of returning nausea made him breathe, breathe.
He looked down at what he’d grabbed.
It was a lighter – heavy, square, chrome plated and, so far, the only piece of metal he’d seen. On one side was engraved the Harley logo. On the other...
On the other, it said: Alexander David Eastermann.
“This is Lugan’s.” He gripped the lighter harder, as if it were the only solid thing in existence. “He lost it, like...”
Like yesterday.
For a moment, the complete insanity of the situation screamed at him – he wanted to push the walls down, like a film set, tear the scene from top to bottom as if it were only fabric, reveal the Bike Lodge that lurked just behind it... didn’t it?
Didn’t it?
But the Bard was still speaking, as if nothing strange had happened.
“The Wanderer finds many things,” he said. “Just like it found you. It’s a portent, I think. And it’s white-metal, muara , extremely rare and of a quality I’ve never seen. Its value is considerable.”
With a sense of absolute surreality, Ecko chinked the lighter open and flicked the wheel. It sparked and died.
“Outta gas.” Somehow that wasn’t the point.
The point was that it was here. Like a swat round the head, Eliza had clearly marked the opening point of the pattern. She’d given him the “Go” signal: “Ecko Start Here”. Amid the tension that still thumped in his throat, the thought was fantastic enough to be ludicrous.
“So you’re tellin’ me the adventure starts in the tavern. Cute. I’ll give Collator 86.24 per cent there’ll be giant flying lizards by the end of the week.”
He glanced at the Bard. “Fuck!”
In a flash of frustration, Ecko threw the lighter viciously across the room. He was manipulated, betrayed, powerless, caught like a fucking street urchin. Somewhere, Eliza sat watching this on some huge fractal flatscreen – maybe she was behind the Bard’s violet eyes, maybe she’d be behind the eyes of everyone he passed. Somewhere, Collator calculated odds, mapping, generating, predicting. Every movement Ecko made, every decision, every word he spoke – hell, maybe every thought in his head – was going to ripple outwards to affect the world around him – and those ripples would be broadcasting his behaviour. They’d be analysed, interpreted, judged.
Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?
He wanted to rail against his fate, show that damn psycho-the-rapist bitch who was boss – but she had him by the grey matter and there was no way out of his own head. Bitterly, his mind spat at him: Will you stay with the tavern? Turn to page 102. Will you flee? Turn to page 94.
Or will you torch the place and watch it fucking burn?
The blazing temptation just to destroy everything... because he could. That’d fucking show her. Hell, what did it matter if he trashed cities – none of it was real. Keep your fucking breadcrumbs; I’ll do this my way.
The answering thought was so flawlessly enmeshed, he wondered if it was even his own: Turn back to page 1.
Would they really loop him, endlessly, if he didn’t succeed? Or would they just – Jesus – would they just turn him off ...? Could they really do that?
For a moment, his intellect battled his emotional, knee-jerk instinct. Then, slowly, like it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, Ecko walked across the rug and picked up the lighter.
He felt dirtied – like he’d taken the first psychological step to sympathising with his torturer, like he’d already let them beat him.
But he was conceding the battle, not the war. He would so pay them back.
Roderick stood silent amid the shattered remnants of his table. Vocal enhancements or not, he made no attempt to push Ecko’s decision one way or the other.
If Eliza was behind his eyes and had witnessed Ecko’s acquiescence, the Bard did not show it. Yet strangely, his wordless comprehension was almost harder to bear. He held out his hand for the lighter and, with a flash of his
He looked down at what he’d grabbed.
It was a lighter – heavy, square, chrome plated and, so far, the only piece of metal he’d seen. On one side was engraved the Harley logo. On the other...
On the other, it said: Alexander David Eastermann.
“This is Lugan’s.” He gripped the lighter harder, as if it were the only solid thing in existence. “He lost it, like...”
Like yesterday.
For a moment, the complete insanity of the situation screamed at him – he wanted to push the walls down, like a film set, tear the scene from top to bottom as if it were only fabric, reveal the Bike Lodge that lurked just behind it... didn’t it?
Didn’t it?
But the Bard was still speaking, as if nothing strange had happened.
“The Wanderer finds many things,” he said. “Just like it found you. It’s a portent, I think. And it’s white-metal, muara , extremely rare and of a quality I’ve never seen. Its value is considerable.”
With a sense of absolute surreality, Ecko chinked the lighter open and flicked the wheel. It sparked and died.
“Outta gas.” Somehow that wasn’t the point.
The point was that it was here. Like a swat round the head, Eliza had clearly marked the opening point of the pattern. She’d given him the “Go” signal: “Ecko Start Here”. Amid the tension that still thumped in his throat, the thought was fantastic enough to be ludicrous.
“So you’re tellin’ me the adventure starts in the tavern. Cute. I’ll give Collator 86.24 per cent there’ll be giant flying lizards by the end of the week.”
He glanced at the Bard. “Fuck!”
In a flash of frustration, Ecko threw the lighter viciously across the room. He was manipulated, betrayed, powerless, caught like a fucking street urchin. Somewhere, Eliza sat watching this on some huge fractal flatscreen – maybe she was behind the Bard’s violet eyes, maybe she’d be behind the eyes of everyone he passed. Somewhere, Collator calculated odds, mapping, generating, predicting. Every movement Ecko made, every decision, every word he spoke – hell, maybe every thought in his head – was going to ripple outwards to affect the world around him – and those ripples would be broadcasting his behaviour. They’d be analysed, interpreted, judged.
Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?
He wanted to rail against his fate, show that damn psycho-the-rapist bitch who was boss – but she had him by the grey matter and there was no way out of his own head. Bitterly, his mind spat at him: Will you stay with the tavern? Turn to page 102. Will you flee? Turn to page 94.
Or will you torch the place and watch it fucking burn?
The blazing temptation just to destroy everything... because he could. That’d fucking show her. Hell, what did it matter if he trashed cities – none of it was real. Keep your fucking breadcrumbs; I’ll do this my way.
The answering thought was so flawlessly enmeshed, he wondered if it was even his own: Turn back to page 1.
Would they really loop him, endlessly, if he didn’t succeed? Or would they just – Jesus – would they just turn him off ...? Could they really do that?
For a moment, his intellect battled his emotional, knee-jerk instinct. Then, slowly, like it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, Ecko walked across the rug and picked up the lighter.
He felt dirtied – like he’d taken the first psychological step to sympathising with his torturer, like he’d already let them beat him.
But he was conceding the battle, not the war. He would so pay them back.
Roderick stood silent amid the shattered remnants of his table. Vocal enhancements or not, he made no attempt to push Ecko’s decision one way or the other.
If Eliza was behind his eyes and had witnessed Ecko’s acquiescence, the Bard did not show it. Yet strangely, his wordless comprehension was almost harder to bear. He held out his hand for the lighter and, with a flash of his
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