Chapter 1: Four to Doomsday
by Alan Taylor

 Caramel slips down in to the city at night.

 The sky above the city was the rich chocolate of a million reflected sulphur lamps, and the clouds were heavy with rain and guilt.

 Caramel wore her mask -- the one that made her look like Wong Mei Foo. It was her favourite of the month; the pale skin hiding her own distinctive tan, hiding her own pale skin beneath. Lies upon lies upon disguise. She stood on her usual corner, smoking her mint fag and watching the world go by. A new routine, this, the ten o'clock fag; one she'd started just a few weeks earlier, when things weren't so busy at work, and Dal could afford to let her go. He insisted on the mask, to protect her anonymity. She didn't see the point. It wasn't as if her clients looked at her face anyway.

 When she started her job they took her face away. Took her down to the acid and knives place on Archibald and Eighth and stripped her down to truth and bones and built her up from scratch. Rebuilt according to their own blueprint. Gave her a new nose, brown eyes, a tan. She couldn't really remember the operation well, although she tried. She had only been eight. And now she was standing next to a disappearing puddle on an orange street-corner of the street, leaning on a railing and gradually increasing her nicotine tolerance. Her face was a porcelain mask over a brown mask over the core of her that was she told herself was still there despite the attempts to cut it away.

 She was grinding her first butt under the heel of her Hutchison Whampoa pumps when she saw him. Mister suit. Standing outside the all-night convenience store, where he always stood, drinking the same can of Pepsi-Kirin beer. She placed him in his mid twenties -- twice her own age -- and probably some high powered filing clerk or sales assistant -- certainly way too well-to-do ever to speak to her or her type. Nonetheless, he had a nice smile, and he always waved to her before he left, just to let her know that he had seen her there too, that despite his aloofness he cared, somehow.

 Hell, she was deluding herself. For all she knew, he was heading straight up to Dal Window's place, drinking another beer while he exchanged banter with Dal and Mama Matura and waited for her to get back and for the sleepers to kick in. For all she knew. But she doubted it. Something about him, about the way he stood, the way he drank his beer, the way he waved said no. He wasn't like that. He would rather die than hock his soul to a bastard like Window.

 The way that she had sold her soul.

 He finished his beer, crushed the can and threw it in to the trash. Then he walked away, slowly, never looking back. She watched him as long as she could, until he disappeared into the mess of people on Elgin Boulevard.

 One day, she thought, one day she would cross that road, walk up to him and introduce herself. Maybe as Caramel, maybe as Mei Foo, maybe as Marie -- it didn't matter. One day -- she could almost hear herself saying the words, same way she could almost hear Dal Window, up on thirty-eight, baying for her blood.

 Caramel slips back out of her city, back to her elevator, and out of her mask and into her business persona.

 She slumped against the wall of the elevator as it carried back to her narcotic induced slavery. She wanted two things. First of all, she wanted another mint fag.

 Then she wanted out.

 Keep going though, down the stairs and in to the bar. It's a dingy place, deliberately badly lit, with mirrored walls so that the clients can see themselves drinking alone. At one end of the horseshoe bar, Ng Li Duc does just that.

 He's twenty three, of mixed Vietnamese and Chinese stock, although his face has a curious symmetry to it, and an almost caucasian look. He's drinking imported whisky, and thinking about his past, and his future. His bodyguard, an overweight Korean is standing by the door, stopping any of his fans from storming the bar. There are no fans here though, in Kinnerston Li Duc is as anonymous as everyone else. He is wearing a black suit, with a dark blue t-shirt. Two rings on each hand, and a silver coin in his left hand that he is passing between his fingers.

 Earlier this evening he had some news; some would call it bad news, others might merely describe it as interesting. He's still trying to work it out. The woman that told him was called Doyle, said she was a friend. Li Duc doesn't think he knows her, but can't be sure.

 He needs to talk to Doyle in private, so he gets his minder to find him somewhere that Branson SA can't trace.

 Half an hour later he's in a cab heading for Elgin Boulevard.

 In the last forty-eight hours I have watched 'My Best Friend's Wedding' eighteen times. It has reached the point where watching Julia Roberts fall over has stopped being funny.

 I thought it would while away an idle moment or two on the flight back to Dellah from Earth, but I didn't anticipate that I'd be stuck at the back of cattle class, and that the in-chair video would be knackered so I could only get one film, over and over again. The moment I wake up, before I put on my make up, and there is Cameron Diaz grinning down at me like a grinning angel-thing with acne.

 The conference was a wash out. What is an early twentieth century American warship doing buried under the Eiffel? I heard a whole bucketful of far fetched theories. Personally, I reckon that the faries whisked it away, but then that's probably death by minibar talking. Maybe if I have another gin it'll drown out the sounds of Julia Roberts doing underhanded, despicable, not even terribly imaginative things. Probably not - the last six didn't work. Still, can't do any harm.

