“ID?” the man asked. As he spoke, he casually drew aside the curtains of the third bay, peered inside.
“If you please.”
The man peered inside the bay—Georgia’s bay—for what seemed a long time. Then he withdrew, letting the curtains fall back together. “May I ask why?” he said. He spoke slowly, as if considering something.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the first guard said. “Orders. Check the ID of all guests or external specialists entering or leaving Medical.”
Shit, shit, shit. So they weren’t looking out for Georgia, after all. They were just at a heightened state of alert.Of course. Otherwise they’d have been keeping a closer eye on Georgia’s bay, seen you enter it, come out with a wheelchair. Dolt. Now you’re stuck here, stupid with claustrophobia, in this closet, with—
Her thoughts faded as the stranger swiveled around, glancing quickly up and down the corridor. Once again, it seemed as if his gaze fell directly upon her. She shrank back.
“Very well, gentlemen,” he said, swinging the duffel up around his shoulder and easing his way between them. “If you insist.”
And he began to walk, with the same easy, confident step, toward the laundry room door.
Terri half walked, half stumbled backward into the room. She pivoted, glancing around in fresh desperation. Other than the banks of folded clothes, hanging uniforms, piles of towels, and a few small tables, the room was empty. There was only one chance for concealment: the dim, cramped recesses behind the HPLR tube.
The thought of hiding in such a confined place made her faint with terror. But there was no other choice.
She turned back to the girl. “Listen to me, Georgia,” she said as calmly as she could. “Listen very carefully. There’s a bad man out there, a very dangerous man. We have to hide here until he goes away.”
Georgia stared at her mutely, as if in shock. From the hall came the approaching clatter of feet, voices raised in protest.
“Can we do that, Georgia?”
Still the girl stared.
“Can you help me?Please? ”
“All right,” Georgia murmured slowly.
Terri maneuvered the wheelchair toward the back of the room, angling it under the huge white tube and pushing it into the darkest corner she could find. Then she crouched down beside it, clasping Georgia to her side.
“Be very quiet now,” she whispered. “Don’t make a sound until they’re gone. No matter what happens.”
The HPLR tube now lay directly in front of her: three feet wide and three feet high, it ran completely across the room, heavy brass rings surrounding it at the points where it disappeared into the walls. She could hear the hum of pressurized air whistling dryly through it.
Then the door opened, flooding the room with light from the corridor. Terri crouched even further below the tube, hugging Georgia. Her heart beat faster and faster. She could see shadows striping the walls as first one man, then another and another, stepped into the room.
“What’s this?” one of the guards was saying.
“It’s a big nuisance, is what it is,” the man replied in his strange accent. “Having to show ID to visit my own daughter. My wallet’s at the bottom of my duffel. I need a place to put it down, sort through my equipment.”
There was a clump as something heavy landed on one of the tables. Leaning cautiously to one side, Terri strained for a look.
“We’re sorry, Mr. Warne,” came the voice of the first guard, “but as I told you, our orders—”
“I doubt if your orders included harassing one of your visiting scientists. Bad enough that my daughter ended up here in the first place, due entirely to Park negligence, no doubt. I plan to take this up with your superiors.”
Angling her head, Terri could now see: the security guards had again surrounded the almond-eyed man, who had placed his duffel on a table and was tugging open the zipper.
“That’s certainly your right, Mr. Warne,” the first guard said again. “But I must insist that we continue this conversation back at—”
With a smooth, fluid movement, the man reached in and slid something out of the bag. For a moment, Terri did not recognize it: long and slender, a sharply angled cone at one end. Then the man swung the thing at the guards. Flame spurted from its end. The first guard jerked sharply back, gouts of blood arcing from holes in his uniform. Terri stifled a gasp, covered Georgia’s eyes.
Pivoting in front of the door and closing it with the heel of his boot, the man swung the machine gun toward the second guard. There was a stuttering, stitching noise. Dust and bits of plaster fell from the wall, raining down upon Terri and Georgia. The guard fell back silently, fingers scrabbling at his own throat, billy club and radio spinning away across the floor.
