Death Match

by Lincoln Child

FORTY-FOUR

  L ash turned a corner, dashed headlong down a new corridor, turned again. Then he stopped and pressed himself against the wall, looking around wildly. There was nobody in sight. In the distance he could hear raised voices, running feet. His heart—which just moments before had seemed to beat so slowly—was hammering with a machine-gun cadence. He waited another second, trying to slow it down. Then he pushed himself from the wall and continued. The sounds were not quite as distant now, and he ducked into yet another corridor, passing a door labeled ARRAY MAINTENANCE / SUBSYSTEM B. Apparently, he had moved into a hardware support area, manned by relatively few workers.

  But it made no difference. It was only a matter of time until they ran him down and resumed the interrogation, with handcuffs and restraints and meds this time.

  He struggled against overwhelming disbelief. How had this happened, and happened so quickly? Had he really risen from bed that morning a free man, only now to be hunted as a psychotic murderer? It seemed impossible that anybody, especially a man like Mauchly, could believe it. Yet it was all too clear that he, and everybody else, did believe. And Lash could imagine what the proof was. Mauchly had recited the list of phony but no doubt all too credible evidence: telephone bills, psychological evaluations, even a criminal record. How was it possible to fight someone with the almost infinite resources of Eden at their fingertips?

  Somebody appeared in the hallway before him—a technician, dressed in a white lab coat—and Lash trotted past her, head down, without nodding. Another intersection, another quick turn. The hall was narrower here, the doorways farther apart.

  Had it really begun as far back as those missing newspapers, the E-ZPass and ATM snafus, the tampering with his mail? Was it possible it had begun so early?

  Yes. And then the credit card refusals, the problem with his mortgage payments. It had all been part of a campaign of increasing pressure. Pressure brought to bear because he was getting too close.

  And now—now that he knew all—steps would be taken to make sure he would never be heard. He’d be locked away, and his cries would mingle with those of every other inmate protesting his innocence . . .

  He stopped suddenly. Was he becoming paranoid in his extremity, or was it possible even the parole of Edmund Wyre was part of this elaborate attempt to silence him? And was it also possible the mistake that put his own rejected avatar in the Tank, that seemed to promise such a bright future, had simply been a method to keep closer tabs on . . .

  He willed his feet forward once again. But as he did, Mauchly’s words echoed: Steps have been taken to place Diana Mirren out of harm’s way. You won’t be hearing from her again.

  There had to be somebody he could talk to, somebody who’d believe. But who inside the fortress of Eden knew anything about him, much less why he was really here? It had been a carefully guarded secret from the beginning.

  He could, in fact, think of only one desperate chance.

  But how? He was lost in an endless maze of corridors. Everything was monitored. His hand fell to the identity bracelet circling his wrist. A dozen scanners would no doubt have tracked his progress. It was only minutes, seconds, until he was found.

  His eye fell on a door marked WEB FARM 15. He reached for the handle, found it locked. With a low curse, he moved his bracelet toward the identity scanner.

  Then he paused. Stepping back quickly, he trotted down the hall, positioning his bracelet below the scanners of half a dozen other doors, in turn. Then he returned to the first door, positioned his bracelet. With a click, the door sprang open, and Lash stepped inside cautiously.

  The room was dim. As he’d hoped, it was deserted. Twin banks of metal shelving rose from floor to ceiling, jammed with rack-mounted blade servers: a tiny fraction of the massive digital horsepower that made Eden possible. He walked between the shelves to the back of the room, scanning the walls and floor. At last he saw it: an oversize metal plate, set just above the floor molding. It was painted the same pale violet as the walls, but it was clearly visible.

  He knelt before it. The plate was perhaps four feet high by three feet wide. For a minute, he feared it might be locked, or guarded by an identity scanner like the doors. But it was fastened with a simple hinge that yielded to his touch. He drew it open, looked inside.

  Beyond, he could make out a cylindrical tube of smooth metal. The sides and ceiling were covered in a dense flow of cabling: fiber-optic, CAT-6, half a dozen other types Lash did not recognize. A cold cathode line ran along the ceiling, emitting faint blue illumination. Farther down the accessway, Lash could see the tube dividing, first once, then again, like the tributaries of a great river.

  He smiled grimly. A river was a pretty good metaphor. This data conduit was a river of digital information, linking every place inside the Wall with every other. He remembered how Mauchly had gone on about the high levels of security, about the countless roadblocks preventing data from straying outside the Wall. And Lash knew—from firsthand experience—that the Wall was virtually impregnable. All the scanners, checkpoints, security apparatus, were fanatically devoted to preventing secrets from getting out. They would be just as efficient at preventing him from getting out.

  But what if he wasn’t trying to get out? What if, in fact, he wanted to stay inside the Wall—penetrate deeper into its secret recesses?

  Lash looked around the room one last time. Then, as quickly and carefully as he could, he crawled into the data conduit and shut the panel behind him.

