sipped once more from his mug. “Arrest this asstard for funding illegal bleedover activity.”
11
Krista stood to the side of the shrine in a pocket of inky shadow. The shrine sat nestled in the nave at the end of a dim hall in which two lines of pillars ran on either side. Inside each pillar, large tapers that illuminated the place in flickering ghost light sat in niches lined with mirrors. Eager but quiet tourists formed a single line that inched toward the shrine before exiting through a side door. A few robed and cowled Sersavant ushers swung incense-burning censers, insuring that everyone spoke in hushed tones. Krista stood alone in a place reserved for people of her station.
Krista stared at a golden sculpture in the round of a giant woman sitting cross-legged, her arms outward in a gesture of supplication, each hand in a mudra of serenity. The elephant-sized sculpture sat on a raised dais, around which tourists dropped curios: hand-scribbled prayers of intercession for certain characters; hints about how to make the narrative better; threats that if so and so doesn’t get something the entire story will fall to pieces; pictures of a favorite character; roses for the host.
Behind the sculpture a holovid of Collides flashed into space, showing random scenes generated from the host inside. Nothing on Hark yet. That was being kept under wraps, even though word was spreading.
All I need to do is pretend to be a fan, she told herself. No Spinner would ever be allowed to drop a prayer at a shrine. The Voxyprog are too afraid we’ll ask for just the right element to snatch control. I’m not so bold. But I do need something. I just have to be quick about it.
Krista found herself staring at the golden shrine, its beautiful luster an effect designed to dazzle pilgrims. She bit back an urge to curse her moment of reverence. The magic of the immersed host, a cognopsychic in stasis working for a living, was explainable. Yet here she was staring wide eyed like the most devout pilgrim who’d traveled for a glimpse at this world maker.
Inside, Celia Preston floated in an immersion vat, a living human suspended in warm biotic nano-liquid. She had been submerged for twenty years, dreaming her dream that gave life to the constructs in the Rend-V. Her imagineer mind was a prized tool valued in the trillions. She had been promised a small percentage of the sales of the Rend-V. According to V-Society pundits, her net-worth reached into the billions—just from her time as a host. A cognopsychic like her, when she finished, would command a legion of followers and continue her god-like status, as all the retired hosts did.
And my job is to investigate what these psychics create when they bleed over into reality, she reminded herself. Without her, I’m unemployed. Worse, without her, ten years of work will disappear inside Collides . Without her I lose my library.
Krista retrieved a tiny rolled up piece of paper from her pocket. She palmed it. Her AI, Atticus, just finished telling her how foolish this was, especially after Tripp’s message that a high-ranking Voxyprog official, Pizer Dauk, was funneling money and resources to controversial bleedover director, Miesha Preston. And everyone knew Miesha’s favorite principal Rend-V actor was Ervé Wrighter. They also knew how much Ervé hated Harken Cole.
Krista glanced at the paper. On it, a few lines from texts written inside Collides—lines cribbed together in a particular fashion and done so for the effect they would have in the real world—would insure the safety of her project. She was staring at a genuine piece of bleedover lore. It was a spell, she’d admit, if someone forced her. Centuries of intellectual labor had gone into understanding this mysterious process. She had printed it on actual vellum, the fine hairs on the backside soft to the touch.
When bleedover began to be noticed in the twentieth century, the world of narrative pushed into reality,
11
Krista stood to the side of the shrine in a pocket of inky shadow. The shrine sat nestled in the nave at the end of a dim hall in which two lines of pillars ran on either side. Inside each pillar, large tapers that illuminated the place in flickering ghost light sat in niches lined with mirrors. Eager but quiet tourists formed a single line that inched toward the shrine before exiting through a side door. A few robed and cowled Sersavant ushers swung incense-burning censers, insuring that everyone spoke in hushed tones. Krista stood alone in a place reserved for people of her station.
Krista stared at a golden sculpture in the round of a giant woman sitting cross-legged, her arms outward in a gesture of supplication, each hand in a mudra of serenity. The elephant-sized sculpture sat on a raised dais, around which tourists dropped curios: hand-scribbled prayers of intercession for certain characters; hints about how to make the narrative better; threats that if so and so doesn’t get something the entire story will fall to pieces; pictures of a favorite character; roses for the host.
Behind the sculpture a holovid of Collides flashed into space, showing random scenes generated from the host inside. Nothing on Hark yet. That was being kept under wraps, even though word was spreading.
All I need to do is pretend to be a fan, she told herself. No Spinner would ever be allowed to drop a prayer at a shrine. The Voxyprog are too afraid we’ll ask for just the right element to snatch control. I’m not so bold. But I do need something. I just have to be quick about it.
Krista found herself staring at the golden shrine, its beautiful luster an effect designed to dazzle pilgrims. She bit back an urge to curse her moment of reverence. The magic of the immersed host, a cognopsychic in stasis working for a living, was explainable. Yet here she was staring wide eyed like the most devout pilgrim who’d traveled for a glimpse at this world maker.
Inside, Celia Preston floated in an immersion vat, a living human suspended in warm biotic nano-liquid. She had been submerged for twenty years, dreaming her dream that gave life to the constructs in the Rend-V. Her imagineer mind was a prized tool valued in the trillions. She had been promised a small percentage of the sales of the Rend-V. According to V-Society pundits, her net-worth reached into the billions—just from her time as a host. A cognopsychic like her, when she finished, would command a legion of followers and continue her god-like status, as all the retired hosts did.
And my job is to investigate what these psychics create when they bleed over into reality, she reminded herself. Without her, I’m unemployed. Worse, without her, ten years of work will disappear inside Collides . Without her I lose my library.
Krista retrieved a tiny rolled up piece of paper from her pocket. She palmed it. Her AI, Atticus, just finished telling her how foolish this was, especially after Tripp’s message that a high-ranking Voxyprog official, Pizer Dauk, was funneling money and resources to controversial bleedover director, Miesha Preston. And everyone knew Miesha’s favorite principal Rend-V actor was Ervé Wrighter. They also knew how much Ervé hated Harken Cole.
Krista glanced at the paper. On it, a few lines from texts written inside Collides—lines cribbed together in a particular fashion and done so for the effect they would have in the real world—would insure the safety of her project. She was staring at a genuine piece of bleedover lore. It was a spell, she’d admit, if someone forced her. Centuries of intellectual labor had gone into understanding this mysterious process. She had printed it on actual vellum, the fine hairs on the backside soft to the touch.
When bleedover began to be noticed in the twentieth century, the world of narrative pushed into reality,
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