The Graveyard Game (Company) Read online

  Praise for Kage Baker and The Company novels

  “Kage Baker has a very good fantasy career in front of her if Anvil is a sample. Her style is infused with a subtle humor that had me chuckling. I liked her hero for being such a practical and unflappable person. She kept me turning in directions that I hadn’t expected.”

  —Anne McCaffrey on Anvil of the World

  “Kage Baker is a fresh, audacious, ambitious new voice, wry, jazzy, irreverent, sharp as a razor, full of daring, dash, and élan, sometimes surprisingly lyrical. She is also one hell of a storyteller. If you’re reading something by Kage Baker, fasten your seat belt—you’re in for a wild ride.”

  —Gardner Dozois on In the Garden of Iden

  “An ingenious gambit . . . a great love story, and a satire on manor life, all topped off by an auto-da-fé. A savory if there ever was one . . . The period detail is delicious. What a treat. A beautiful writer.”

  —Cecelia Holland on In the Garden of Iden

  “Combines historical detail and fast-paced action with a good dose of ironic wit and a dollop of bittersweet romance.”

  —Library Journal on Mendoza in Hollywood

  KAGE BAKER has been an artist, actor, and director at the Living History Centre and has taught Elizabethan English as a Second Language. Born in 1952 in Hollywood, she lives in Pismo Beach, California, the Clam Capital of the World.

  TOR BOOKS BY KAGE BAKER

  The Anvil of the World

  The Graveyard Game

  The Life of the World to Come

  The

  Graveyard

  Game

  Kage Baker

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

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  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed

  in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  THE GRAVEYARD GAME

  Copyright © 2001 by Rage Baker

  Originally published in 2001 by Harcourt, Inc., in the United

  States.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book,

  or portions thereof, in any form.

  Edited by David G. Hartwell

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 13 978-0-765-31184-9

  ISBN 0-765-31184-4

  EAN 978-0765-31184-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  This one’s for absent friends.

  Miss you, Dave.

  What Has Gone Before

  THIS IS THE FOURTH BOOK in the unofficial history of Dr. Zeus Incorporated.

  In the twenty-fourth century, a research and development firm invented a means of time travel. It also discovered the secret of immortality. There were, however, certain limitations that prevented the Company from bestowing these gifts left and right. But since the past could now be looted to increase corporate earnings, the stockholders were happy.

  In the Garden of Iden introduced Botanist Mendoza, rescued as a child from the dungeons of the Inquisition in sixteenth-century Spain by a Company operative, Facilitator Joseph. In exchange for being given immortality and a fantastically augmented body and mind, she would work in the past for the future, saving certain plants from extinction.

  On her first mission as an adult, Mendoza was sent with Joseph to England, where she fell in love with a mortal, with bitter consequences.

  Sky Coyote opened over a century later, as Joseph arrived at the research base at New World One to look up his protégée and inform her they had both been drafted for a Company mission in Alta California. Mendoza said good-bye to the one friend she had made at New World One—Lewis—and went with Joseph.

  Near a Chumash Indian village she met a number of the mortal masters from the future, and was appalled to find them bigoted and fearful of their cyborg servants. Joseph learned unsettling facts about the Company that brought to mind a warning he’d been given long ago by Budu, the Enforcer who recruited him.

  Why was it that, though the immortal operatives were provided with information and other entertainment from the future, nothing they received was ever dated later than the year 2355?

  At the conclusion of the mission, Mendoza remained in the wilderness of the coastal forests, working then alone as a botanist.

  Mendoza in Hollywood opened in. 1862, as Mendoza journeyed reluctantly to her new posting: a stagecoach inn at a remote spot that one day would be known as Hollywood. There, near the violent little pueblo of Los Angeles (one murder a night, not counting Indians), she was to collect rare plants scheduled to go extinct in the coming drought.

  Mendoza found herself now haunted by visions of her mortal lover, and she was giving off Crome’s radiation again, the spectral blue fire of paranormal abilities that no cyborg was supposed to possess.

  In a local spot known for strangeness, she encountered an anomaly that threw her temporarily into the future. There she glimpsed her friend Lewis, who tried frantically to tell her of an impending disaster.

  Into her life came another mortal—Edward Alton Bell-Fairfax, an English spy involved in a plot to grab California for the British Empire. Edward looked enough like Mendoza’s first love to have been cloned from him. Mendoza abandoned her post and ran away with Edward.

  As they raced for sanctuary on Catalina Island, pursued by American agents and bounty hunters, Edward began to suspect that Mendoza was far more than a coaching-inn servant. Mendoza discovered that. Edward too was more than he seemed, in fact was connected to the Company in some way.

  But before the lovers could solve their mutual riddle, their luck ran out. Edward was shot to death, and Mendoza went berserk with grief. The Company sent her to a penal station hundreds of millennia in the past—the preferred method of disposing of troublesome immortals . . .