 The faculty can't afford for me to travel in anything faster or more luxurious, they claim. I thought of tapping Brax for a loan, at least getting myself a seat where I could stretch my legs, but he was off-world -- at least, that's what they told me at the faculty.

 It was an odd week in general, just before I left Dellah. I could have sworn I found a garden of archetypes.

 It was a nice enough day -- it wasn't raining too heavily and I wasn't too hung over. As I strolled merrily around, whistling a tune that I knew perfectly well hadn't been composed yet I spotted a narrow alley between a couple of buildings, an alley that could almost be defined by its unfamiliarity. And its complete lack of defining features. That's relevant.

 So I don't know what it was about this particular alley that drew me to it on this particular afternoon. I'll assume that it was a Sunday and I had plenty of free time, but it might have been a Tuesday when nobody had turned up for a Neo-Aretian tutorial. Whatever it was, I wandered down this alley and found myself in a small walled garden.

 It can't have been more than ten yards on each side, walls green with moss, and a single tree in each corner. No windows looked over it, but the lawn was green, and there was fresh water in the fountain. Someone had left a book on the bench, face down and spine cracked. It was one of the classics too, "The Velvet Web". I thumbed through a few pages and listened to the invisible birds in the cloudless sky.

 Of course, I knew instantly that it was a garden of archetypes, which I would never be able to find again, and that I could dream of wistfully for the rest of my days. The sort of thing that you could base many an early twentieth century children's novel on.

 Naturally I failed to note its precise location, and with a fair degree of predictability when I went back to look for it again, I couldn't find it. I just thought I would mention it because it's kind of important. Because I realised a minute ago that the garden was definitely bigger on the inside than the outside. Not much escapes my notice, oh no.

 Extract ends.

 Extract from the Diary of Professor Bernice Summerfield

 Nobody called me from the bar. We'd been sitting on the tarmac of Hanari Central for over thirty minutes before anyone told me about the unscheduled four day stopover on Hanari, and the hotel room waiting for me at the Shangri-La. Bugger.

 Extract Ends

 She looked at him with clinical disinterest. There was a lesion on her lip, he noted, and the poor condition of her hair and teeth pointed towards dietary deficiencies. He fought back the urge to share his diagnosis with her as she reached out with a scrawny, purple nailed hand to tweak his left nipple.

 "This is the one you want done, loverboy?" she asked.

 He nodded.

 "You sure, son? You don't look the type."

 "I'm sure." He wasn't. It might have been the tequila talking. The bottle had been full when he had left the surgery, and he'd drunk about a third of it. It was sitting on the table next to his shirt, easy for him to grab if the pain was too much.

 "Whatever you say, honey," she said, in a sing-song voice, digging her fingernails into his skin, massaging the flesh of the nipple.

 "That'll do," she said when she was satisfied, then she marked either side of his nipple, and dabbed the area with a topical anaesthetic.

 "So," she said, "what makes you want to have your nipple pierced?"

 He hadn't expected this. He thought you could just walk in to these places, get it done, and walked out again. He didn't want to tell this woman about his reasons. He wanted her to pierce the bloody thing and let him go.

 "I've always wanted it done," he said. "Ever since I was in college. Never had the nerve then."

 "And you've got the nerve now?"

 He looked over at the Tequila.

 "Yeah." Jenny would have killed him for getting his nipple pierced. That was the reason it had never happened before. But now she was gone, and that meant that he could do what he wanted while she sat half a planet away and told her mother that all men were bastards. Like it had been him that had the affair. "I need this."

 "Can you feel your nipple?"

 He thought about this for a while, and said no. There was still a tingling there though. She took out the needle, and as she clamped him, he caught it glinting. Everything seemed to slow down as she approached him. A sudden flash, and the needle was through him, his system flooding with a potent rush. He could swear his eyes glazed over. The only noise he made was a satisfied purr, as the ring slipped through and the captive bead slipped into place. She passed him his bottle and he slugged it greedily.

 Leaving the shop, he felt strangely aware. He could feel everything so acutely, as if each of his senses had become heightened. The colours of the neon were brighter, the world strangely more intense. Even the little datawhore on the corner of Elgin and Faustino looked happier, he thought as he stood at his favourite vending machine drinking his favourite beer. He wondered if she ever noticed him.

 He crushed the can and dumped it, then wandered homewards, marvelling at the scents of the world.

 Two blocks from home, he realised he couldn't hold out much longer and headed away from the main street, looking for somewhere to relieve himself unobserved.

 Slipping down the alley behind Wornorov's Hardware store, he was surprised to find himself in a formal garden, with trees, and a bench. Hell, there was even a book on the bench, its spine broken.

 He relieved himself behind a tree.

 "Course it is," said Doyle, lounging across the sofa. "Never been in one of these places before?"

 Li Duc looked around him. They were in a room with no doors. Pale green walls, two large leather sofas and a small waterfall in one corner. Light seemed to come from the walls themselves, green and warm from impossible suns.

 "Can't say I have. What did you say it was called?"