  FORTY-FIVE

  I nside a forward security post on the third floor of the inner tower, Edwin Mauchly observed Checkpoint I through mirrored glass. It was a scene of controlled pandemonium. At least a hundred Eden employees were lined up waiting to pass through the exit portals, kept in line by a dozen guards.

  Mauchly turned from the window to a nearby monitor. It displayed a bird’s-eye view of the main lobby. Another, larger, line of people was streaming back from a makeshift security checkpoint by the revolving doors. Uniformed guards were checking passes and identifications, letting people past in ones and twos, searching for Christopher Lash. Mauchly noted with satisfaction that plainclothes security personnel were mingling with the lines, subtly discouraging chatter, keeping clients apart from would-be applicants and vice versa. Even in this crisis, with a Condition Delta invoked for the first time in the tower’s history, Eden kept the safety and privacy of its clients a first priority.

  Mauchly began to pace. It was a distasteful, messy situation, and one he found personally offensive. As liaison between Richard Silver and the rest of the company, Mauchly had placed, in his own quiet way, a very personal stamp on Eden. He himself had implemented all security arrangements save for the penthouse, which Silver insisted on handling personally. Mauchly had realized the acute need for secrecy, for absolute confidentiality, almost before there was a product to protect. And he had been the first to understand how the widest possible network of data-sharing—between communications conglomerates, financial companies, the federal government—could not only improve their product, but bring in revenue streams never before imagined.

  Mauchly had no particular use for title or recognition, for the usual trappings of corporate glory. Nevertheless, he was fiercely proud and fiercely protective of the company. And that was why, as he paced slowly back and forth inside the forward post, he felt such an upswelling of rage.

  He himself had suggested Lash. It was a studied move: there was a threat to the corporation, and Lash seemed the best person to identify that threat.

  But instead of ushering a savior into Eden, Mauchly had admitted a serpent.

  He was still amazed how well Lash had pulled it off. Mauchly knew little about psychology, but he did know that most people sick enough to be psychopathic murderers had difficulty concealing their true nature. But Lash had been almost perfect. True, he had failed his pseudo-application, but there was nothing to hint at the true gravity of the situation. Yet Mauchly had now seen the evidence with his own eyes.
After Silver gave him the alarming news—after they knew where to look—the facts literally poured in from the computer. Records of institutionalization. A deviant medical history as long as one’s arm. For all his brilliance as a post-graduate student, Lash was also critically broken in some way, and it only got worse. He was clever—he’d been able to hide his sickness and his record from the FBI at first, just as he’d been able to hide it from Eden—but all the hiding was past now.

  As Mauchly looked back through the privacy glass, the feeling of betrayal and violation increased. In hindsight, he should have heeded Dr. Alicto’s post-eval warnings. The cloud under which Lash left the FBI should have raised more red flags.

  He could not go back and rectify past mistakes. But he could certainly atone for them. Now he knew exactly what the score was. And he would set things right.

  There was a low beep, and a videophone on a nearby desk began flashing. Mauchly approached it, punched in a short code. “Mauchly here,” he said.

  The small screen went blank for a moment, then Silver’s face appeared.

  “Edwin,” he said. “What’s the current status?” Concern was evident in both his expression and his voice.

  “The tower’s been placed in Condition Delta.”

  “Was that really necessary?”

  “It seemed the fastest, safest way to empty the building. Everyone is being evacuated except the security staff. We’ve got screeners at all exits and checkpoints, watching for Lash.”

  “And our clients? Have steps been taken not to alarm them in any way?”

  “They’ve been told it’s a routine evacuation drill, that we conduct them regularly to ensure our safety procedures are fully optimized. It’s not far from the truth. So far, everyone has taken it in stride.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  Mauchly waited for Silver to sign off, but the face remained on the screen. “Is there something else, Dr. Silver?” Mauchly said after a moment.

  Silver shook his head slowly. “You don’t think there’s any chance we’ve made a mistake, do you?”

  “A mistake, sir?”

  “About Lash, I mean.”

  “Impossible, sir. You gave me the report yourself. And you’ve seen the evidence we’ve turned up since. Besides, if the man was innocent, he wouldn’t have run the way he did.”

  “I suppose not. Still . . . you’ll handle things gently, right? Make sure no harm comes to him?”

  “Of course.”

  Silver smiled wanly, and the screen went blank.

  A moment later, the door to the security post opened and Sheldrake entered. He came forward, massive body poised, as if awaiting orders. You could take the man out of the military, but it appeared you could not take the military out of the man.

  “How are we faring, Mr. Sheldrake?” Mauchly asked.

  “Seventy-five percent of non-Eden personnel have left the building,” Sheldrake said. “From the checkpoint counts, about thirty-eight percent of workers inside the Wall have already passed through the security portals. We expect to have the evacuation complete within twenty minutes.”

  “And Lash?”

