We dress slowly, meticulously, calling Our pages only when nothing remains but to fasten the wings to Our corset. The ball has been under way for some time; after all, We wish to be the last and most dramatic entrant. Woe betide any latecomer. Not that the holder of an indigo or violet card would arrive late to the highlight of their social calendar.
“Enough.” We are ready. With Our head turned to the mirror to watch the effect of Our walk, We sweep from the room. The wings flutter and sway with the rhythm of Our gait; most striking. The Grand Vizier awaits Us just outside the room, along with four guards in ceremonial costume for the evening. Although swords are strapped to their waists, it is from the powerful laser rifles in their hands that We take comfort.
“Your Majesty is most resplendent. Your greatest costume ever, at least in my lifetime.” He bows low.
His own costume is excellent: a modest satin suit of an historic era when male attire was not too absurd. The trousers are appealing, reaching to just below the knee, where they are buttoned on top of white silk hose. We note with a certain amusement that his propensity to wear violet has calmed down, reflecting, perhaps, a certain assurance in his new status. Only the lace cuffs and collar of his costume are violet; the silk braiding of his jacket and waistcoat is turquoise against a pale silver background. He rises and holds out his gloved arm. We, in turn, rest Our own iron-strong hand, clad in a velvet glove—the irony is not lost on Us—a fraction above his. Actual physical contact is repugnant to Us and unnecessary. To match Our gait, he has to take large strides. Is it an unconscious predisposition of Ours that Our leading courtiers are relatively small? Surely the mismatch is simply a result of Our own regal and stately build.
Arm nearly upon arm, we enter the great state ballroom at the upper floor, walking, flanked by guards, smoothly over the scarlet carpet to the head of the staircase. The music and dancing stop, and the applause begins, accompanied by gasps of delight and awe. The Grand Vizier drops his hand, bows, and begins his descent down the right staircase in time to Our flowing movement down the left. The mirrors that We pass confirm the transfixing beauty of Our dress. Opposite Us, reaching the floor in careful synchronicity with Us, is the Grand Vizier. We approach each other across the lustrously polished parquet walnut-and-ash floor. Again, he raises his arm and the two of us turn to walk through the assembled dancers to a stage draped in purple silks, upon which is a throne of gold.
No one talks, but We are surrounded by sound akin to whispers: it is the rustle of a thousand dresses as people part to let Us pass, bowing deeply or sinking to the ground in curtseys that spread gorgeous dresses like the unfolding of the petals of a rose.
Once We have mounted the stage, the Grand Vizier retires, and We face Our people. Here are the winners of Saga: the indigos and violets. Their dress reflects the value of their card, and the overall tone of the gathering is a dark blue; but as Our gaze focuses on individuals, we discern the richness of the company. A bodice of purple satin has, in fact, been sown together with orchid threads and has a design of heliotrope embossed upon it, studded with amethysts. A silver eye mask, held on a rod of ebony, has a peacock’s multihued feather rakishly attached to one side. Occasionally We come across a brave costume, one that includes reds and scarlets. We admire them for their originality.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” We magnify the sound of Our voice so that it resounds through the great ballroom. “In order that you can enjoy the ball with complete detachment from worldly concerns, let us address the current situation and outline Our strategy. At the very least, a frisson of concern must have entered your consciousness at the sight of certain guilds demanding the abolition of red and orange grades. ‘Where might this movement end?’ you no doubt asked yourselves. You hold the cards that you do, precisely because your abilities are in governance and management. You, and only you, have knowledge of the true nature of Our universe and access to human texts, such as those by Plato, Livy, and Machiavelli, which you have no doubt studied assiduously.” We very much doubt they have done anything of the sort; most of those promoted to, or inheriting, indigo cards are less interested in the information that becomes available to them than in which models of luxury aircar they are now entitled to own.
