“Yes, sir. We’ve lost the house web.”
Vitrex headed for the door, motioning the Razers to accompany him while he spoke into his wrist comm. “Azez, get me a line to Bunker and get me details on the ISC invasion.”
“Aye, sir.” Azez sounded relieved to have orders.
Then Vitrex left the room, leaving Cirrus alone in the gathering shadows.
* * *
At first Althor thought the sirens meant his escape had been discovered. Pressing flat against the corridor wall, he reached out with his Kyle senses and touched the minds in a group of soldiers jogging down a nearby hall. None had thoughts about his escape. Instead he caught an impression of an ISC invasion in Platinum Sector. Then their minds faded, as they moved away from him.
He took off at a jog, letting Basalt choose his path. At times it had him hide in recessed doorways or empty rooms, when he wouldn’t have thought to do so. He knew he used to understand how it made such decisions, that he used to make far more complex ones every day, as second in command of ISC. That he operated now only on reflexes and biomech left him with a sense of loss too great to quantify.
He used his mind to detect other minds and so avoid running into people, but his efficiency wasn’t 100 percent. Once he came face-to-face with an ESComm pilot as the man stepped out of a lift. Before Althor had a chance to think, his combat libraries accessed his hydraulics and his enhanced reflexes kicked in. He grabbed the pilot’s uniform and yanked the soldier off balance, then bent over and rolled him across his back. Althor slammed him down on the floor, on his back, smashing his skull and breaking his neck and spine.
The pilot’s death convulsion wrenched through Althor’s mind and Althor almost threw up. Somehow he hid the body in a storeroom. He started to run again, then ducked into a rest chamber and barely made it to the sink in time. When his convulsive heaving finished, he cleaned his face, wondering if he had always reacted this way to death. He couldn’t remember.
As he was leaving the chamber, a soldier came in. Althor snapped his spine. The man’s unvoiced scream reverberated in his mind and Althor staggered, reeling from the mental backlash. He realized then that the neural damper had protected him when he shot the Razers, muffling his ability to pick up brain waves. As the damper wore off, his brain became more sensitized.
The soldier’s only weapon was a dagger as long as Althor’s lower arm, almost a short sword. It hardly ranked as state-of-the-art arms, but he belted it around his waist anyway. He hid the body and took off again, his long legs covering ground.
He heard no alarms. He was supposed to be on his way to the palace, so no one had reason to look for him here. Normally someone would have discovered the bodies by now or detected him running through the base. But none of the consoles he found worked. The web for the entire base was down. In many places the lights were out and he had to use his IR vision. When the sterile halls didn’t produce enough heat to register in the IR, he relied on his acoustics, bouncing ultrasonics off the walls.
As he jogged, he planned. If ISC had a force in Platinum Sector, Glory had to be their target. How could they pull off such an invasion? It seemed suicide to Althor. But if they made it to Glory, they would look for him. Locating a person on a planet was straightforward with a good satellite system, but he had no way to predict what would be available if and when ISC arrived. He needed to increase his chances of recovery, but he couldn’t think how to do it. He clenched his fist, frustrated by his inability to plan. He knew he used to excel at this, yet now he felt as if he were swinging in the dark.
A thought came to him. Jaibriol Qox. Soz would send people in to get him. Now he had a plan. Go to the palace. Find Qox. First, though, he had to find Cirrus. And his son.
For some reason, Basalt sent him underground. He began to doubt the node’s coherence when it directed him to a room crowded with dusty equipment. He slammed his fist against the wall in frustration, then swore, knowing his violence was another sign of his brain damage, like his earlier berserker rage.
When his legs moved again, he almost told Basalt to leave off. But he let it go, to see what happened. He went to a window on the opposite wall, a pane of glass rather than the glassteel used in most of the complex. It smashed easily under the blow from his fist. He felt nothing when blood ran down his arm from the cuts in his hand; his biomech web produced chemicals that muted his ability to register pain. The anesthetic worked far better for cuts than it had during his interrogations, where it had been like trying to stop a flood with a spoon.
