But the present circled the ancient capital in the form of skyscrapers and satellite towers. Even if you didn’t look to the horizon, it came to you—hovercrafts weaving a constant blanket of noise overhead.
Walking through Zone 1 never failed to stir the hunger in Far’s heart. It tumbled and yawned, reminding him that he wanted so much more than this world of Sims and datastreams and everything-all-of-the-time. He wouldn’t have been able to stand passing the Colosseum without the card tucked inside his waistcoat: Second-chance hope, you’ll walk these stones yesterday yet. Every few steps, he patted his pocket to make sure the invitation hadn’t vanished.
The old Forum felt anything but welcoming when Far arrived. Two minutes early. He scanned the ruins—broken stones flickering under hovercraft lights—but they were empty. Tourists often visited this place in the daylight hours, shuffling from one site to the next while conjunctive datastreams flowed through their corneal implants. With one eye they took in the present; with the other they gazed at the past. Digital ghosts enacted history right in front of them: triumphal processions, temple ceremonies, gladiatorial fights…
Right now, with the deep gaps of darkness between the Temple of Saturn’s freestanding columns, it was easy for Far to imagine ghosts in their truer form. Shadows kept crowding his vision. He found himself getting fidgety.
“Switch off your comm.” The voice came from behind Far, but when he turned, there was nothing but night and stone.
“If you wish to proceed with this meeting you’ll switch off your comm.”
No—not behind him. Inside him. Someone had linked to his comm without a contact request. Second hack of the day? Far’s stomach cinched as he ordered his comm offline.
A man stepped out from behind a column. He sported a black cape, complete with a hood that made him look like some sort of Renaissance assassin. With a wordless wave, he beckoned Far to follow him through the old Forum’s scattered stones and weeds, all the way to the ruins’ southern perimeter, where he stepped behind a second column. When Far followed suit, he found a row of arid shrubs hugging an old-as-dirt wall. His guide stood between the shrubs, face to the huge stones. Waiting.
Far was starting to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake. Had he been lured out here by some psychopath to get gutted for the credits on his palmdrive? If so, the caped criminal wouldn’t get much. Far lived on a student’s budget. Ten measly credits were all he had to his name….
This dissuading banking information was on the tip of Far’s tongue when the figure placed his own palm against one of the rocks.
It opened.
What looked like first-century Roman stonework was in fact a door. After reading the caped figure’s prints, it rolled back, expelling air heavy with must and darkness. The guide waved again: You first.
None of this helped Far’s apprehension. He breathed deep, felt the real-paper crinkle of the card against his chest.
DON’T WASTE THIS.
It took a few minutes to get used to the dark and the cobwebby smell. The tunnel seemed to be going down, along a course that threatened to collide with the Tiber. The electric light in the caped figure’s hands glistened across wet walls, carved out Far’s path in the shape of his silhouette. He kept moving at the cloaked figure’s wordless urging, until he was positive he’d walked a few kilometers. Maybe more.
The tunnel ahead opened into a great cavern. How great, Far couldn’t tell. The only light was the figure’s, and it touched no walls, just globed against the dark. As soon as Far walked into the open space, this, too, clicked off….
It was a darkness he’d never experienced before—complete absence of light. Far wondered if this was what it felt like in the Grid. As if everything in the universe was spread in front of him, or possibly nothing at all.
He shivered.
“What’s going on?” His question’s echo was faint. This cavern was extensive….
“I’m pleased you could join us, Mr. McCarthy.” The voice came from in front of him, and he’d heard no footsteps. It couldn’t belong to the cloaked figure. No, it had to be someone who was already here. Someone who’d been waiting for him.
“Who exactly is us?” Far asked the darkness.
“We’ll get to that,” the voice drawled, confident. The more it spoke, the more Far felt he should recognize it. “But I have a few questions for you first.”
“Go on.”
“Who do you love the most?” It seemed like a dangerous query, the way it was asked: razored syllables, hungry breath beating, beating against the black.
“Myself.” This was not the full truth, nor was it a complete lie, but Far’s answer filled the dark well enough.
“Who do you hate the most?”
At the moment?
“Marie Antoinette.” And the person who hacked the Sim, but Far kept that addendum to himself in case said person was standing before him now.
“What is your deepest fear?”
“What is this?” Far deflected. “Twenty questions?”
A sigh. “Just answer me, Mr. McCarthy.”
“Dying without living.”
There was a moment of silence before the answer. “How poetic.”
“My favorite color is beige and I have a purple narwhal tattooed on my tail cheek. His name is Sherbet.” Not knowing what the hash was going on was starting to fray Far’s calm. “Anything else you want to know?”
“I can see why you get under Marin’s skin,” the voice said. “But I’m not so easily rattled.”
Marin. The name set Far’s jaw on edge. He was about to ask the voice how he knew about the irate Academy instructor when the world reappeared. Rows and rows of industrial-sized bulbs burst light into what Far now understood was a massive underground warehouse for honest-to-goodness CTMs. Four time machines reared in front of him: sleek as cats, big as houses. The Galileo, the Ad Infinitum, the Armstrong… None of these were names Far recognized—nor were the actual CTM initials stamped onto the vessels’ bows.
The closest one had no name at all. Its holo-shield invisibility plates were unscratched. Far would’ve bet his tight, tight breeches that the ship’s maiden voyage had yet to be taken.
“Like them?”
The man standing to Far’s side was colorless. The white linen loungewear he had on did nothing for his leached gray hair and pallid skin. His eyes were dark but flat. Lacking some essential -ness Far couldn’t quite place. He was the type of person you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed him on the street. But he was also the type of person who wanted you to forget, who watched you, drinking in your every move, filing facts away for later.
As Far watched the man watching him, he got the very distinct impression that he himself was a file already written. Highlighted and starred. “Why am I here?”
“I think you know.”
“Right, well, since we’re playing guessing games…” Far walked to the nameless time machine and placed a hand on the hull’s pearly plates. It was a hulking, elegant thing, with a three-inch-thick lead body and engines powerful enough to bear it. “How long have you been watching me?”