The officer answered in a pleasantly deep voice. "Soon, I think. I'll check." He went into the cockpit and closed its door, leaving them alone.
Sam shivered, though it was much warmer in here than outside. "I'll be glad when we leave."
"I suppose I shouldn't admit this," Turner said. "But my EI keeps getting confused. This is too much. I haven't integrated all my systems yet. Charon was working on that when I ran off."
It relieved her to hear him ease up on his insistence that he was no different than a man. To her mind, his differences made him no less deserving of the rights he had taken for granted as Turner Pascal, but she could help him more if he wasn't in denial about the changes. "If you let us work with you, we can probably stabilize your EI."
He leaned his head back on the seat. "I'll never get away from it, will I? No one will ever see me as just Turner Pascal."
"No, they won't," she said. "That doesn't make you less. Just different." She squeezed his hand. "Better."
His face gentled, the lines around his eyes crinkling, lines that hadn't been there yesterday. Life, real life rather than a controlled lab environment, had begun to give his face the character—the humanity—it had lacked when she met him. He spoke in a low voice. "Thank you."
She smiled self-consciously. Then she indicated the cabin. "Guess we don't have stewardesses."
"Guess not."
"I wonder why they left us alone."
He snorted. "Maybe to study how we interact without anyone around to constrain our behavior."
That was cynical. "Has that happened before?"
"Charon was always playing with my mind."
Play. The more she heard about Charon, the less she liked it. Turner had a point, though; the crew probably could monitor them. She waved her hand at a bulkhead. "If you're watching, hello."
"I'm afraid I'll be a boring subject," Turner said. "I plan to sleep all the way to Washington."
"Sounds good to me." Sam settled herself, fastening the pressure-webbing around her body that would protect them from heavy accelerations.
The cockpit door suddenly opened and the man in fatigues came out. He glanced at Turner, his gaze taking on a shuttered quality. He stopped by their seats, and for a moment Sam thought he intended to speak. But he just inclined his head to them and stepped past. His clothes rustled as he settled behind them. For some reason, it bothered Sam to have him sit where she couldn't see him. She wouldn't feel safe until they were in the air. Even then, she doubted she could sleep. She wouldn't relax until they were safe with Thomas.
Sam dreaded going to D.C. for reasons unconnected to Turner. She had hardly been there since her father's death three years ago. As an Air Force colonel, he had traveled a great deal. During a visit to Paraguay, he had been an unintended casualty in a riot by an extremist group against the local government. His death had no connection to her work, but every time she thought of consulting for the military now, her anger over losing him interfered. Rather than deal with her grief, she had quit consulting.
Finally the Rex taxied across the tarmac and took off, heavy g-forces shoving them into their seats like a giant hand.
Once they were airborne, Turner wiped perspiration off his forehead. "Maybe we'll make it after all."
Sam let out a long breath. "Looks like it."
Someone put his hand on the arm of her chair. Startled, she turned around. The man in fatigues was leaning forward.
"Can I get anything for you?" he asked. "Water? We haven't the greatest food, but it's edible."
She relaxed. "A glass of water would be great."
"Me, too," Turner said, loosening the webbing around his body.
"Water it is."
The man went to a tiny cubicle at the front of the cabin. It took him a while to find two metal cups above the sink there, which made Sam doubt he usually acted as a steward. As he filled a cup with water, the cockpit door opened and another man in fatigues came out, the copilot apparently, since Sam glimpsed a third man inside, sitting in the pilot's seat. The pilot didn't seem to be doing much; she suspected the Rex was flying itself.
The copilot was tall and angular, his black hair streaked with gray. He considered them with undisguised satisfaction. "Hello, Turner."
Sam froze. Then she turned to see Turner staring with undisguised shock at the copilot. The steward had finished filling the glasses of water, but he just stood in the cubicle, waiting, watching the three of them.
Turner made a strangled noise. "No."
Sam suddenly felt ill. "Who is it?"
