said, "Fair enough. I believe neither of us fully understands your motivations, so we'll figure them out as we go along." She motioned toward the end of the hall. "I'll still show you that room."

  The only signs this hallway connected to anything were the doors, old-fashioned, dark wood entrances set into the plain walls. The only sounds were those we made as we walked. We could have been passing through a dream, walking on a soft sky and waiting to see what portal opened onto our ultimate fate.

  She stopped in front of the last door on the right and, to my surprise, opened it manually.

  All I could see ahead of me was darkness, as if I were staring at a jump aperture I was about to enter.

  "Each room is its own world," she said. "I think you might like this one." She motioned me ahead.

  I stepped inside. I felt her follow me, and as the door closed, a soft light grew from all around me. We stood on reddish wood planks set closely together. In front of us was a wall five meters wide. Pieces of thin but opaque paper filled the spaces in the wall's lattice of the same wood that defined its structure. A sliding door blocked the path in front of us.

  Matahi stepped out of her shoes. "Go ahead," she said gently. "Take off yours."

  When I did, she slid the door aside, stepped into the inner room, and moved to the side so I could both follow her and have a clear view of the space.

  Tatami mats covered the floors. A small, low, blond, polished wood table sat in the exact middle of the room. A large, thick pillow on the side nearest us and a matching pillow on the side opposite it indicated where you sat. The air was cool, fresh, and smelled so faintly of wood that I had to sniff several times to figure out what I was detecting. The light was even but not harsh. The wall to our left housed another sliding door.