Straying From the Path Page 12

  “I have never seen it.”

  “You’ve never seen a whale, either, but I assure you they’re real.”

  Romey could not know what Michkov did or did not fabricate, how much his reports shaded the line between fact and interpretation. Each morning, half the dispatches were placed on his desk and half on Romey’s. Romey could have no idea what information lay in Michkov’s dispatches, what he may or may not have been inventing.

  At last the day came when Michkov arrived at the great reception hall and found Romey already there, all the dispatches sitting in a pile before him.

  “I’ve read them all,” he said. “I see nothing here about our great Hero of the eastern front.”

  “Perhaps you’re not looking closely enough,” Michkov said, frowning.

  “Find your Hero there, if you can.” Romey handed him a carefully sorted stack of dispatches.

  None of them involved the war on the eastern front—they all told tales of plague laying the troops low, unrest in the capital, uprisings in the mines. Many people had died, none of them heroically.

  So a day passed when the Emperor received no news of the young lieutenant. Then another. And another. Every morning now, no matter how early Michkov arrived, no matter that he awoke with the milkmaids and street sweepers to win these battles, Romey was already there, had already read and sorted all the dispatches.

  “I do hope he is well,” the Emperor said after a week of this, his face creasing with worry. Michkov’s stomach churned. He wanted to give the Emperor good news, to continue the Hero’s story to a glorious conclusion.

  The door closed behind the entourage. “Yes,” Romey said, grinning carnivorously. “I do hope nothing has gone wrong.”

  Perhaps if Michkov had remained silent, had never mentioned the Hero again, Romey would have been satisfied, content to merely stifle Michkov’s hopes. But the Emperor always looked so pleased to hear of the Hero, and seemed sad when there was no news.

  “We have not heard about him in so long because the Lieutenant is recovering from a bout of the eastern flu. The company doctor is frankly surprised he’s gone so long without catching it. But the Lieutenant is in good spirits. The doctor jokes that this is probably the only way they’d get him to rest after these last hard months.”

  The Emperor chuckled at this, for indeed the Hero had been extraordinarily busy all along the eastern front. “Shall I write him a note, do you think?”

  “I think it would cheer him immensely,” Michkov said, his stomach knotting. The Emperor was smiling again, yes.

  But so was Romey.

  The Hero was not the best patient. So much remained to be done. The tide of the war was turning, he could not pause now. A raid on an enemy stronghold was planned for the next week. They’d at last retake the valley that had been lost months before. He assured the doctors he was well, begged them to let him rise, take his horse, and return to the front lines where he belonged, where he could lead his men. He wondered how the sergeant was handling the new recruits. Such young boys they sent him these days . . . .

  But the doctors kept him to bed, fed him medicines, told him he must rest until the fever stopped burning. Fever, ha! It was his blood, longing to strike the blow that would end this war.

  Until then, he had his love’s letter, scented with her perfume, and in the stupor of a sleeping draught he read and reread her words of devotion.

  Michkov feared the worst from Romey’s animosity. The next day, Romey’s report came directly to the point.

  “Your Majesty, I have a most dire report of treason, committed in your very presence, by one of your own undersecretaries.”

  “What?”

  “There is no heroic lieutenant fighting on the eastern frontier. I have letters here from Generals Tanov and Yurivno, and they know nothing of this man. He is purely the invention of Lieutenant Michkov, who has been deluding us all for months with his flights of fancy.”

  The Emperor’s expression fell. He aged years, all the sadness that had been kept at bay the last few months crashing on him at once. If his uniform had been any less starched, he would have sunk to the floor.

  All the disappointment he turned on Michkov in an expression of betrayal. “Lieutenant Michkov, what do you have to say to this? Is it true?”

  “Your Majesty, if I may explain—”

  “Please do.”