The wheelchair squeaked as Georgia stiffened, clutching one of Terri’s hands in her own. Terri held her still more tightly, staring, transfixed by horror.
The man took a step to the side. Then he angled his weapon downward and sprayed fire over the inert guards. Their bodies twitched in time to the spurting flame. There was no noise; she could not understand why there was no noise. Had the shock, the panic, deafened as well as paralyzed her? The only sound was a stiff mechanical clicking—the clatter of an infernal sewing machine—and the ringing of metal on concrete as empty cartridges rained down.
And then it was over. Silence returned to the room as a pall of gunpowder curled toward the ceiling. Terri watched, unable even to breathe, as the man lowered the smoking weapon and gazed down at the carnage. With swift, professional motions, he replaced the gun in the duffel, then cracked the door open—as she herself had done scarce moments before—and peered out into the hallway.
Beside Terri, the wheelchair creaked again. Georgia gave a sob of terror.
Terri lowered her hand, covering the girl’s mouth as the man turned back, his gaze following the contours of the room. In the poor light, his eyes glowed pale as a cat’s.
There was a sigh of escaping air, the clinking of metal, as one of the guards jerked, then expired, among the scatter of spent cartridges. Terri saw the twin gleams as the man’s eyes swiveled toward the body.
The hoarse chatter of static suddenly sounded in the room. The man closed the door, reached into his duffel, pulled out a radio. “Hardball,” he said.
“This is Prime Factor,” came a garbled voice. “Position?”
“Medical.”
“Condition?”
“The girl’s gone.”
“Where?”
“Unknown.”
There was a pause.
“We can’t afford any more time,” came the voice over the radio. “There’s a problem with Snow White, I need you back at the rally point. Right away. Understood?”
“Roger.” The radio snapped off.
The man stepped away from the door, rolling the bodies back beneath the table with the toe of his boot. Then, reaching up to one of the overhanging shelves, he toppled a stack of towels onto the floor, covering the spreading pools of blood in a careless heap of linen. As Terri watched, still pressing Georgia to her, the man peeled out of the jumpsuit, exposing the silver and platinum outfit of a Callisto shuttle pilot. It matched the duffel perfectly. The jumpsuit went carelessly on top of the towels.
With a final look around, the man picked up the duffel and slung it, zipper still half-open, around his shoulder. Then he grabbed the door handle, pulled the door open, and stepped into the hallway.
There was a gentle click as the door closed, and the bright light faded away once again. For a moment, all was silent. Then, with a low trundling noise, a series of garments came down the HPLR tube, rolling and tumbling on their way to Central Cleaning. In their wake came the hiss of compressed air. At last, this sound, too, faded away. Terri felt her limbs begin to shake: faintly at first, then violently. In her arms, Georgia made no sound, did not cry. She simply held on to Terri’s hand; held on so very tight that it seemed she would never, ever consent to let it go.
4:
03P.M.
AS THE MAINentrance to the Security Complex came into view, Poole stopped abruptly. It took Fred Barksdale, walking in front, a moment to realize this. Then he, too, came to a halt.
“Now, listen.” Poole walked up behind Barksdale and spoke quietly into his ear. “We’re going to do this nice and easy. Don’t say anything unless I tell you. And don’t try anything. If I have to, I’ll shoot you first and sort out the red tape later.”
If Barksdale heard, he gave no sign. He began moving forward again. Wordlessly, Poole swung into step behind him.
So far, everything had gone smoothly. The brief display of force, the sight of the gun, had been enough. Poole had seen the effect before, especially with people who were into something over their heads. Young rebel soldiers—unfamiliar with automatic weapons, paralyzed with fear at the thought of combat—sometimes seemed almost relieved by capture. Barksdale had reacted the same way, submitting without struggle. At least, that’s the impression he’d given. But the hardest part lay ahead: convincing Allocco and his merry men that Frederick Barksdale, systems overlord for all of Utopia, was in league with the enemy. If Barksdale wanted, he could make this very messy. It would be his word against that of a meddling guest. Poole frowned at the blond head before him: the head that looked resolutely, woodenly forward. He wondered what was going on inside of it.