"Turner calls me Raze," the copilot said, smooth and unruffled. "I work for his owner."
"No one owns me!" Turner yanked off his webbing and started to stand.
"Where are you going?" Raze asked.
Turner stopped, half out of his seat. Then he dropped back down and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I knew it. I knew." He lowered his hands. "I won't stay with him," he told Raze. "You hear me? I won't stay."
"You can discuss that when you get home." Raze made no effort to hide his condescension. "You shouldn't have run off. Charon won't be pleased."
"Go to hell," Turner said.
"I don't think so." Raze smiled coldly, like a weapon primed for use. Then he returned to the cockpit—leaving them alone with their unwanted steward.
V
Alpha
Sam spent the flight compulsively memorizing details about the cabin. She couldn't access the console built into her chair, big surprise, so she had nothing to do but worry.
She spoke quietly to Turner. "Is it possible Charon is working for the Air Force?"
He answered in a low voice. "I don't think so."
It seemed unlikely to Sam, too. The man in fatigues didn't strike her as Air Force, but his taciturn style revealed little. He saw to their needs in food and water, but responded to none of her questions. His careful movements, muscular build, and military bearing made her wonder if he was a mercenary Charon had hired.
Their "steward" had strapped on a stun gun, or staser. At first it relieved Sam; apparently he didn't plan to kill either of them. Then she realized he might be avoiding anything more powerful only because he didn't want to damage the Rex. She hoped Charon considered her expertise as an EI analyst worth enough to keep her alive. If he had done everything Turner claimed, though, he might not care if she died; he could resurrect her as a forma. But anyone brilliant enough to create Turner had to realize her value lay in her creativity, memory, expertise, and mental stability, any of which could be lost if he copied her mind into an EI.
What the hell. She would just try again to ask the steward what was up. She had little to lose. Turning in her seat, she said, "Hello."
He tilted his head, watching her as if she were an exotic animal he had caught in a cage. "Hello."
"I was wondering," she said.
"Yes?"
She made a conscious effort not to squirm under his scrutiny. "Who do you work for?"
Silence.
"Did you all steal this Rex?"
Silence.
He wasn't any more verbose now than before. She tried another tack. "So what do you do in your everyday life?"
"My job."
At least that got an answer. "What is that?"
Although he still didn't answer, this time he did smile. It made him look familiar, though she couldn't place why.
"You don't talk much," she said.
No answer, just that enigmatic smile.
After a few more futile attempts at conversation, Sam gave up and turned back around, slouching in her seat. She had thought, when she retreated to her beach six months ago, that the world would ignore her. She had left behind the acrimony and bitter losses at BioII. The potential payoff in the design and production of biomech and neural implants for humans was so damnably huge, BioII was rushing the work. Sam couldn't live with putting people at risk that way. The third time she had lost her fight to implement better safety controls on testing the
implants, she had resigned.
It had caused a commotion Sam never intended. She was BioII's highest paid EI architect, the team leader who had patented their most profitable neural matrices. When she left on a matter of principle, the proverbial heads rolled. Then BioII had tried to woo her back. Although she missed her work, she couldn't in good conscience go back after all that had happened. Yet here she was in a worse conflict, one that might end her life instead of her job.
"What I don't understand," Sam said to no one in particular, "is how Charon got his people onto this Rex."
Turner shrugged. He had already made clear what he thought: the Redbird had come from Charon, not Thomas Wharington, or else Thomas worked for Charon. Sam didn't believe Thomas had betrayed them nor did she think these people were NIA or Air Force. The fake helicopter scenario didn't convince her, either. She had grown up around Air Force personnel. She would swear those medics had been the real deal. But that left the improbable scenario that Charon had substituted his people for the crew of this Rex, managing that feat at a hidden field in the mountains. It would mean he had a prodigious intelligence network, which suggested powerful backers.
"I just don't see how Charon managed it," Sam grumbled.