  “Your Majesty. The stories haven’t hurt anything. Look at the reports . . . .” He swallowed. He could plead innocence or ignorance. He could, in effect, lie. He’d all but admitted his guilt. He could defend himself without lying. Try to defend himself. “Look at the reports . . . . Your Majesty, you are winning the war! You weren’t, six months ago. Who is to say there isn’t a Hero behind this?”

  His brow furrowed, the Emperor lowered his gaze as he considered.

  “You think this change is because of your stories?” Romey, harsh and indignant, interrupted the pause. Michkov stood accused, and he would accuse him, before the Emperor could ponder. “You believe that in telling fables you have succeeded where the vigilance of the Empire has failed?”

  In fact, Michkov could, because the Empire’s vigilance had failed. But to say so here and now would be treason.

  Michkov stood rock-still beside his desk, hands tucked regimentally behind him. “Morale, good or bad, is a powerful thing. But I claim nothing more than the offer of a spark of hope.”

  Romey pitted his vision of the Empire against Michkov’s. The paranoia of one who saw only impending disaster against the idealism of one who still indulged in his childhood daydreams. The one who could make the Emperor and his train of glazed-eyed advisors believe his own vision would triumph.

  Michkov waited for the Emperor’s answer to his plea, but once again Romey filled the silence.

  “Your Majesty, Michkov has done this only to flatter your fine sensibilities, a deceit to win your favor and his preferment.”

  Ah, here was a familiar tale of greed and fraud that the Emperor could well believe. And if Michkov claimed that such a plan had never entered his mind—that would be most unbelievable to the men of court.

  With his eyes clouding as doubt left them the old Emperor stared at Michkov, frowned, and gestured to the soldiers at the door. “Arrest him.”

  Michkov held the Emperor’s gaze. It was the least he could do. Perhaps he should have apologized, but he did not think he was really sorry.

  And so Michkov was officially charged with fabricating reports during wartime, a treasonous offense punishable by death. And so, come spring, he was convicted and sentenced to hang.

  Perhaps he deserved this. To the letter of the law, perhaps he had committed treason. Perhaps he had been naïve to expect the Emperor’s forgiveness. Perhaps Romey was right, and the age of heroes had passed forever. If only Michkov had been able to prove him wrong.

  Stories did have power over life and death. Michkov had always believed that.

  The dreams always ended badly. Standing on the scaffold, rope around his neck, Michkov dreamed the Hero’s death, not in battle, cutlass slicing the air, shouting in defiance at the enemy that overwhelmed him, but in his sickbed. He was so strong, everyone had been so sure he would recover. But the illness consumed him. He died clutching his sweet lady’s letter.

  The following week, a new undersecretary, a Lieutenant Orfiev, who looked even younger than Michkov had, occupied Michkov’s desk. Here was a whelp Romey could bully. Part of what had been frightening about Michkov was the sense that nothing Romey did affected him. He had those bright eyes that always seemed to look elsewhere.

  By chance, Romey received that morning’s oddest dispatch, postmarked the day of Michkov’s execution.

  “What is it?” Orfiev asked when Romey’s face turned white and his hand with the sheet of paper began shaking. When Romey didn’t answer, Orfiev was so bold as to take the sheet from him. He had heard rumors of what went on in the reception hall, what dire news was buried and what lies were told the Emperor, wh
o was too old to know better. He wondered what could be so terrible that not even the Emperor could know.

  He read aloud, “ ‘Dispatch. Message from General Yurivno. The Lieutenant has surprised us again and climbed from his deathbed. Last rites had been given, but the next day the fever broke. Heaven be praised we have our Hero back with us! Already he is calling for his horse, but the doctors say he must move slowly. Me, I think it was a new letter from his dear lady that called him back from the dead.

  “ ‘Your Majesty, I do hope your undersecretaries put this at the top of their report: our Hero, Lieutenant Michkov, lives!’ ”

  Real City

  Stalking around the party without her referencing link flashing names and stats at her felt a little like being drunk. It was Cass’s way of making an adventure for herself. Off-balance, senses muffled, she indulged in self-induced paranoia. Smiling faces, links hooked to their ears, nodded in greeting as she passed. They all knew who she was, thanks to their links, and she hadn’t a damn clue about two-thirds of the people here. She was working blind and stupid, and it made her giddy, along with the glass of wine she’d had.