LESS THAN ANhour before, Security had been a scene of frenetic activity. At least a dozen specialists had been bustling around the complex: entering incident reports, answering phones, peering in curiously at the unusual sight of a detainee in the holding cell. But now—as Poole opened the doors and led Barksdale across the bright, cheerfully colored anteroom—he was surprised by what he saw. The place was almost empty. Only three guards could be seen, and they were all behind the main desk, speaking at once: two into telephones, one into a radio.
Tucking one hand between the buttons of his corduroy jacket and placing the other on Barksdale’s elbow, Poole propelled the Englishman firmly toward the desk. The quicker he did this, the better. He recognized one of the guards from his earlier visit: Lindbergh, a kid with black hair, pale gray eyes, and the legacy of a bad case of acne. The guard obviously recognized him, too; Poole could see it in his eyes, the way he put down the phone as they approached. The man opened his mouth to speak.
“Where’s Allocco?” Poole interjected.
“He’s in Callisto,” Lindbergh said, looking from Poole to Barksdale and back again. “At the accident site.”
“Accident?”
The guard nodded. “One of the attractions at the Skyport. Station Omega.”
“What about it?”
“Don’t know the details. Something malfunctioned.”
“Sweet sister Sadie.” Poole thought of his cousin, Sonya Klemm; her husband, Martin; their three foulmouthed boys. He’d sent them back to the Skyport, urged them to try the other rides. The chances were small, vanishingly small . . . but he had to ask nevertheless. “Any casualties?”
“Lots, I understand. It’s pandemonium up there.”
Poole turned to Barksdale. “Hear that, you bastard?” he muttered, yanking brutally at the man’s elbow. “You know about this?”
But Barksdale had gone deathly pale. He made no reply, not even a gesture. It was as if he had gone someplace far, far away.
Poole turned back to Lindbergh, who was still shifting his gaze between the two of them. “I need to speak to Allocco.”
The guard continued to stare, but gave no other response.
“Isaid, let me talk to Allocco.”
This time, Lindbergh turned toward the guard on the radio. “Hey! Who’re you talking to?”
“Tannenbaum.”
“Tell him to put Mr. Allocco on a moment.”
The second guard spoke into the radio, then handed it to Lindbergh. “Make it fast,” Lindbergh said, passing it over the desk. “They’re kind of busy up there.”
Poole took the radio.
“Christ, what is it now?” he heard Allocco boom. There was a riot of background noise: cries, sobs, incoherent shouts. “Suit up! Suit up!” someone was calling.
“Mr. Allocco, it’s Poole. Angus Poole. You remember?”
“Yeah. I can’t talk, Poole.”
“What happened? What went wrong?”
A fresh storm of noise drowned Allocco’s first words. “. . . don’t know, not yet. It’s like a slaughterhouse up here.”
“Awhat ? You mean, people are, aredead ? How many?”
“We’re still counting. Medical’s just coming on-scene now.”
“Look, there’s a chance I may have had relatives on that ride. A woman wearing a wizard’s cap, a man in a green T-shirt, three boys—”
“I don’t havetime for this,” Allocco interrupted, gravelly voice tight with exasperation. Poole heard a huge sigh. “Look, I haven’t seen anything like that, okay? I’ll let you know if I do. Is that why you called?”
“No. Not exactly.” Poole hesitated, thinking. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I have Fred Barksdale here, and—”
“I know all about that.”
Poole stopped again at this fresh surprise. “You do?”
“Yeah. Andrew Warne tracked me down by radio a few minutes ago, on my way over here. Told me all about it.”
“And?”
“And it sounds crazy to me, but I don’t have time to sort it out now. Keep Barksdale confined until I get back, we’ll work it out then. Heaven help you if you’re wrong.”
“You’ll give those instructions to your men here? It would be better, coming from you.”