Turner gave a bitter laugh. "Welcome to my world."
"What will he do with us?"
"He probably wants you to work for him."
"Not a chance." It went against every principle she had fought for these past years.
Turner glanced back at their steward. Sam turned, too, and frowned at the man in fatigues.
"Can I help you?" the steward asked.
"I was wondering if you had a name," Sam said.
"Yes."
She waited. "Will you tell us?"
"No."
"You know," Sam said dourly. "Our conversations aren't exactly scintillating."
He smiled. "Sorry."
"Come on," she said. "Just a name."
He regarded her with curiosity, but no animosity. "Be realistic. Would you tell me anything if our situation was reversed?"
"I wouldn't have kidnapped you."
"I'm sorry you don't like this, Dr. Bryton."
"How about you take us back, then?"
"I didn't say I was sorry we have you."
Disheartened, she turned to the front again. Turner put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, but judging from his tense posture, she doubted he would sleep.
Eventually the engine rumble changed. The deceleration made her feel as if the blood drained out of her torso, despite the pressure webbing that pressed in on her body. But they landed safely. The steward had taken Sam's mesh glove so she didn't know the time, but she estimated they had been in flight over three hours. Lord only knew where they were now.
After they landed, the steward went into the cockpit, moving with the muscular ease of an athlete. The contained energy of his walk made Sam wonder if he were even human. Charon might have created others like Turner. Not many, though; it had surely taken a huge investment of funds, materials, expertise, and equipment to resurrect Turner. Creating an android from scratch was just as resource intensive. She doubted anyone could make such formas on a large scale—at least not yet.
Charon needed a backer. Could it be Sunrise Alley? Rumors drifted through the world meshes of the Alley, a hidden conclave of biomech geniuses involved in the forma black market. It had great mystique, and shadowy tales abounded everywhere, but until yesterday, she had thought those were little more than urban legends.
The steward opened the cockpit door, but before he went inside, he turned back to Sam and watched her as if he intended to speak. She shifted uneasily under his scrutiny. She was about to ask what he wanted when he turned away and entered the cockpit, closing the door behind him.
"What was that about?" Turner asked.
Sam felt as if she couldn't breathe. "I don't know."
The cockpit door opened again. This time both the pilot and Raze came out—and bile rose in her throat. Both of them carried EM pulse rifles, massive silver guns that glinted in the harsh light. One bullet from those monsters could tear a human body to shreds.
The pilot was made from the same mold as the other two men, muscular and controlled, with dark hair and eyes. The steward followed him out of the cockpit and took another pulse rifle out of a locker in a bulkhead near the door. He turned, the rifle gripped in both hands. When he looked at Sam, his gaze became hooded. She suspected she had imagined his sympathy earlier, wishful thinking on her part that she and Turner might find an ally here. Disquieted and scared, she fumbled to unfasten her webbing.
Turner touched her shoulder. She jerked, feeling like a startled deer, except she couldn't run off. He mouthed the words We'll be okay.
Sam set her hand over his on her shoulder. They both knew they weren't going to be all right, but she appreciated his reassurance.
The steward opened the door, then stood silhouetted against a dark blue sky so vivid it seemed to vibrate. As Sam and Turner came forward under watch of their guards, the steward went out onto the top of what looked like mobile stairs. He motioned for Sam to follow. She stepped out—and gasped.
Mountains. They ringed the landing field. Steppe extended around the area for a mile or so, flat and parched. Beyond it, majestic peaks rose into the intensely blue sky, cloaked in snow, ringing the horizon in every direction. The stark landscape had a grandeur unlike any other mountains she had seen. A gibbous moon hung in the sky, ghostly blue.
The cold air seared her lungs, devoid of moisture, free of smog or dust. She couldn't pull in enough oxygen. They had to be incredibly high; she had never struggled this hard to breathe even in the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevadas in California.
