“This is the person you were telling me about? The one who stayed back?”
“Yes,” Gordon said. “Deckard. Rob Deckard. He was one of our marines. Long before we saw physical changes in his body, there were mental changes. But we only understood later that transcription errors were the cause.”
“What kind of mental changes?”
“Originally, Rob was a cheerful guy, very good athlete, extremely gifted with languages. He would sit around having a beer with somebody foreign, and by the end of the beer he’d have started to pick up the language. You know, a phrase here, a sentence there. He’d just start speaking. Always with a perfect accent. After a few weeks, he could speak like a native. The marines spotted it first, and had sent him to one of their language schools. But as time went by, and Rob accumulated more damage, he wasn’t so cheerful anymore. He turned mean,” Gordon said. “Really mean.”
“Yes?”
“He beat the hell out of the gate guard here, because the guard took too long checking his ID. And he practically killed a guy in an Albuquerque bar. That was when we started to realize that Deckard had permanent damage to his brain, and it wasn’t going to get better, that if anything, it would get worse.”
:
Back in the control room, they found Kramer hunched over the monitor, staring at the screen, which showed the field fluctuations. They were coming more strongly now. And the technicians were saying that at least three were coming back, and maybe four or five. From her expression, it was clear Kramer was torn; she wanted to see them all come back.
“I still think the computer is wrong, and the panels will hold,” Gordon said. “We certainly can fill the tanks now and see if they hold.”
Kramer nodded. “Yes, we can do that. But even if they fill without breaking, we can’t be certain they won’t blow out later, in the middle of the transit. And that would be a disaster.”
Stern shifted in his seat. He felt suddenly uneasy. Something was nagging at him, tickling the back of his mind. When Kramer said “blow out,” he once more saw automobiles in his mind—the same succession of images, all over again. Car races. Huge truck tires. Michelin Man. A big nail in the road, and a tire driving over it.
Blowout.
The water tanks would blow out. The tires would blow out. What was it about blowouts?
“To pull this off,” Kramer said, “we somehow need to strengthen the tanks.”
“Yes, but we’ve been over that,” Gordon said. “There’s just no way to do it.”
Stern sighed. “How much time left?”
The technician said, “Fifty-one minutes, and counting.”
00:54:00
To Kate’s astonishment, she heard applause from the floor below. She had made the jump; she swung back and forth, dangling beneath the beam. And down on the floor, they were applauding, as if this were a circus act.
She quickly kicked her legs up and clambered onto the beam.
On the rafter behind her, Guy Malegant was hurrying back to the centerline beam. He clearly intended to try to block her return from her present rafter.
She ran down the beam, back to the center of the ceiling. She was more agile than Guy, and she arrived at the wide central rafter well before he did. She had a moment to collect herself, to decide what to do.
What was she going to do?
She was standing in the middle of the open roof, holding on to a thick vertical strut, about twice the diameter of a telephone pole. The strut had supporting braces that angled out diagonally on both sides, starting midway up the shaft and then connecting to the roof. These braces were so low that if Sir Guy intended to get to her, he would have to crouch down as he made his way around the strut.
Kate crouched down now, seeing what it felt like to move around under the brace. It was awkward, and it would be slow. She got to her feet again. As she did so, her hand brushed her dagger. She’d forgotten she had it. She drew it out now, held it in front of her.
Guy saw her, and laughed. His laughter was picked up by the watching crowd on the floor below. Guy shouted something down to them, which made them laugh all the harder.
She watched him come toward her, and she backed away. She was allowing him room to move around the vertical strut. She tried to look terrified—it wasn’t difficult—and she cowered, her knife trembling in her hand.
It’s all going to be timing, she thought.
Sir Guy paused on the far side of the strut, watching her for a moment. Then he crouched down and started to make his way around the strut. His hand was wrapped around the wood, the sword in his right hand temporarily pressed against the strut.
