the stage-side box.
Artemis was wrong. There was time to stop this. All she had to do was throw the shooter’s aim off a little. The demon would never get anchored, and Section Eight could track these Mud Men at their leisure. It was simply a matter of touching the marksman’s elbow with her buzz baton to make him lose control of all his motor functions for a few seconds. Plenty of time for a demon to appear, then disappear.
Then Holly smelled burning ozone and felt heat on her arm. Artemis was not wrong. There was no time. Someone was coming.
N o 1 appeared on the stage, more or less intact. The trip had cost him the last knuckle on his right index finger, and about two gigabytes’ worth of memories. But they were mostly bad memories, and he had never been very good with his hands.
Dematerialization isn’t a particularly painful process, but materialization happens to be a thoroughly enjoyable one. The brain is so happy to register all the body’s essential bits and bobs coming together again that it releases a surge of happy endorphins.
N o 1 looked at the nub where his previously whole index finger used to be.
“Look,” he said, tittering. “No finger.”
Then he noticed the humans. Scores of them, arranged in rings, rising up to the heavens. N o 1 knew instantly what this must be.
“A theater. I’m in a theater. With only seven and a half fingers. I have only seven and a half fingers, not the theater.” This observation brought on another fit of giggles, and that would have been about it for N o 1. He would have been whisked off to the next stop on his interdimensional jaunt, had not a human near the stage aimed a tube at him.
“Tube,” said N o 1, proud of his human vocabulary, pointing with the finger that wasn’t altogether there.
After that, things happened very quickly. A flurry of events blurred like mixed stripes of vivid paint. The tube flashed; something exploded over his head. A bee stung N o 1 on the leg, a female screamed piercingly. A herd of animals, elephants perhaps, passed directly below him. Then most disconcertingly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and everything went black. The blackness was rough against his fingers and face.
The last thing N o 1 heard before his own personal blackness claimed him was a voice. It was not a demon’s voice, the tones were lighter. Halfway between bird and boar.
“Welcome, demon,” said the voice, then sniggered.
They know, thought N o 1, and he would have panicked had the chloral hydrate seeping into his system through a leg wound allowed such exertions. They know all about us.
Then the knockout serum caressed his brain, tipping him off a cliff into a deep dark hole.
Artemis watched events unfold from his box. A smile of admiration twitched at the corners of his mouth as the plan unrolled smoothly, like the most expensive Tunisian carpet. Whoever was behind this was good. More than good. Perhaps they were related.
“Keep your camera pointed at the stage,” Artemis said to Butler. “Holly will get the box.”
Butler was squirming to cover Holly’s back, but his place was at Artemis’s side. And after all, Captain Short could look after herself. He made sure his watch crystal was trained on the stage. Artemis would never let him forget it if he missed even a nanosecond of the action.
Onstage, the opera was almost over. Norma was leading Pollione to the pyre, where they were both to be burned. All eyes were upon her. Except those involved in a drama of the fairy kind.
The music was lush and layered, providing an unwitting sound track to the real-life drama unfolding in the theater.
It began with an electric crackle downstage right. Barely noticeable, unless you were expecting it. And even if some patrons did notice the glow, they were not alarmed. It could easily be a reflected blotch of light, or one of the special effects these modern theater directors were so fond of.
So, thought Artemis, feeling the excitement buzz
Artemis was wrong. There was time to stop this. All she had to do was throw the shooter’s aim off a little. The demon would never get anchored, and Section Eight could track these Mud Men at their leisure. It was simply a matter of touching the marksman’s elbow with her buzz baton to make him lose control of all his motor functions for a few seconds. Plenty of time for a demon to appear, then disappear.
Then Holly smelled burning ozone and felt heat on her arm. Artemis was not wrong. There was no time. Someone was coming.
N o 1 appeared on the stage, more or less intact. The trip had cost him the last knuckle on his right index finger, and about two gigabytes’ worth of memories. But they were mostly bad memories, and he had never been very good with his hands.
Dematerialization isn’t a particularly painful process, but materialization happens to be a thoroughly enjoyable one. The brain is so happy to register all the body’s essential bits and bobs coming together again that it releases a surge of happy endorphins.
N o 1 looked at the nub where his previously whole index finger used to be.
“Look,” he said, tittering. “No finger.”
Then he noticed the humans. Scores of them, arranged in rings, rising up to the heavens. N o 1 knew instantly what this must be.
“A theater. I’m in a theater. With only seven and a half fingers. I have only seven and a half fingers, not the theater.” This observation brought on another fit of giggles, and that would have been about it for N o 1. He would have been whisked off to the next stop on his interdimensional jaunt, had not a human near the stage aimed a tube at him.
“Tube,” said N o 1, proud of his human vocabulary, pointing with the finger that wasn’t altogether there.
After that, things happened very quickly. A flurry of events blurred like mixed stripes of vivid paint. The tube flashed; something exploded over his head. A bee stung N o 1 on the leg, a female screamed piercingly. A herd of animals, elephants perhaps, passed directly below him. Then most disconcertingly, the ground disappeared from beneath his feet and everything went black. The blackness was rough against his fingers and face.
The last thing N o 1 heard before his own personal blackness claimed him was a voice. It was not a demon’s voice, the tones were lighter. Halfway between bird and boar.
“Welcome, demon,” said the voice, then sniggered.
They know, thought N o 1, and he would have panicked had the chloral hydrate seeping into his system through a leg wound allowed such exertions. They know all about us.
Then the knockout serum caressed his brain, tipping him off a cliff into a deep dark hole.
Artemis watched events unfold from his box. A smile of admiration twitched at the corners of his mouth as the plan unrolled smoothly, like the most expensive Tunisian carpet. Whoever was behind this was good. More than good. Perhaps they were related.
“Keep your camera pointed at the stage,” Artemis said to Butler. “Holly will get the box.”
Butler was squirming to cover Holly’s back, but his place was at Artemis’s side. And after all, Captain Short could look after herself. He made sure his watch crystal was trained on the stage. Artemis would never let him forget it if he missed even a nanosecond of the action.
Onstage, the opera was almost over. Norma was leading Pollione to the pyre, where they were both to be burned. All eyes were upon her. Except those involved in a drama of the fairy kind.
The music was lush and layered, providing an unwitting sound track to the real-life drama unfolding in the theater.
It began with an electric crackle downstage right. Barely noticeable, unless you were expecting it. And even if some patrons did notice the glow, they were not alarmed. It could easily be a reflected blotch of light, or one of the special effects these modern theater directors were so fond of.
So, thought Artemis, feeling the excitement buzz
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