  Joseph in the Darkness

  YOU KNOW SOMETHING, father? Sin exists. It really does.

  I’m not talking about guilt, I’m talking about cause and effect. Every single thing we do wrong comes back to get us, sooner or later. You knew that, didn’t you? And you told me, and I . . . well, I was so much more flexible than you, wasn’t I? I could see all sides of every question. You saw black and white, and I saw all those gray tones.

  For the longest time, I thought I was the one who had it right. I mean, you wound up here at last, didn’t you? And I’m still free, as free goes. But whatever you’re feeling, in there, I’ll bet your conscience isn’t bothering you.

  You’d have let the little girl die, I know. Sized Mendoza up with that calm ruthless look, seen what she was and given your judgment: unsuitable for augmentation. Sent her back to die of starvation in the dungeon. She’d only have lasted another couple of days, she was so weak. Maybe I’d have let her die too, if I hadn’t thought there was a chance they might interrogate her again before she died, and use the hot coals on her this time.

  That was why I lied, father. It seemed doable at the time. Rescue the kid, make her one of us, give her a wond
erful new life working for the Company. Nobody would ever find out about that freaky little something extra she had. Hell, every living thing generates the Crome’s stuff from time to time. Only one person in a million ever manages to produce enough to do things like walk through walls or be in two places at once. How was I to know . . .?

  You’re right, it was still wrong. And did anybody ever thank me for my random act of kindness? Not little Mendoza, that’s for damned sure. Not on that day in England in 1555 when I stood beside her watching her mortal lover burn. How could she thank me? Her heart was in shreds and she could never die, no matter how much she wanted to, and it was my fault.

  And I wouldn’t be here now, either, would I, father? Going from vault to vault, looking up at the blind silent faces, to see if one of them is hers. Hoping to find her here in one of these houses of the near dead, even if I can’t set her free this time, praying she’s here: because there are worse places she might be.

  I guess I was a lousy father to her. I hope I’ve been a better son to you. Yes, father, there’s sin, and there’s eternal punishment for sin. It’s like a rat gnawing at your guts.

  Sorry about the metaphor. Don’t take it personally.

  Look, we’ve got all night: and you’re not going anywhere. I’ll tell you about it.

  Hollywood, 1996

  SOMETHING ODD had happened.

  Unless you possessed the temporally keen senses of an immortal cyborg, though, you wouldn’t have noticed, over all the racket floating up from the roaring, grinding city. Lewis, being an immortal cyborg, frowned slightly as he accelerated up Mount Olympus Drive and scanned the thick air. He was a dapper man, with the appearance of someone who has wandered out of a Noel Coward play and got lost in a less gracious place.

  Earthquake? No, or there would have been car alarms shrieking and people standing out on the sidewalk, a place the inhabitants of Los Angeles County seldom ventured nowadays without body armor.

  Still, there was a sense of insult on the fabric of space and time, a residual shuddering Lewis couldn’t identify at all.

  He turned left into Zeus Drive and nosed his jade-green BMW into the driveway of the house. Nothing out of the ordinary here that he could see. He shut off the engine, removed his polarized sunglasses and put them in their case, removed his studio parking tag, and carefully put glasses and tag in the glove compartment. Only then did he emerge from the car and look about, sniffing the air.

  Other than a higher than normal amount of ozone and an inexplicable whiff of horse, the air wasn’t any worse than usual. Lewis shrugged, took up his briefcase, locked the car, and entered Company HQ.

  What was that high-pitched whine? Lewis set down his briefcase, tossed his keys on the hall table, and looked into what would have been an ordinary suburban living room if it hadn’t had a time transcendence chamber in one wall. Maire, the station’s Facilitator, was activating it. She turned to him.

  “You should have been here, Lewis. We’ve had quite an afternoon,” she said.

  He barely heard her, his gaze drawn to the window of the chamber. He gaped, astonished to see a pair of very uneasy horses and two oddly dressed people in there, just beginning to be obscured by the rising stasis gas.

  One of the people raised her hand and waved. She was a sharp-featured woman, with cold black eyes and hair bound back in a long braid. She smiled at him. He knew the smile. It made her eyes less cold. The woman was the Botanist Mendoza.

  Lewis had loved her, quietly, for several centuries, and she had never once noticed. They were stationed at the same research base for many years before she was transferred. He thought of writing to her after that, but then lost his chance, because she made a terrible mistake.

  So terrible, in fact, that it was impossible that she could be standing there now smiling at him.

  Then he connected the horses with the nineteenth-century clothing she was wearing. Was he seeing her, somehow, before the commission of her mistake? Was there any chance he might warn her, prevent the catastrophe?

  No, because you couldn’t violate the laws of temporal physics. You couldn’t change history. He knew that perfectly well and yet found himself running to the chamber as the gas boiled up around her, beating on the window with his fists.

  “Mendoza!” he shouted. “Mendoza, for God’s sake! Don’t go with him!”