“So, We shall treat you all as Our closest confidants. The welcome news for you is that this protest is not organic. That is to say, it is not rooted in a deep desire of the population for change; Our reds and oranges are not in the kind of supersaturated state that presages far-reaching transformations. Rather, a small minority of them is being led into the streets by a political creature and traitor. The unwelcome news is that this man is Michelotto, a former attendant of Ours, and the only other person in the world with anything like Our powers.” We dip Our shoulders so that a ripple runs down Our wings, drawing the attention to the two great shimmering eyes, indicating a certain humorous modesty on Our part. But perhaps the effect just terrifies them? “You will be pleased to hear that We nevertheless surpass him in strength and shall destroy him, whether he continues to stir up discontent or runs and hides.” An outburst of applause, good.
“Since the nature of this protest is artificial, We have decided to crush it.” Cheers. “You will all be provided with lists of those in your employ who belong to rebel guilds. Treat them as you wish. And enjoy it.” Louder cheers and some cries of “Hear, hear!” We hold up Our hand; they instantly hush.
“Of course, there remains the possibility that the nature of the protests will change. It does have the potential, if unchecked, to become a genuine and therefore more dangerous expression of discontent. If so, We have the flexibility to co-opt sincere reformers by structural changes, changes that nevertheless keep the core of Our system intact. We tell you this for two reasons. One, as a reminder that force is not always the correct strategy, and two, so that, in the unlikely event that it proves necessary, should certain adjustments be made to Our economy, you will be confident that your own interests will be protected.” Applause again.
“With your minds at rest, I encourage you to enjoy the ball.” We step back, to where the Grand Vizier is showing slight signs of agitation. There is prolonged applause throughout the room. We spare them from having to sustain it indefinitely by nodding to the conductor of the orchestra, who initiates a lively and popular
cinque-pace
. A good choice.
“Well?” We ask the Grand Vizier under Our breath, while outwardly smiling. We go so far as to nod to certain figures who are particularly valuable to us.
“A very large crowd is at the gates, Cindella among them,” he whispers, listening to the information through his earpiece.
“Start shooting until they scatter.”
He nods, worriedly.
“We have been killing them in droves, but they still come. Their bodies disappear . . . so they are humans. Oh. She has cut through the gate. They are nearly here.”
Yes. Their cries are faint but discernible to Us: onward, onward, to the palace.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. The guards are killing them as fast as they can, but we are overrun . . . we are to expect—”
He is interrupted by a crash. The orchestra stops; a woman has fainted? No, she has been struck by a rock. A thousand-year-old stained-glass window is broken. Gasps. Another rock crashes through a large pane of glass, scattering shards among us. Then dozens more. Screams as people run, some at least looking in Our direction first. The grinding of fragments of glass into the parquet floor by panicked feet causes Us to wince. This is a disaster: all Our careful preparation ruined. Our speech, this fabulous dress even, will not be remembered. Our fury is greater than that attributed to Hera, queen of the gods, on discovering that Zeus had brought Athena into the world without her. A woman scorned, especially one in a dress like Ours, is a force to be feared.
“Majesty. Your safety.”
No sooner have We set off for the door than the Grand Vizier has called out to restrain Us. We nearly kill him in Our rage, but in some part of us reason still reigns and considers such action to be mistaken.
“Fear for those in Our path,” We roar with a depth and volume that no lion ever achieved. Everyone remaining on the dance floor screams in horror and flees.
The great doors open. Before Us stands Cindella, in her insolent dress, a pirate’s leather jerkin over a white blouse. Laser pulses from a hundred rifles play upon her with no more effect than if Our guards were shining flashlights at her.
“How dare you?” We howl so ferociously that the remaining glass in the windows shatters, as do all the mirrors of the room.
“Get used to it. Because until you set us free, this is how it’s going to be. Every public event you attend will be ruined. And that’s just to start with. From today, your government buildings and barracks are going to be destroyed. Your world will fall apart. That is, unless you free us.”
“Never!” Our cry echoes into the sky.
“Very well. See you at your next event.” She turns to leave. “Oh, nice dress, by the way.”
Soon afterward, the petrol bombs begin to land, splashing their burning content over Our precious floor and setting fire to centuries-old golden-tasseled drapes. Outside, We can see the people being hit by laser fire and dying, but they keep coming, burning rags and bottles in hand. Wave after wave of them. Enough to create an inferno out of the ballroom. The sprinklers that now begin a gentle cascade are pathetically inadequate.