“Pass the radio over. Hurry up, man.Hurry .”
Poole handed the radio back to Lindbergh. “This is Eric Lindbergh,” the man said.
Poole could hear Allocco’s tinny bark sounding in Lindbergh’s ear. As the guard listened, his gray eyes widened. He stared at Barksdale again.
“Yes,” Lindbergh said. “I understand. Very well, sir.”
He lowered the radio, then slowly handed it back to the second guard. All the time, he kept his eyes on Barksdale.
“You heard the man?” Poole said.
Lindbergh nodded.
“Then you know what you have to do. Put him in the holding cell, just to be sure.”
The guard nodded again. He looked almost as dazed as Barksdale.
Turning, Poole pulled Barksdale away from the desk, then propelled the man brusquely before him. Gesturing for one of the other guards to follow, Lindbergh picked up a baton and walked around the desk, opening a door in the front office and coming out to meet them.
Out of the public areas of the Security Complex, the bright color scheme and comfortable sofas gave way to gray brick walls and linoleum-tiled floors. “You’ll get a chance to see a buddy of yours,” Poole said, giving Barksdale another push as they made their way down the corridor that led away from the anteroom. “It’ll be like Old Home Day, a regular reunion.”
The corridor gave onto a rectangular room, surrounded on all sides by doors. One of the doors to the left was different from the rest: heavy steel, with a small meshed-glass window set into it. The second guard approached the door, peered through the window, then unlocked the door and opened it gingerly. Lindbergh took up a position on the other side of the door, palm resting on the handle of his baton. Poole glanced inside. The young hacker was still lying on the cot. At the sound of the lock turning, he had leaned forward on his elbow, looked disinterestedly up at the door.
As they walked, Barksdale had remained detached, seemingly in shock. The moment the cell door opened, however, a change came over him. He glanced inside, saw the occupant, and started visibly. The prisoner sat up on the cot, a crooked smile coming over his bruised and swollen face.
“Get in there,” Poole said, pushing Barksdale through the door. He stepped away as the second guard slammed the door shut, twisted the lock, and removed the key.
The systems chief wheeled back toward the small window. “I
don’t want to be locked up!” he called from inside.“Please!”
“Don’t worry,” Poole said. “I’m going to be right here, watching. I’ll be watching like a hawk.”
He stepped back from the door, crossing his arms and keeping his eye on the wired glass. The two guards stepped away also. In his peripheral vision, Poole caught them exchanging glances.
It would be interesting to watch Barksdale’s reaction to the rogue hacker. Their interaction might provide more clues. As it was, the entire business had been much easier than he’d expected, especially Allocco’s having already heard the story from Warne. Things might have been very tricky otherwise. That was clever of Warne; it showed foresight. Perhaps he’d been underestimating the man, after all.
Now Barksdale was anxiously pacing the far wall of the cell, darting occasional glances toward the hacker. Poole watched through the glass with amusement. He’d be enjoying this if it weren’t for the nagging seed of doubt in the back of his mind. The chances of his cousin or her family being anywhere near Station Omega were close to nil. And there was nothing he could do about it either way. Still, he wouldn’t rest entirely easy until he’d heard that . . .
“Hey!”
It was the third guard. He was halfway down the corridor from the front desk, motioning with one hand.
“Are you Poole?”
“That’s right.” Poole turned from the window, Barksdale temporarily forgotten.
“There’s someone on the radio for you, here at the desk.”
Poole walked back to the anteroom, then took the radio that was handed over the desk. “Poole here,” he said.
He listened for a moment to the anguished, incoherent voice that came crying over the transmitter.
“Who is this?” he said. “What?Calm down, calmdown . Terri, where are you exactly? Are you hurt? No, stay put—I’ll be right there.”
Poole spun around, letting the radio drop to the desk. He dashed to the door, yelled down the corridor. “Lindbergh!Lindbergh! ”
The mop of black hair appeared. “Yes?”
“Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Guard those two, you hear?Guard them.”