The window was just under the ceiling, but outside it was at ground level. He climbed out into the moon dazzled night of the Jaizire Mountains, beneath the radiance of eight icy-pastel moons. A breeze ruffled his hair as he stood up at his full height, the pulse rifle gripped in one fist and his dagger-sword strapped to his waist.
Althor moved around the building, keeping to the shadows. On his left, a bank of lights came on, flickered, and went off. He evaded human sentries by using his empathic senses. That Bunker Base had mainly people monitoring the area now, with almost no artificial systems, gave another indication of the extensive collapse their web had experienced. But if the organized competence he sensed from the sentries was an indication of Bunker as a whole, it wouldn’t be long before someone detected his escape, even with the web down.
The building he had just left was one of several embedded in the mountain, big structures gleaming like gunmetal, with cylindrical towers and convoluted pipes. He came around the front and saw mountains sloping away from the installation. On an unlit airfield about fifty meters to his right, two fliers stood in the dark.
He jogged out onto the field. Basalt, can you guide a flier to Minister Vitrex’s estate?
No answer.
Althor rubbed his chin. A flier did no good if he had no idea where to go. His legs kept moving, though, to the second craft. Inside, it had seats for a pilot and copilot and two passengers. At first he didn’t recall how to operate a flier, but when he sat in the pilot’s seat the knowledge started to come back. There wasn’t room to taxi, so he lifted straight up. That the thrusters made no sound caught him by surprise. Although some ISC fliers had that stealth capability, he hadn’t thought ESComm could do it. This flier suggested their technology was more advanced than ISC knew. Either that, or he had forgotten the information.
The comm crackled. “Arrow-Jay-Gee-Three, this is Bunker Base Tower. You aren’t cleared for takeoff.”
Before Althor could put together a response, a voice said, “I filed a flight plan, Bunker. You tower boys approved it.”
Althor blinked. According to the comm in front of him, the flier’s computer had just spoken. Holding the craft at a hover above the airfield, he scanned the controls. A flickering button indicated the computer was receiving IR signals from within the flier. But how? He was the only possible source. His biomech sockets could handle IR, but they were plugged into his slave cuffs and collar, which controlled them, except for the socket in his lower spine, which Vitrex’s people had deactivated.
“We’ve no record of your flight plan,” Bunker said.
The computer answered, sounding for all the world like a frazzled pilot. “I was supposed to take this load of DNA samples to the Vitrex estate.”
“Arrow-Jay-Gee-Three, land immediately,” Bunker said. “Under no circum—wait. Stand by.” After a pause, the traffic controller said, “Sorry. Your authorization is in the system. It’s a flaming mess down here. You better get going. You’re half an hour behind schedule.”
“On my way,” the flier said. “Switching out.”
With his hand on the stick, Althor watched the comm go dark. The stick moved on its own and the flier veered to the east.
After they had flown for several moments, he said, “That was amazing.”
His arm moved again, this time to click his wrist cuff into a panel in the arm of the chair. A “voice” he hadn’t heard in over a year thought, Althor?
He swallowed,
hit by a sudden intensity of emotion. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was going to shed some tears. I thought you were broken, Basalt.
I can’t “break,” his node answered.
You know what I mean.
I am damaged, it admitted. Right now I’m using the flier’s computer to talk to you. I’m also downloading codes from it to help rebuild our interface.
Good. Having Basalt back relieved Althor more than he knew how to say. He had missed the EI. This reunion made him feel as if he were becoming whole again. How did you get that fake shipment manifest into the Bunker web?
I didn’t. This flier is scheduled and programmed to make that run.
How do you know?
I contacted it, using IR signals.
That answer bothered him, though he couldn’t place why. Where is the real pilot?
You killed him a few minutes ago.
