But good as the augmented reality overlays were, they didn't hide the fundamental wrongness of the picture. A picture made worse by the not-quite-right scent of orange blossoms they were using to not-quite-mask the stench of the Harbor wafting in over their western wall.
Technology's not magic; this's good enough for mundanes.
'It's February. Real orange trees are full of fruit.'
'What?'
I looked at the woman sitting next to me-more like across from me, the back seat of the ground car was that wide-and realized I'd spoken aloud. That happens sometimes when I'm focused out; I forget what I'm doing.
'Talking to myself,' I answered. I patted Dog absently. Dog hated to be touched, but the sight of the gesture- man patting loyal twelve-kilo companion-had a universally calming effect.
The woman, who had introduced herself as Rachel, tilted her head to one side, weighing whether she was satisfied with that. The driver skewered me with a gimlet glance; no trust there. These folks had me on constant scan, they knew I wasn't transmitting. But I reminded myself that this wasn't Pasadena, and the local mundanes were suspicious of folks who weren't so mundane talking to themselves.
'My father worked in the groves,' I lied by way of disarming explanation. 'It's the wrong time of year for orange blossoms.'
'Ah.' Rachel's teeth flashed white against her dark skin as she smiled. She had an exotic Afro-Latina look-more striking than pretty-and all of her original equipment. Rare in LA. Athletic build beneath the expensive suit, and strong features that I bet looked damned formidable when she…
Focus, Bastion.
So focus I did. Ignoring the very real cloud of approving pheromones being produced right next to me, I spread my senses wide.
My eyes, least trusted of my senses, reported we were passing through a suburban merchants' district, circa 1959. Neatly dressed people-most in period costumes marred by chrome-strolled beneath manicured trees, admired vintage shop displays, or noshed beneath bright awnings in sidewalk cafes. Surface readings were smiling faces, clean streets, cops who waved-even the squirrels looked happy. Everything so saccharine I felt my teeth rotting.
Speaking of teeth, I counted the teeth-grating 'silent' buzz of no less than twenty-seven drones industriously surveilling our block of boulevard. A lot of beautiful people were sharing the fascinating minutia of their daily lives with the grateful world.
Pasadena has it's P2.0, of course, the constant circulation of personal broadcasting and voyeurism that used up Dog knew how much bandwidth, but nothing on the scale of Fun City. In Pasadena the idea that P2.0 was more addictive than BTL was a wry-smile joke. In Fun City the addiction was pretty much a given; if not a religion. Everyone seemed to be trying to point their best profile in all directions at once.
For a moment one of the automated spy-eyes-doing a passable impression of a curious hummingbird-dipped out of the general swarm to pace the car. A cherry-red replica of a 1957 Cadillac convertible cruising majestically down the boulevard must have triggered its 'this might be interesting' circuit. The car flashed the drone a signal I only imagined I heard and the roving eyeball turned away; no doubt scrubbing any images in the process.
My canine nose, as always, gave me more information than my ears. I closed my eyes and lifted my chin as I sampled the breeze. Beneath the Harbor stink and the ersatz orange blossom and the omnipresent electric ozone of the AR skins was the faint frisson of spell work. Basic security wards on the businesses for the most part, with more than one illusion-pretty much a staple in the land where image was all. Nothing-
A stench of fear. Bitter sweat and raw emotion flooded my senses for half a second and then dissolved.
'What?'
Rachel's question tipped me to the fact that I'd shed my relaxed pose. Ol' gimlet eyes was watching me, too, having evidently puzzled out a use for the mirror glued to the windshield.
'Nothing significant,' I said, glancing down at Dog's relaxed form for confirmation. 'We just passed close to something.'
'Magic?'
My ears pricked at the note of alarm beneath her casual tone, but I dismissed it. Low-level paranoia over matters magic was par for a mundane who'd hired an occult investigator. Anybody who paid my opening highball price up front without hesitation had to be scareder than most.
Gimlet's ever-watchful gaze regarded me from the mirror. I hoped the car was on autopilot.
'Someone having a very bad day.' I patted Dog again, pretending I didn't notice his reproachful glare. 'Nothing involving us.'
'Us?'
'Nothing involving me, anyone I care about, or anyone in the car.'
I braced for follow-up questions. A lot of folks who don't use magic believe the trideo myths and expect mages to 'read' spells in a glance, discerning everything from its purpose to the shoe size of the caster.
But Rachel just nodded and absently copied my gesture, stroking Dog's back.
I shrugged apologetically, but Dog was having none of it.
Gimlet caught the wheel when it began turning, belatedly restoring the illusion he was driving as the Cadillac navigated a narrow opening framed by signs warning us not to enter. I had a fleeting impression of a 1950s garage and then we were through the back wall and climbing a steeply curving tunnel that made no effort to emulate the 1950s.
Regularly spaced along the featureless walls were motorized slug guns slaved to armored sensors that followed every curve of our stately spiral. Not terribly sophisticated, but whoever was sitting in the control center would have no trouble from anyone in the tunnel.
Our spiral ascent ended in a round room-high ceilinged and about thirty meters across-with one of their patented armored gun cams at each compass point. The car stopped in the middle of the room, facing floor-to- ceiling metal doors flanked by two human guards in light armor.
A tall specimen with dead white dreadlocks stood slightly to one side, somberly resplendent in an ostentatious costume of studded leather and flowing cape. From his elegance and arrogance I took the posing mage for an elf; but when his scent reached me I realized he was just a pretentious human. Noting the martial runes inlaid in ivory and silver along the length of the ebony quarterstaff in his grip, I took a chance and guessed horticulture was not his specialty.
As soon as the four of us climbed out-Rachel and Gimlet on one side, Dog and I on the other-the Cadillac backed silently out of sight down the tunnel with ponderous dignity. Presentation; real showmanship is in little touches like that.
The worthy in classic wizard garb regarded us regally as the two guards stepped up to check us out. Professionals, they checked Rachel and Gimlet as carefully as they checked me-scanners, then a pat-down. Making sure I hadn't planted anything on my escort for later retrieval.
One of them surprised me by having the presence of mind to scan Dog. Nothing showed but canine, of course: twelve kilos of terrier-sized hound packaged in russet and white stockings. The goon visibly relaxed and finished the quick rub-over with a scratch behind the ear he probably imaged Dog enjoyed.
'What is he?' he asked. His gravel voice implied a poorly healed throat injury.
'Basenji.'
'Thought so.'
'Some kind of spook dog?' the other goon asked with a hint of nerves.
'African hunting dog,' the dog fancier answered. He took another breath to elaborate, but caught Rachel's cocked eyebrow in time. Sketching an apologetic salute, he stepped back without a word.
I'd been pretending to ignore the costumed mage by the door throughout the guards' inadequate pat-down. With no other legitimate distractions, I went for slightly startled-like I hadn't noticed he'd been giving me his best steely stare for the last forty-three seconds-when I met his gaze. Must have looked authentic, because the moment he thought he had my attention he struck a more dramatic pose, the fist on his hip pulling his cloak open enough for me to see the runed hilt of a mageblade.
The astral scent of his weapon conveyed much; as did the fact he thought such a display was necessary or prudent. I made a point of ducking my head a bit, keeping all responses in the physical as I let him know I was suitably impressed. Then I ignored him again, focused on following Rachel's hips out of the chamber.
