Caroline Spector - Worlds Without End

Due to the nature of my client's death, I recognized these bizarre accusations as the demented ravings of a mentally ill man. It is a great sadness to his family that they did not realize how ill he was until his untimely de- mise.

Please rest assured that I have forwarded all these ma- terials to you for you to dispose of as you will. No copies have been made by me or my office. I can only hope that my client did not make himself a burden on you. Rest as- sured that this matter will go no further.

Sincerely yours, Mecham Bernard, Esq.

Several months later I received a note from John Mortimer's mother. She had gone to clean out his flat and had discovered his diary and a bulletin board covered with photos of me. In her letter, she said that she hoped her son had not bothered me. She explained that his obsession with me was no doubt caused by the same weakness in his brain that killed him.

She also told me that she had destroyed all the pa- pers and pictures of me she had found.

I wrote her back, thanking her for her concern, and assured her that her son had never bothered me in the slightest. We actually developed a bit of a cor- respondence, which lasted until her death in 2021.

She's traveling in a car. Or maybe it's a bus. She isn't sure, because it continually shifts shape and form. Caimbeui is driving. He is wearing that hor- rible makeup. Garish and clownlike. A hideous red gash of a mouth. Black diamonds over his eyes. Hair streaked with blond and orange. His usual garb is replaced with faded blue jeans, cowboy boots run down at the heels, and a washed-out T-shirt that says: Ninety percent of everything is drek.

"I was wondering when you 'd get here," Caimbeui says.

"Where is here?" she asks.

"You know, " he replies. "It's wherever you want it to be."

She glances out the window, which shows an end- less display of black night. The headlights occasion- ally catch a scrubby tree, then slide back over the broken road. Looking back at Caimbeui, she sees that the saying on the shirt has changed: I prefer the wicked to the foolish. The wicked sometimes rest.

"Didn't? Wasn't?" she asks.

"Oh," Caimbeui says looking down at his shirt and shrugging. "It's your dream. Don't ask me. I'm just along for the ride."

"You always did steal your best lines," she says.

He drops the car into overdrive. It surges ahead, the G-force slamming both of them back in their seats.

"Hang on," he shouts over the roar of the engine. "It's going to be a bumpy night."

Runner's Revenge was blasting a cover of the old tune "Do You Believe in Magic?" over the trideo system at LAX. They'd done something strange to the song, pumping a reggae beat under the glass- shattering shriek of the cyberjacked vocals of the lead singer, whose species, much less gender, I had yet to determine.

As the lead singer seemed to pop from the trideo, I looked around for connecting flight info. Nothing as simple as a screen showing takeoffs and depar- tures, I thought. Just as I was about to get on a tear about the uselessness of technology without practi- cality, Caimbeui grabbed me by the arm and steered me to a bank of flatscreens on the opposite side of the trideos.

We had ten minutes to make our connection to Portland on Cinanestial. Wasn't that always the way of it, though?

"We'll never get through Tir customs in time," I said. "When's the next flight out?"

Caimbeui grabbed my bag and slung it over his shoulder.

"Oh ye of little faith," he said. "While you were puttering about with Thais, I was making a few calls. No need to tell me how much you appreciate it. Let's just say we'll be experiencing no trouble about our VAVs. And, most importantly, there will be no need for your strong-arm tactics. Now, don't give me that look."

"I'm not giving you a look," I said as I raced along beside him. Though I am long-legged, I had to break into a quick trot to keep up with him. After all, he is a good head taller than me.

"I knew you'd never give up a tissue sample, and you know how persistent these low-level customs security types are. I didn't want you to do to them what you did to our friend in the UK."

"It got us in, didn't it?"

"But here it might set off alarms. And I want our arrival to be as quiet as possible. I've arranged things with a friend. We should have no problems."

I frowned. "And who are we going to be beholden to for this favor?" I asked. "I don't like owing any- one anything if I can help it. This will be dicey enough. You know what the politics are like here. They make the Borgias look like a close and friendly family."

"I'm the one with the favor owed, not you," he said. He sounded a bit exasperated. "I had forgotten how difficult you can be on a trip. At least you've learned to pack a little lighter."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" I said. But it came out more like, "And… just (gasp) what… isthatsupposedtomean?"

"Nothing," he said. "Do you have your Visitor's Authorization Visa ready?"

"Yes," I said. "And don't change the subject. I don't recall you ever complaining about my luggage before. Have you been nursing this grudge for long? As I recall, the last time we traveled together for any length of time was back in eighteen ninety-eight. Vienna. And everyone had trunks, not just me. You had two of them. Plus a rather large leather portman- teau that never would have fit on any horse…"

"We're here," he said.

I slid to a stop. The sleek silver, green, and white of the Cinanestial counter was in front of us. A male elf stood at the counter with a datacord jacked into a silver slot in his left temple running to the 'puter hidden behind the top of the counter. At the door to the plane stood another elf, who looked pleasant enough until you noticed that she had cyberware implants in both arms and a nasty-looking taser slipped into a tasteful sleeve on the side of her uniform.

Both elves were wearing the Cinanestial uniform: skin-tight dark-green material with bold color blocks of silver and white. Though I suspected they were both expert at being polite and serving the passen- gers, anyone who gave them any grief would likely be pulling pieces of his favorite anatomy part from his throat for a long time to come.

Before we even reached the counter, another uni- formed elf appeared in front of us. I didn't see where she came from, and the fact that she got the drop on me irritated me to no end.

"I need to see your VAVs, please," she said. The please was a mere formality. I had spent most of my time avoiding Tir Taimgire-and with good reason. Now I was waltzing in chin-first. Even with Caimbeui as my companion, I wondered if this wasn't a bigger mistake than facing Ysrthgrathe alone.

I passed my VAV across to Caimbeui, who put it with his and gave it to her.

"Stay here," she said. She turned and walked over to the elf at the desk. They talked together in low voices for a moment, then the counter-elf said something to the one with our passports. The customs elf put a deliberately blank expression on her face, then walked back to us.

"Go on through," she said. "Have a good flight."

Caimbeui took our papers and walked past with- out saying a word to her. I followed, trying hard not to give a smug grin. I failed. Oh, well.

Just as we reached the door to the loading ramp, I heard a commotion behind us. I looked over my shoulder in time to see the customs elf tossing a scared-looking troll to the floor as if he were a rag- doll.

All brawn, no brains. Some things never change.

The flight to Portland was about two and a half hours. I didn't make small talk with Caimbeui. I was afraid I might blurt out that he'd been in my dream, and then I'd have to listen to him crow about that for the rest of the flight.