Oh. Althor shifted in his seat. Had death always bothered him this much? He couldn’t ask. He didn’t want to know if he had been a calloused killer. Was that you talking to the tower?
Yes. I sent a signal through the picoweb in your cuffs to the flier’s computer.
Now he caught what had bothered him earlier. Why can you control my slave restraints now, when you couldn’t before?
I don’t really have control now, either, Basalt thought. But the web collapse cut off all IR signals in this area, so I can act in their absence. Even the IR leashes are down. I’m trying to gain control of the picowebs in your cuffs and collar before it all comes back up.
IR leashes?
If an Aristo wants a slave “leashed,” he or she registers you with the Bureau of Recovery, which assigns you a signature. If you leave the area flooded by the IR signals specific to your signature, your collar notifies your owner and immobilizes you.
Althor didn’t like the sound of it. Immobilizes how?
Drugs. Electric shock. Neural threads.
“Gods,” he muttered. Ingenious bastards.
We do have a problem, Basalt thought. Your leash is set for Bunker and the Qox palaces. If you are outside those regions when the leashes come back, you will be in a lot of trouble.
Can you do anything?
I’m trying to deactivate the leash, but so far it hasn’t worked.
Can you fool its trigger instead?
In what sense?
Make it think it’s receiving the right signal when it isn’t.
Basalt paused. I may be able to do that.
The comm crackled. “Arrow, you are entering Vitrex airspace. Land immediately or we will shoot.”
“Shoot?” Basalt gave a remarkable impression of a startled pilot. “Hey, I’m just delivering lab supplies to Doctor Azer.”
“We’re downloading your ID.” After a pause, the voice spoke in a friendlier tone. “Arrow-Jay-Gee-Three, go ahead. We’re having a hell of a time with our web here.”
“Sure.” Basalt sounded relieved. “It’s wild out there, with the webs crashing.”
The traffic controller grunted his agreement. “I can’t get any messages out.”
“Glad I’m not the only one,” Basalt said.
“Eventually they’ll get the webs up,” the controller said.
“It’s taking too damn long,” Basalt grumbled. “My wife will steam me in a sewer.”
Althor stared at the comm. What the hell was Basalt doing, making small talk with a Eubian air traffic controller?
The controller chuckled. “If she’s anywhere on this continent she has the same problem.”
“She’s not,” Basalt said. “She’s on duty in Kuraysia, in Rakajan Sector.”
“I can probably link you through to her.”
Basalt perked up. “Hey. Thanks.”
After a pause, the controller said, “Skolia be damned, all the Kuraysia connections are gone too.”
Skolia be damned? Althor scowled. What kind of oath is that?
“It’s a mess,” Basalt told the controller.
“People can survive without the web,” the controller said.
“I suppose.” Basalt sounded skeptical. “Seems primitive to me. I can’t believe an entire planetary web could go this way.”
“We don’t know that the whole planet is down.”
“If both Kuraysia and this continent are, there isn’t much else left.” Basalt paused. “Anyone know why the flaming thing collapsed?”
“I haven’t heard.” The operator’s voice became clipped. “Arrow-Jay-Gee-Three, I’ve another craft coming in and we don’t have any monitors on traffic control right now. Out.”
“Out.” Basalt cut the connection.
Gods, Althor thought. How could the web of an entire planet collapse?
I don’t know. But it helps us. And right now we need a great deal of help.
Elaborate.
You can’t land this flier at the Vitrex airfield. It’s obvious you aren’t the true pilot.
Why?
You don’t match his ID. You also have gold skin, the slave restraints of a war prisoner, and no clothes except sexually suggestive black leather pants. You look like a cross between a Jagernaut and a sex toy.
Althor blinked at the description. Any uniforms on board?
No. But it doesn’t matter. The cuffs and collar will still give you away.
He considered. With no web, the air controllers have to depend on more primitive systems. Radar. Even visual sightings. If I come in low enough, maybe I can evade detection.
