Evensong полностью

Carne’s voice was copied exactly by Anwar: not just every word, but the inflection of every word. It was almost mimicry. That’s what she should have listened for. Not the words, but one word. And how Carne had said it.

“They annihilated Levin. Then Rafiq sent Asika, and they annihilated him too.” They annihilated Levin (strong emphasis on the second syllable) then they annihilated Asika (no emphasis). As if it meant something different, something less than they’d done to Levin. Consistent with “there wasn’t enough left of Levin...”

Annihilate: Destroy completely. Reduce to nonexistence. Nullify or render void. Eradicate, erase, exterminate; extinguish, kill, obliterate.

“...what our employers did to Asika. And what they did to Levin, which was worse. And Levin’s face, when he realised he couldn’t defend himself. There wasn’t enough left of him to make into an exhibit, like the one they’d made of Asika.”

The one they’d made in that villa in Opatija.

What was done to Asika was merely physical. What was done to Levin was spiritual. Deeper, more absolute.

“Fuck.” She occasionally swore mildly, but she’d never spoken that word before. It felt strange, forming her lips over the f and her palate and tongue over the ck.

At last she’d found it. Hiding in plain sight, and she hadn’t seen; or in plain hearing, and she hadn’t heard. She’d only found it when she’d lied to Anwar to avoid telling him about Rafiq and herself, and now there was no time.

She flicked open her wristcom.

Anwar moved to the centre of the suddenly-emptying Signing Room, to stand between her and what had burst out of the far wall.

It was Levin. Except it wasn’t, anymore.

Levin would have greeted him with Muslim Filth. Levin would have had some clever one-liners to which Anwar would have thought up rejoinders too late. Levin wouldn’t have had a face like an unmoving theatrical mask, or eyes like dead, brilliant jewels.

Ridiculously, his wristcom buzzed. He cancelled it.

Levin wore a shirt and trousers of silver-grey, and thin gloves of the same material. Maybe woven monofilament. Or maybe a similar composition to Rafiq’s VSTOLs, which always seemed quietly indestructible.

They both ramped up their senses, and went to full combat mode. This time Anwar ignored the microscopic weave of fabrics or the particle-level building-blocks of colours or the body odours beneath perfumes, and funnelled everything towards Levin.

A kind of relativity: time and thought moved normally for them, but for everyone around them they were a flicker.

The Patel contractors hadn’t only built the fake woodpanelled wall, they’d built a replica of the original pearlescent wall. A perfect, seamless replica. At the other end of the room. Levin was already there when Anwar ordered the old panelling ripped out. Already there, in the wall three feet away, when I was crapping in my bucket.

Broadcasters, camera crews and delegates were crowded at the far end. When Levin burst out he didn’t just scatter them, he killed them. He was so fast that nobody got in a shot, except Gaetano. He hit Levin once in the throat, normally a killing shot, but Levin didn’t notice.

With his senses ramped up for combat, Anwar saw all this in what for him was normal time. Relativity: everyone else in the room, except Levin, was wallowing in treacle-time. Screaming in deep bass notes. Thinking at geological speed. Or dead.

Two of Zaitsev’s guards were moving in strange animated slow motion to cover him. The other three, moving with equal strangeness, went to face Levin in the centre of the room but he killed them without breaking step as he hurtled— flickered—towards Olivia at the top table. Everyone assumed the target was Zaitsev, who was now pushed under the table and covered by his two remaining guards. Olivia was standing behind the table, her mouth open in an O that seemed too big for her face.

Anwar moved—slowly in his time, a blur in theirs—to the centre of the room to stand between them.

He faced Levin, and saw what they’d done to him.

He knew it instinctively, not in detail. They’d taken his identity, and left him as a thing. He’d always been bigger, younger, stronger, faster, more skilful, than Anwar. Now he was more so, and a monster. A killing machine. Maybe what had once powered his mind was now redirected into his body. Details later. No time.

Remembering Gaetano’s throat shot, he aimed his best Verb at Levin’s throat. Levin didn’t notice, and broke Anwar’s collarbone. In full combat mode Anwar’s resetting processes worked faster, but would still be too slow. He hit Levin with two more Verbs, and Levin broke three of Anwar’s ribs and re-broke his collarbone. Then his left upper arm.