  She stared, taken aback, and then turned her wondering face to her companion. Lewis realized she thought he meant the other immortal, and cried, “No!”

  She looked back at him and shook her head, shrugging.

  “No, no!” Lewis shouted, and he could feel tears welling in his eyes as he pressed his hands against the glass, to push across time by main force. Futile. She was vanishing from his sight even now, as the yellow gas obscured everything.

  Out of the clouds, her hand emerged for a moment. She set it against the window, palm to palm with his flattened hand, a gesture he would have died for once, rendered less personal by the thickness of the glass.

  Then she was gone, he had lost her again, and he staggered back from the chamber and became aware that Maire was standing beside him. He turned and looked into her amazed eyes, struggled to compose himself.

  “Er—what’s going on?” he inquired, in the coolest voice he could summon.

  “You tell me!” was Maire’s reply.

  In the end, though, she had to explain first. What he had seen was a temporal anomaly—nothing the Company couldn’t handle. In fact Maire had received advance warning this morning from Future HQ. It was all listed in the Temporal Concordance. Everyone knew that weird things happened at the Mount Olympus HQ anyway, overlooking as it did Laurel Canyon’s notorious Lookout Mountain Drive. It had been built to monitor that very location, actually.

  This didn’t do a lot to clear up Lewis’s confusion. Temporal Concordance or not, it was still supposed to be impossible for anybody in the past to jump forward through time. When he mentioned this, Maire glanced at the techs and drew him aside.

  “She was your friend, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Lewis. “A—a coworker. We were close.”

  Maire said in a low voice:

  “Then you knew she was a Crome generator.”

  Lewis hadn’t known. He was unable to hide his shock. Watching his face go pale, Maire lowered her voice even more.

  “Lewis, I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s true. Something latent that wasn’t caught when she was recruited, apparently. You know what those people are; she might have warped the field any one of a dozen ways. What can I tell you? The impossible happens, sometimes.”

  He nodded, silent. Maire looked him up and down and pursed her lips.

  “Under the circumstances, you see why there wasn’t anything you could have done to help her,” she said, in a tone that was gentle but suggested he’d better get a grip on himself now.

  Lewis gulped and nodded.

  Nothing more was said that night, and he thought the matter would slip by without further discussion. But next morning at breakfast, Maire said, “You’re still upset. I can tell.”

  “I guess I made a fool of myself,” Lewis replied, sipping his coffee. “She was a good friend.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, Lewis,” she told him, stirring sugar into her cup. The tech who was on his hands and knees scrubbing a large stain off the carpet looked up to glare at her. She glared back and slowly lifted her coffee, drinking it in elaborate enjoyment. “I might have done the same thing in your shoes. Besides, you’re a valued Company operative.”

  “That’s nice to know,” said Lewis mildly, but he felt the hair stand on the back of his neck. He modified the slight tremor into a sad shake of his head. “Poor Mendoza. But, after all, a Crome generator! At least the rumors make sense now.”

  “Yes,” Maire agreed. “Cream?”

  “Thank you.” Lewis held out his cup. The tech made a disgusted noise. He was a relatively young immortal, having traveled to 1996 from the year 2332 and not liki
ng the past at all. He didn’t care for decadent old immortals who indulged in disgusting controlled-substance abuse either. Coffee, cream, and chocolate were all illegal in his era. More: they were immoral.

  “Unfortunate, but the sooner we put it behind us the better,” Maire continued. She rose and wandered over to the picture window, which looked out across Laurel Canyon. It was a hazy morning in midsummer, with the sky a delicate yellow shading to blue at the zenith. The yellow was from internal combustion engines. The air burned, acrid on one’s palate, and was full of the wailing of sirens and the thudding beat of helicopter blades. Maire was fifteen thousand years old, but the late twentieth century didn’t bother her much; she’d seen worse. Besides, this was Hollywood.

  Behind her, Lewis drained his coffee and set down his saucer and cup. “Sound advice,” he said. “Well, I’d better hit the road. I’m going up to San Francisco today. That fellow with the Marion Davies correspondence has settled on a price at last.”

  “No, really?” Maire grinned. “I suppose you’ll pay a little visit to . . .” She dropped her eyes to the tech, who was still scrubbing away, and looked back up at Lewis. Ghirardelli’s? she transmitted on a private channel.

  Lewis stood and took her hand. Shall I bring you back a box of little Theobromos cable cars? he transmitted back.

  Her smile widened, showing a lot of beautiful and very white teeth. She squeezed his hand. She was a strong woman. You’re a dear.

  “To Fisherman’s Wharf? Certainly. Shall I bring you back a loaf of sourdough bread?” Lewis asked.

  “You’re a dear! Boudin’s, please.” She glanced down at the tech mischievously. “I wonder if they’ll still pack up those boiled crabs in ice chests for you.”

  The tech looked horrified.