It’s possible. Basalt paused. I calculate a 14 to 85 percent probability of success.
Dryly Althor thought, That’s precise.
Too many variables exist to narrow the range.
Does the flier’s computer have—what do you call it? A navigation macro?
Do you mean an automatic pilot?
No. It’s a— Althor searched for words to describe what had once been second nature to him. A way to make the flier skim just above the terrain. We feed the computer a map of the area and it picks the best route. As pilot, I can compensate for unexpected changes in terrain.
A stealth function matching this description is available. I’ve uploaded your specifications to it.
The ship’s computer spoke. “What is your destination?”
“The estate of Izar Vitrex,” Althor said. “I need a site close to the house and big enough hide this craft.”
The screen projected a holo of a mansion in front of Althor. A forest bordered it on the east, climbing into the mountains. Meadows stretched on the other three sides, rising to mountains in the north and west and sloping down toward the flatlands in the south.
“It looks like the forest is our best bet,” Althor said.
Basalt sent a thought to the flier’s computer. Magnify region and highlight possible hide sites.
The forest expanded to fill the holomap. Two hide sites glowed in red on it. One, about a kilometer from the mansion, was a sunken crevice with rock walls. The second was only twenty meters from the mansion, a clearing with no real protection from monitors.
I recommend the crevice, Basalt said.
A kilometer is too far, Althor thought.
With your speed, you can cover it in less than two minutes.
Althor’s fist clenched on his knee. He no longer even knew his own capabilities. Isn’t that assuming level ground? And no load?
Yes. Load wouldn’t be much problem, given your strength. But your weight does slow you down, particularly in these areas where the terrain is so uneven.
I don’t know Cirrus’s condition. He concentrated on the sense of her in his mind. All I can tell is that she’s scared.
If she’s frightened, she’s probably conscious.
That doesn’t mean she can run.
If you choose the closer site, you risk detection.
Be realistic, Althor thought. What chance do I have of getting in, getting Cirrus, and getting out without detection?
Not high, Basalt admitted.
W
e go with the closer site.
I’ve input the data. The map disappeared, replaced by a map of the ground below the craft. A ghost schematic overlaid it, giving a real-time view of the terrain. The two maps were almost identical, differing mainly in the size of plants.
Althor watched the ground pass underneath them. Basalt.
Yes?
I may have to make more kills at the mansion.
This is an accurate statement.
An outcropping jumped into view on the real-time map that wasn’t on the older map. Althor pulled on the stick and the flier angled up to clear the rocks.
After a moment, he thought, Have I always been troubled by death?
Yes.
Althor wasn’t sure why it relieved him to know he didn’t like to kill. But it did.
He altered course, going farther south as they passed the mansion. Although it added several minutes to their flight, time they couldn’t really afford, it also allowed them to go lower, using the mountain itself to shield the flier.
They settled into the clearing in a silent whirl of leaves. The exhaust billowed, but nothing burned, rumbled, shrieked, or otherwise drew attention. When he opened the hatch, he saw the lights of the mansion glowing through the trees.
Basalt? he thought.
I’m receiving you.
Relief flowed over him. Basalt must have made good use of the codes it had pirated from the flier; his interface with the node remained operational even without the flier’s computer. Are you getting anything from the house? Web signals?
Some IR. Most of the mansion’s web is off-line.
IR? Althor tensed. What about the leashes?
None so far. I’ve set your collar to “see” the correct leash no matter where you are, but we won’t know if it works until the leashes come back on-line.
Althor left the flier and headed through the woods, moving like a silent shadow. He didn’t recall learning how to walk without making twigs or leaves crackle, but his body knew what his conscious mind forgot. He paused at the edge of the forest, then sprinted to the house, a graceful structure made from wood, a far more extravagant building material than the usual synthetics.
Extending his awareness, he picked up many minds. Most were slaves, but a few had that sense of cavity he associated with Aristos, an emptiness that made his skin crawl.