  It seemed like most of Hollywood had shown up for the RealCity Productions launch party. Probably because they all wanted to be able to say they’d been here and known the company was doomed from the start.

  Vim had said they had to have a party to manufacture hype.

  “We don’t have the money for that kind of party,” she’d told him.

  “Oh, but we will! We have to throw parties like this if we’re ever going to have enough money to throw parties like this!”

  Stacy in marketing had nodded sagely at the logic. No one ever listened to the accountant.

  Without the link, she couldn’t even tell the live people from the interactive holoforms Vim had set out as decorations. She knew that wasn’t really Harrison Ford because he was dead. Same with Bogart and Grace Kelly. But surely the real Penny Cho wouldn’t be here.

  Cass scored another glass of wine and tried to work up the nerve to poke Penny Cho in the ribs, to see if she was real.

  “Cass!”

  She gasped and nearly dropped her wine. Vim had snuck up behind her and hissed in her ear. That wouldn’t have happened with the referencing link.

  Beaming, he said. “Isn’t this great? You would not believe who is here. Everybody’s here.”

  “Investors? Are potential investors here?”

  “Haven’t you been drinking? You wouldn’t talk like that if you’d been drinking.”

  She sighed. “I’m trying to loosen up, honest I am.”

  “You should. You look great.”

  He trotted off. She smiled absently after him and resisted tugging at the hem of her awfully short black silk dress.

  Stay for an hour, that was what she’d promised Vim, and herself. She could do this for an hour. She was even having a little fun. Lots of good people-watching here. If nothing else, she could park in a corner and make a dent in the sushi tray.

  She decided that Penny Cho was a holoform. The actress never moved from the same spot. Same with Nick May. The Nick May. She’d sure like to tickle his ribs. Not really, of course. That was what movies were for. With a movie she could think about it all she wanted and not have to deal with the consequences.

  He stood by the sushi tray, smiling at people who looked admiringly at him as they walked past, like a good holoform. Fidgeting even, with those gee-whiz boyish good looks that made him a heartthrob. The wine kicked her over the edge.

  She approached him from behind, a little to the side. She’d do it. She’d have to, to get to the sushi. Reach right through the holographic light stream to the tekka maki. How amusing.

  Her hand touched silk. The slick blue silk of Nick May’s shirt. Nick May turned to look at who had poked him in the ribs.

  Solid flesh stood between Cass and the sushi. Solid flesh, looking back at her with interested eyes.

  “You’re not a holoform. Um—” Oh, wow. “You’re Nick May.”

  “Yeah. And you’re Cass Nellis.”

  She wrinkled her brow. She wasn’t famous. Then—the link hooked to his ear. Right.

  “Yeah,” she said weakly. She stuck out her hand. He actually shook it.

  She hated making conversation. Never mind conversation with famous people. She was a great listener, and she liked talking to her friends. But this— He wasn’t saying anything. And he wasn’t going away. He was smiling. Boy, was he smiling. “So. Um. What brings you here?”

  “Schmoozing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Old Hollywood term. You know—schmoozing. Networking. Chatting up people who can get me a job.”

  “You need a job?”

  “In on-location film, yeah.” He looked into his glass of wine and shrugged, his smile turning into an almost embarrassed wince. “I’m trying to get into real film. See if I can do something cutting-edge for a change. Respectable.”

  “That’s cool,” she said with a vague smile.

  Vim needed to hear this. No, not Vim. Nathan Pauli, the creative force behind RealCity and the spearhead of the revival of on-location filming, needed to hear this. If they could get a name like Nick May aboard—the publicity of casting the best selling body in bluebox interactive movies would guarantee success for the film.