“Majesty.” The Grand Vizier is coughing with the smoke, waving at me, almost touching me. “We have to leave.”
Drying Our tears on Our sleeve, We ascend the stair, walking over discarded shawls, jewelry, a violin bow. It is possible for Us to dampen the flame in Our immediate vicinity, but this attack is too much. The palace is lost, and We must retreat to nurse Our wounds.
Chapter 25
STORMING THE AIRWAVES
“People of Saga
. . .” Erik paused. Already. He had hardly started. The break went on too long. “Ermm.”
“Stop!” shouted Athena. Nathan and I paused the cameras that we controlled. They were the small, handheld kind, although at the moment we had them mounted on tripods. I had bought them so that Erik could record his broadcast.
“Sorry.” Erik held his hand up against the glare of the spotlights from the tank that were picking out his avatar, Cindella. Her long shadows reached into the far corners of the factory, where they merged with the permanent gloom of the old building.
“Ready?” Athena was sitting on the front of the tank, her computer unrolled. She was receiving the images from the two cameras and mixing them into a master version.
Erik settled on his stool again and nodded.
“Go!”
“People of Saga. What I am about to tell you will sound extremely far-fetched. At least, for most of you. I know that if I were in your position, it would seem incredible. It is, though, the truth, and the evidence for it is overwhelming. Several thousand years ago, human beings artificially created your world. The word ‘virtual’ does not really do justice to your universe, since it rests, ultimately, on very material substances—hardware that is maintained on Earth—but I can’t think of a better term than ‘virtual.’ Your world began as a virtual one.”
“Pan in slowly,” whispered Athena through the device in my ear.
“I know this because I have entered your world from the outside. I won’t say that I come from the ‘real’ universe because I’ve learned to appreciate how real your world is, and independent from ours. The way I look at it now is that your universe is nestled inside ours. People from our universe can enter yours by creating a computer-generated being, an avatar. This is not at all how I look in my world.” Erik let slip a genuine smile, and suddenly I felt that his broadcast might actually have an impact; he no longer seemed like one of those earnest, intense eccentrics who have got lost in mysteries created by their own minds.
“With you, Nath. Ghost, back to your starting shot.”
“People from your universe can enter ours, too. Though I’m not sure how exactly. But it must have happened, because a few weeks ago, the main computer of our planet suddenly became a host for your world, for Saga. Your Dark Queen was responsible for this. Which brings me to the main point of this broadcast: I wish it were the case that I was here, contacting you, so that our two worlds could begin a communication between each other, one that was fruitful to us both. I wish that this was the start of a new era of sharing information and ideas, of forming new friendships. I personally would find such a prospect a fascinating and exciting one. Instead, unfortunately, we arrive here to find ourselves the victims of a terrible attack.”
“Close-up.”
“During the course of what we thought was the chance to explore your world playfully, the Dark Queen was systematically poisoning us, turning us into addicts. We estimate that nearly two million of our people were damaged in this way before we realized the danger. Why such a hostile action? Why go to all the trouble of connecting Saga to our people, only to assault us? The answer, as she told me herself, is that she wanted to create an immense number of hostages, before asking one of us to reprogram your world. It is a bit like capturing a surgeon’s family and telling her that if the surgery fails, her family will die.”
“Nath again, and back up, Ghost.”
“She told me that the reprogramming was to ensure that her future children would be immortal, with godlike powers. She said nothing about improving the condition of your wider society. Our worry about doing the reprogramming she asks for is that, first of all, we might fail. Our society knows less about computers than did the people of Earth who created Saga all those years ago. In any case, Saga has evolved and is so sophisticated that tampering with one part of it might cause deep structural problems. If it were to crash, that would be horrific. For you and for two million of us. We would much rather not make the attempt. But supposing we do and it succeeds, fulfilling the Dark Queen’s goals, will she then release us? She is untrustworthy, and we have nothing to bargain with. Might she even kill us all to prevent further undesirable changes by us to Saga in the future?