"So they trod across the roof of the world," the steward murmured. He stood next to Sam, holding his rifle, letting her take her time.
The "roof of the world." Good Lord. It meant the Himalayas. "It's extraordinary," Sam said.
"So it is." His voice became businesslike. "Now we go down."
She looked down the stairs. Cranes were attending the aircraft, aided by mechbots, short for "mechanical robot," constructs with no biological components and little or no AI capability. The steward went first, followed by Sam and Turner, then the other two mercenaries. No one spoke. Icy air gripped them, drying the sweat on Sam's forehead.
They crossed the tarmac to a low building. It had no distinguishing features, only dark walls with no visible entrance. When a rumble came from behind them, Sam jumped and spun around. One of the cranes was closing up the door of the Rex.
The steward grasped her arm. "Keep going."
An image came to Sam: pulse projectiles blasting through her body, destroying her organs with shock waves. She swallowed and began walking again.
As they neared the building, she asked, "Where is this place?"
No one answered. None of the mercenaries showed any sign of emotion. Their faces and posture implied nothing except confidence in their right to kidnap her and Turner. Sam gritted her teeth. They did their jobs damnably well.
The building had no windows or ornamentation. As they reached its closest wall, a lamp came on under the overhanging eaves. The steward pressed his thumb against a panel and waited while light scanned his eyes.
Seams formed—and a door silently slid open.
The steward motioned Sam forward, but this time she balked, an instinctual reaction, one that happened before her mind caught up with her reflexes. "What is in there?"
She expected them to threaten her with their guns. Instead the steward was unexpectedly solicitous. "Don't worry. You won't be hurt."
Turner spoke as if he were gritting his teeth. "Depends how you define 'hurt.' "
The steward considered him as a race car driver might consider a sleek new car with design problems. "You have caused Charon a great deal of trouble. I would suggest you don't anger him further." No trace remained of the sympathy he had showed Sam.
None of the
other mercenaries spoke, but they had all raised their guns. Sam didn't want her actions to cause Turner harm. She took his arm. "Let's go on in."
He didn't answer, but he did walk forward with her, his jaw set. They stayed close together, surrounded by the mercenaries. Sam felt trapped in a cage of armed, hostile forces. Turner took her hand, clasping his fingers in hers. She squeezed his fingers.
A corridor stretched out in front of them, lit here but reaching into darkness. Gold metal paneled its floor, walls, and ceiling, glimmering, beautiful but stark in its lack of adornment. Her running shoes squeaked on the floor. The hall was wide enough for six people to walk abreast, but they went in a cluster, the steward and Raze first, then Turner and Sam, and the pilot in the rear. No doors broke the walls on either side, but Sam had no doubt they were there, just hidden. Charon would want them as confused as possible; the less they knew, the easier it would be to keep them secured here.
The ceiling glowed above them as they walked and dimmed after they passed. The corridor seemed to go on forever, farther than was possible given the size of the building. She didn't think they were underground; the floor didn't noticeably slope. When she closed her eyes and relied more on her sense of balance, she wasn't certain they were going in a straight line. This was all another way for Charon to keep them disoriented, unable to get their bearings.
This endless corridor might have affected someone else, but Sam had seen such tricks before. The glimmering walls were holo screens that projected images. It didn't surprise her that their guards didn't let them close enough to touch any surface; what they felt probably wouldn't match what they saw.
Finally she stopped. "This is stupid. If you all like walking in circles around a holo track, go ahead. I'm going to wait here until you're done with this game."
The steward considered her. He seemed more fascinated than anything else. "I suppose I could threaten you with my gun to get you moving."
"Yeah, you could," Sam said.
His mouth quirked up. "Should I?"
"You should take us home."
"I don't think so." He unhooked the mesh glove from his belt and pulled it on his hand. Then he moved away from them. When he spoke into its comm, his voice was too low to overhear. After only a few moments, though, he came back to them, again with that maddening smile of his. "All right, Sam. Here."