She ran forward and stabbed his hand with the dagger, pinning it to the strut. Then she swung around to the opposite side of the strut and kicked his feet off the central beam. Guy fell into space, dangling from his pinned hand. He clenched his teeth but didn’t make a sound. Jesus, these guys were tough!
Still clutching his sword, he tried to get back up on the beam. But by then she had swung back to her original position, on the other side of the beam. His eyes met hers.
He knew what she was going to do.
“Rot in hell,” he snarled.
“You first,” she said.
She pulled her dagger free from the wood. Guy fell silently to the ground below, his body growing smaller. Halfway down, he struck a pole from which a banner hung; his body caught on the wrought-iron point, and for a moment he hung there; then the pole snapped and he slammed onto a table, sending crockery flying. The guests jumped back. Guy lay among the broken crockery. He didn’t move.
Oliver was pointing up at Kate and shouting, “Kill him! Kill him!” The cry was taken up around the room. Archers ran for weapons.
Oliver did not wait; in a fury, he stomped out of the hall, taking several soldiers with him.
She heard maids in waiting, young children, everyone, chanting, “Kill him!” and she sprinted along the center beam, going for the wall at the far end of the great hall. Arrows whooshed past her, thunked into the wood. But they were too late; she could see that there was a second door in the other wall, matching the first, and she hit it hard, knocking it open, and crawled out of the hall, into darkness.
It was a very tight space. She banged her head against the ceiling, and she realized that this was the north end of the great hall, which meant it was freestanding and did not abut the castle wall. Therefore . . .
She pushed upward, at the roof. A section gave way. She stepped out onto the roof, and from there she climbed easily up onto the ramparts of the inner wall.
From here, she could see the siege was fully under way. Volleys of fiery arrows hissed overhead in smooth arcs, then descended to the courtyard below. Archers on the battlements returned the fire. Cannon on the battlements were being loaded with metal arrows, with de Kere striding back and forth, barking instructions. De Kere didn’t notice her.
She turned away, pressed her ear and said, “Chris?”
De Kere spun, his hand clapped over his ear. Suddenly he was turning, looking everywhere, along the length of the battlements and down into the courtyard.
It was de Kere.
And then de Kere saw her. He recognized her immediately.
Kate ran.
:
Chris said, “Kate? I’m down here.” Flaming arrows were slashing down all over the courtyard. He waved to her up on the wall, but he was not sure she could see him in the darkness.
She said, “It’s—” but the rest was lost in static. By then he had turned away, watching Oliver and four soldiers cross the courtyard, and go into a square building that he assumed was the arsenal.
Chris at once began to follow, when a flaming ball landed at his feet, bounced, and rolled to a stop. Through the flames he could see that it was a human head, eyes open, lips drawn back. The flesh burned, the fat popping. A passing soldier kicked it away like a soccer ball.
One of the arrows raining down on the courtyard brushed past his shoulder and left be
hind a streak of flame on his sleeve. He could smell the pitch and feel the heat on his arm and face. Chris threw himself onto the ground, but the fire did not go out. It seemed to be smoldering; the heat became worse. He got to his knees and, using his dagger, cut his doublet open. He shrugged out of the burning coat and threw it aside. The back of his hand was still aflame, from tiny drops of pitch. He rubbed his hand in the dust of the courtyard.
The fire at last went out.
Standing again, he said, “André? I’m coming.” But there was no answer. Alarmed, he jumped to his feet, just in time to see Oliver emerge from the arsenal, leading the Professor and Marek away, heading to a far door in the castle wall. The soldiers pushed them forward at swordpoint. Chris didn’t like the look of it. He had the uneasy sense that Oliver was going to kill them.
“Kate.”
“Yes, Chris.”
“I see them.”
“Where?”
“Going into that corner door.”
He started to follow, realized he needed a weapon. Just a few feet away, a burning arrow struck a soldier in the back, knocking him face down on the ground. Chris bent over, took the man’s sword, then stood again and turned to go.
