I wondered if the Shelley dust really could tear a person like me apart. I wondered if Oscar kept it in his office.
My knives were in my duffel, out by the elevator door, and my rifle was on the coffee table, but I still had my revolver on my hip. That was some comfort.
I followed.
Oscar stopped in front of two beautiful wooden doors. He lifted his hand, and even though I didn’t see it, a scanner must have read who he was. Then, just like that, the two doors swung inward silently.
“Not many people are invited to this room,” he said as he walked in and waved for me to follow. “But I felt it important that you understand very clearly what you are entering into with House Gray, and what we can offer you.”
“That’s kind. Thank you.” I stepped in behind him and the doors closed with a lockingsnick.
Photos, some old film style, others hovering in 3D hologram, others carved into life-sized flesh-realistic portraits, scattered across every wall in the place, which was otherwise furnished by a desk with a chair on either side.
“This is a histories room,” Oscar said. “Not the only one I have, but every House keeps one wherever they do business. In this room are some of my ancestors,” he nodded toward a picture of a petite woman with sharp eyes and black hair slicked back into curls behind her ears. “These rooms hold records, diaries, and knowledge of the House, its doings and agreements during a House head’s lifetime. Only the heads are able to access every detail of the histories.
“My histories are here also, of course. All the data and knowledge I have gathered in my time of ruling House Gray.”
He walked over to the wall at my right and stopped in front of a hologram and flesh-real carvings of a boy, a young man, and a middle-aged man who all had his eyes, his short nose, his curly black hair.
Next to each image of him was another boy and young man. He was taller than Oscar, thinner and younger, though his jet-black hair had the same curl. His clean pale face was long and smooth, scrubbed as if the world had never touched it. Not a wrinkle, not a freckle, not a single smudge of life seemed to have impressed upon him. While Oscar’s eyes tended to catch light and invite a smile, the other man’s eyes were dark, piercing, and utterly remorseless.
“Who is that next to you?” I asked.
He winced. “My brother, Hollis. Second in line to rule the House.”
“The brother Aranda Red is supporting?”
“The brother many Houses believe should displace me.”
“Why?”
“They don’t like me, nor my fondness for a balanced power among Houses and freedoms for the people we employ.”
“And why do you have all of these histories here?”
“They stand as witness, record, proof. Connected to primary and secondary sources, they create redundancy and open records for other House history rooms to access, if need be. This is a room of record for legal and contractual matters.”
It looked like a room full of dead people staring at me.
I crossed my arms and rubbed my palms down them to settle the roll of chills prickling there.
Oscar glanced at me and tipped his head to one side.
“Are youcold?”
“No, just . . .” I nodded to the wall of people in front of us. “This is something I’ve never seen before. It’s a bit . . .” I shrugged.
“You’re frightened?” Now he sounded surprised.
“Not so much that as disquieted. These pictures aren’t connected to living folk, are they?”
“No.”
“It’s just that all these people staring at me is, well, uncomfortable.”
“And your arms? Why are you rubbing them?”
I stopped, unrolled my arms from each other, and stuck my hands in my overshirt pockets. “Just goose bumps.”
