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.