“Chris.”
A man’s voice, in his earpiece. An unfamiliar voice that he didn’t recognize. Chris looked around, but saw only running soldiers, flaming arrows whizzing through the air, a burning courtyard.
“Chris.” The voice was soft. “Over here.”
Through the flames he saw a dark figure standing motionless as a statue, staring at him across the courtyard. This dark figure ignored the fighting that swirled around him. He stared fixedly at Chris. It was Robert de Kere.
“Chris. Do you know what I want?” de Kere said.
Chris didn’t answer him. Nervously, he hefted the sword in his hand, feeling the weight. De Kere just watched him. He chuckled softly. “Are you going to fight me, Chris?”
And then de Kere started walking toward him.
Chris took a breath, not certain whether to stay or run. And suddenly a door behind the great hall burst open and a knight came out, in full armor except for his helmet, bellowing, “For God and the Archpriest Arnaut!” He recognized the handsome knight, Raimondo. Dozens of soldiers in green and black were pouring out into the courtyard, engaging Oliver’s troops in a pitched battle.
De Kere was still stalking him, but now he paused, uncertain about this new development. Suddenly Arnaut grabbed Chris by the throat, holding his sword high. Arnaut pulled him close, shouting, “Oliver! Where is Oliver!”
Chris pointed to the far door.
“Show me!”
He went with Arnaut across the courtyard, through the door. Following stairs spiraling downward, they came to a series of underground chambers. They were large and gloomy, with high curved ceilings.
Arnaut pushed ahead, panting, red-faced with fury. Chris hurried to keep up with him. They passed through a second chamber, empty like the first. But now Chris heard voices up ahead. One of them sounded like the Professor’s.
00:36:02
On the control room monitors, the computer-generated undulating field had begun to show spikes. Biting her lip, Kramer watched the spikes grow in higher and wider. She drummed her fingers on the table. Finally, she said, “Okay. Let’s fill the tanks at least. Let’s see how they do.”
“Good,” Gordon said, looking relieved. He picked up the radio, began to give orders to the technicians down in the transit room.
On the video monitors, Stern watched as heavy hoses were dragged over to the first of the empty shield tanks. Men climbed up ladders and adjusted the nozzles. “I think this is best,” Gordon said. “At least we’ll—”
Stern jumped to his feet. “No,” he said. “Don’t do it.”
“What?”
“Don’t fill the tanks.”
Kramer stared at him. “Why? What can—”
“Don’t do it!” Stern said. He was shouting in the small control room. On the screen, technicians were holding water nozzles above the fill aperture. “Tell them to stop! No water whatever in the tank! Not a drop!”
Gordon gave an order on the radio. The technicians looked up in surprise, but they stopped their work, lowered the hoses back to the floor.
“David,” Gordon said gently. “I think we have to—”
“No,” Stern said. “We don’t fill the tanks.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’ll screw up the glue.”
“The glue?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know how to strengthen the tanks.”
Kramer said, “You do? How?”
Gordon turned to the technicians. “How much time?”
“Thirty-five minutes.”
He turned back to Stern. “There’s just thirty-five minutes, David. There isn’t time to do anything now.”
“Yes there is,” Stern said. “There’s still enough time. If we go like hell.”
00:33:09
Kate came into the central courtyard of La Roque, to the place where she had last seen Chris. But Chris was gone.
“Chris?”
She heard no answer in her earpiece.
And he had the ceramic, she thought.
All around her in the courtyard lay burning bodies. She ran from one to the next, looking to see if one of them was Chris.