 "The Mint Imperial Ninety Lounge. Remember the girl on the table?"

 Li Duc nodded. Before they came here, they had been at Dal Window's place, just off Elgin, drinking beer while Mama Matura -- his hag of a receptionist had twittered around them, treating them like celebrities. Doyle had half-flirted with her, before they were shown into a half-lit room, barely furnished with a bed and a couple of chairs. There was a girl on the bed -- no more than thirteen, drugged and hooked up to some sort of gizmo. Mama had made Li Duc and Doyle sit down, wired them up and then they were somewhere else.

 "What about her?"

 "That's where we are, dumb-ass. She rents out the ninety percent of her mind that she doesn't need herself. That's where we are."

 Li Duc struggled with this.

 "Look, make it quick," he said, checking his watch. "I've got half an hour at most."

 "Tell me about your life."

 Li Duc thought for a moment.

 "I was born in Ho Chi Minh, grew up in Guangzhao, and came to Hanari when I was 20. Joined the Adored at 22, and started touring four months ago."

 Doyle ran her hands through her thick, dirty blond hair as she swang back to her feet. "So you've read the back of your album. How many albums have you recorded?"

 "Eighteen."

 "In the last year?"

 "Well, obviously not, that would be..."

 Li Duc paused, letting himself collapse on to the sofa opposite Doyle, letting his head fall in to his hands.

 "I don't remember."

 "Don't worry, sweetheart," said Doyle, smiling widely. "You're not supposed to. They made you that way."

 "Made me?"

 "See, about ten years ago, Branson SA had this idea. They had some successful property on their books -- you -- and the public wanted more of you. So they cloned you. Made a carbon copy of you, if you like. Kept it on ice. And when you wanted to do more... experimental... stuff, less commercial stuff, they quietly killed you."

 Doyle looked Li Duc firmly in the eyes, and met with no response.

 "And they replaced you with a clone. Six months later they did the same. Dumped the clone and brought out a new one. Fresh from the clone vats, and ready to produce the same commercial crap over and over again."

 Li Duc was nodding now. This was starting to get through to him.

 "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

 "Because... because you need to know. Because you need to make your own choices, Li Duc." She stopped. Because the original Li Duc was in love with me. She sat next to him, putting her arm around his shoulder.

 "What can I do?"

 "I think," she said, "I may have a plan."

 Dear Fans,

 I went to the Ng Li Duc concert tonight. It was fabulous and awful.

 I was right up at the front, wearing my Wong Mei Foo mask, and watching the show when this old woman decided to talk to me.

 Thing was, I was enjoying the show, partly because I think Li Duc is fantastic, and partly because Dal told me that he'd rented me earlier in the evening and that made him kind of special, I thought. Whatever.

 This old woman was clearly an off-worlder -- hadn't heard of Li Duc, hadn't even heard of the Adored, the stupid cow. And she seemed to think I was some sort of kid. I'm twelve for goodness sake. She must have been over thirty.

 But anyway, I asked her what she was doing at an Adored concert anyway and she said that she was on a stopover and the complimentary tickets had come with the hotel room. I shrugged and acted unimpressed, which I was.

 She said her name was Benny, and I said my name was Mei Foo and she was none the wiser. Stupid.

 Eventually she wandered off and bothered someone else, which I'm sure was sensible. After all, nobody knows more about Li Duc than I do, and all she had to do was ask, for goodness sake. She was probably okay really, but five years or more older than anyone else there.

 About ten minutes later I saw her trying to sneak out, edging her way to the back of the auditorium. Probably for the best, I thought. Not her kind of thing. Anyway, she seemed to catch sight of something, and turned and made her way towards the stage.

 Li Duc launched into a new version of Chrysanthemum Heart, which NEEDS to be on the new album -- up-tempo, and with a ukulele playing all the way through. That pretty much drowned out the noise Benny was making arguing with the security guards, pointing up towards the balcony. She got past them when they were distracted by a fight in the front row, caused by Susan Henderson stealing Carrie-Anne diMarco's Li Duc doll and not giving it back. So this Benny woman headed for the stage.

 And all this time I am so jealous, because I've never been that close to him, and then I remember that an hour ago he'd been a client of mine, and I'm thinking for god's sake Caramel get a grip, when there's a shot from the balcony.

 I'm glued to the stage though. Li Duc is in the middle of his guitar solo when there's a bit of a blur from offstage and Benny throws herself on top of him. There's blood everywhere -- she's been hit, maybe even killed.

 Now lesser fanzines will tell you she was a rabid fan, just wanting to kiss him, and she deserved everything she got for not respecting his right, like, to individuality. Stupid. And, yes, Carolyn Jarvis, that WAS directed at you.

 Fact is, I reckon she saw the guy with the gun before the security guards did, tried to warn them, and when that failed, tried to save Li Duc herself. All of which is pretty cool, if stupid.

 Can't help wondering if she's okay.

 Extract ends.

 To Be Continued.