  She must have been staring, imagining this scene for way too long, because he cleared his throat and said, “Your file says you’re an accountant for RealCity.”

  She shrugged, as if in apology for not being something more interesting. Truth be told, she was the accountant for RealCity, but they were supposed to be playing Big Time here, so she nodded. “Yeah. I add numbers for people who can’t.”

  “Aren’t there computers that do that?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. Not only can’t they add, they can’t use the computers that can. I can. So really, I don’t even do what they’re paying me for.”

  “That’s Hollywood for you.”

  She giggled, shaking her head. “You don’t know the half of it. Vim has spent more time planning this party than gearing up for production. Here they are trying to be all artistic and new, and—”

  “So RealCity’s in production? That’s not on any of the news feeds.”

  She narrowed her gaze and gave a lopsided smile. “You going to start chatting me up for a job?”

  “I could just start chatting you up.”

  Her knees went weak and she bit her lip to try to keep from smiling wide enough to split her face. Failed. His eyes really were that clear rich brown, no tell-tale line of colored contact lenses in sight.

  “Hey, you gotta know, I don’t have any pull with these people. If you’re thinking that I’m a good contact, or a good networking prospect—nobody listens to me. I tell them not to spend too much money on parties and they don’t listen. They just need me to make sure the credit stays good.”

  He switched off the link, pulled the device off his ear, and shoved it in his pocket.

  “I didn’t feel much like working anyway.”

  They claimed a sofa in a corner and were still talking four hours later. Working on yet another glass of wine, Cass was probably giving away trade secrets, but she didn’t mind.

  “—not that there are any numbers for me to account, but having an accountant looks good on the business plan. Besides, it’s cool. This whole business is cool.” She sighed. She was too chicken to step into a bluebox or in front of a camera, didn’t have the gung-ho personality for production work, so here she was, making Hollywood magic the only way she knew how. And she loved it. Getting to work with people like Vim and Nathan at any level was worth it.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  If this were a movie, she’d jump him. She was in the perfect position, curled up on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, him reclining within arm’s reach. She could wrap herself around him, just like the heroine, just like she might in an interactive movie. Who was she kidding: just like she had in an interacti
ve movie.

  But he was looking at her, her for real, and her stomach had awful butterflies. And she couldn’t do it.

  “Cass!” Stacy from marketing yelled across the room. “Cass!”

  She should have done it. If she’d been making out with Nick May, surely even Stacy would have known better than to interrupt.

  Instead, she ran to Cass’s side and clutched her shoulder. Then she caught sight of Nick. She batted her eyelashes. Giggled. Batted them again before remembering her grip on Cass. “You’ve got to come help Vim. He’s in tears.”

  There it was, a bill had come in that they couldn’t pay. She took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s having trouble figuring the tip for the catering staff.” She had a desperate, pleading grimace on her face, like she’d just asked Cass to talk Vim down off the roof.

  “Tell him to move the decimal one and double it.”

  “Come on, Cass—he’ll move the decimal the wrong way. You gotta come help.”

  “Can’t his link do it for him?”

  “He’s too drunk. His link’s gone hazy.”

  “But—” Nick looked amused, wearing a dead-cute smile. Nick May, who wouldn’t be here when she got back because people like him didn’t sit alone on sofas waiting for accountants. Or she could sit here while Vim tipped the catering staff with the entire budget for costumes. “I have to go. It’ll just be a minute. I hope.”

  “It’s okay. I should probably be going.” He stood and brushed off his slacks.

  She had to do something. Say something, anything. Wasn’t this talking to boys you liked thing supposed to get easier after high school?

  “It was really nice talking to you,” she said earnestly.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  He squeezed her hand before Stacy dragged her away. Cass smiled at him all the way across the room and held that hand to her chest.

  “Cass was making out with Nick May on the sofa,” Stacy said for the ninetieth time. She had to tell everyone as soon as they came into the office Monday morning. “I’ve got the replay. Here, you can upload it.”