She saw Raimondo, who gave her a little nod and a wave—and then he shuddered. For a moment she thought it was the heat waves from the flames, but then she saw Raimondo turn, bleeding from his side. There was a man standing behind him, hacking repeatedly with his sword, cutting Raimondo at the arm, shoulder, torso, leg. Every cut was deep enough to wound, but not to kill. Raimondo staggered backward, bleeding freely. The man advanced, still hacking. Raimondo fell to his knees. The man stood over Raimondo, cutting again and again. Raimondo fell backward, and now the man was slashing Raimondo’s face, cutting diagonally across lips and nose, sending bits of flesh flying. The attacker’s face was hidden by flames, but she heard him say, “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” with each blow. She realized he was speaking English. And then she knew who the man was. The attacker was de Kere.
:
Chris followed Arnaut deeper into the dungeon. They heard voices echoing somewhere up ahead. Arnaut moved more cautiously now, staying closer to the walls. At last they could see into the next chamber, which was dominated by a large pit in the ground. Above the pit, a heavy metal cage hung from a chain. The Professor was standing inside the bars, his face expressionless as the cage was lowered by two soldiers who turned a winch crank. Marek had been pushed against the far wall, his hands tied. Two soldiers stood near him.
Lord Oliver stood at the edge of the pit, smiling as the cage descended. He drank from a gold cup, wiped his chin. “I made you my promise, Magister,” he said, “and I will keep it.” To the soldiers at the winch he said, “Slower, slower.”
Staring at Oliver, Arnaut growled like an angry dog, and drew his sword. He turned back to Chris and whispered, “I shall take Oliver. You may have the others.”
Chris thought: The others? There were four soldiers in the room. But he had no time to protest, for with a scream of fury, Arnaut was running forward, shouting, “Oliverrrrr!”
Lord Oliver turned, still holding his goblet. With a sneer of disdain, he said, “So. The pig approaches.” He threw his cup aside and drew his sword. In a moment the battle was joined.
Chris was now running toward the soldiers at the winch, not quite sure what he would do; the soldiers beside Marek had raised their swords. Oliver and Arnaut fought bitterly, swords clanging, cursing each other between blows.
Everything was happening fast now. Marek tripped one of the soldiers near him, and stabbed him with a knife so small Chris couldn’t see it. The other soldier turned back to face Marek, and Marek kicked him hard, so that he staggered back against the winch, knocking the men away.
Unattended, the winch began to clank down more rapidly. There was a ratche
t mechanism of some kind, so it turned noisily, but it was clearly moving faster than before. Chris saw the Professor’s cage descend below ground level, disappearing into the pit.
By then Chris had reached the first of the soldiers, whose back was to him. The man started to turn and Chris swung, badly wounding him. He swung again; the man fell.
Now there were only two soldiers. Marek, his wrists still tied, was backing away from one, ducking the hissing blade. The second soldier stood by the winch. He had his sword out and was ready to fight. Chris swung; the man parried easily. Then Marek, backing in a circle, banged against the soldier, who turned momentarily. Marek shouted, “Now!” and Chris stabbed with the sword. The man collapsed.
The winch was still turning. Chris grabbed it, then jumped away as the fourth soldier’s sword came down with a clang. The cage sank lower. Chris backed away. Marek was holding his bound wrists out to Chris; but Chris was not sure he could control the sword. Marek was shouting, “Do it!” so Chris swung; the rope snapped; and then the fourth soldier was on him. The soldier fought with the fury of a man trapped; Chris was cut on the forearm as he backed away. He realized he was in trouble, when suddenly his attacker looked down in horror, the bloody point of a sword protruding from his abdomen. The soldier toppled, and Chris saw Marek holding the blade.
Chris ran for the winch. He grabbed the crank and managed to stop the descent. Now he could see that the cage was deep in the oily water; the Professor’s head was barely above the surface. Another turn of the crank and he would have been submerged.
Marek came over, and together they began to crank the cage back up. Chris said, “How much time is left?”
Marek looked at his counter. “Twenty-six minutes.”
Meanwhile, Arnaut and Oliver fought on; they were now in a dark corner of the dungeon, and Chris could see the sparks from their clashing swords.
The cage rose dripping into the air. The Professor smiled at Chris. “I thought you’d be in time,” he said.