  Sheldrake held up a printout. “Scanners tracked him to a hardware support area. He went into half a dozen rooms there. No further reports or sightings since.”

  “Let me see that, please.” Mauchly glanced over the printout. “Redundant Disk Silo Storage. Network Infrastructure. What would he be doing in places like that?”

  “The same question we’ve been asking ourselves, sir.”

  “There’s something wrong here.” Mauchly pointed at the listing. “According to these time logs, Lash went into six different rooms over the course of only fifteen seconds.” He handed the printout back to Sheldrake. “He couldn’t have visited that many rooms so quickly. What was he doing?”

  “Playing with us.”

  “My thoughts exactly. The last room he entered was a Web farm. That’s where your men should concentrate their search.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “But continue to deploy roving patrols inside the Wall. We have to assume Lash is probing the perimeter, trying to find some way to exit the inner tower. I’ll head up to the command center; I can monitor the operation more efficiently from there.”

  He watched as the man turned to leave. Then, in a quieter voice, he said: “Mr. Sheldrake?”

  “Sir?”

  Mauchly regarded him a moment. Sheldrake, of course, did not know everything—he did not know, for example, precisely why Lash had been in the building—but he knew enough to understand the man posed a grave threat.

  “This man has already compromised Eden. The longer he’s at large, the more damage he can cause. Significant damage.”

  Sheldrake nodded.

  “Containment is key here. This kind of situation is best dealt with inside the building. The sooner this whole thing goes away, the better for everyone at Eden.” Mauchly felt a fresh surge of anger. “Do you understand? The thing should go all the way away.”

  Sheldrake nodded again, more slowly this time. “My feelings as well, sir.”

  “Then get to it,” Mauchly said.

  FORTY-SIX

  I nside the data conduit, time seemed a stranger. The narrow tube forked, and forked again; a seemingly infinite lattice spreading itself horizontally and vertically throughout the inner tower. There were none of the usual benchmarks by which to gauge the passage of time: just a claustrophobic world of faint blue light, bounded by endless rivers of cabling. Now and then a larger conduit would cross his path—arteries amid the matrix of veins—but for the most part the tubes were horribly cramped, forcing Lash to crawl at full length, like a spelunker threading a narrow pipe.

  Whenever possible, he climbed. Small metal projections protruded from the walls, meant for securing cable ties but also serviceable for footholds. Now and then, a rough edge would snag his shirt, score his skin. From time to time he passed an access panel, like the one he used to enter the conduit system, but they were never marked and it was impossible to gauge how far he’d ascended. Like time, distance was all but meaningless in this close and foreign world.

  From time to time, Lash stopped to catch his breath and listen. Once he heard a distant boom break the silence, like the closing of some giant door in the deepest sub-basement of the tower. Another time, he thought he heard a ghostly cry pass along the narrow conduits, barely audible, like the whisper of a breeze. But then nothing would follow save the sound of his own heavy breathing. And he would move on again, cables rustling at his passage.

  Although Lash was not claustrophobic by nature, the faint light, the watchful silence, the wires that pressed in on all sides unnerved him. He forced himself to take small careful steps, to keep his balance and prevent his feet from tangling in the cabling.

  In time he found a vertical conduit, a little wider than most, that seemed to ascend uninterrupted, freeing him from the frequent lateral side-trips he’d been forced to take. He climbed for what seemed hours, pulling himself from projection to tiny projection, until his blood thrummed in his ears. At last he stopped again to rest, leaning against the uneven bunches of cabling, listening to the rasp of his breath. The muscles in his arms danced and jerked. Raising an arm, he held it close to the blue guidewire and peered at his watch.

  Five-thirty. Was it possible he’d only been crawling through these conduits half an hour?

  And how far had he climbed? He should have been able to estimate his rate of ascent: he’d done more than his share of time-trial wall climbs at Quantico. But not all his travel had been vertical in this maze. And cramped into these slender tubes, fettered by cabling, it was hard to gauge. Had he reached the thirtieth floor? The thirty-fifth?

  As he balanced, gasping for breath, an image suddenly came into his mind: a tiny spider, no bigger than a speck, clinging precariously to the inside wall of a soda straw . . .

  He could not keep on climbing blind forever. There was a floor he was headed for, a spe
cific floor. He needed to get his bearings, determine exactly where he was.

  And that meant leaving the conduit.

  He leaned against the tube wall, thinking. If he left the safety of the data conduit, the scanners would pick him up. Security would immediately know where he was and focus their search. There was no way he could fix his position without raising the alarm—was there?

  Maybe most individual offices, labs, and storerooms had no scanners. Maybe most scanners were situated in the corridors and doors. If he was careful where he exited, and if he didn’t activate any sensors . . .

  He had no choice but to try.

  Lash climbed a few feet to the next junction, then clambered laboriously into the lateral tube. He crawled forward over the bunches of cables until he reached an access panel in the side wall. Here he waited a moment, listening. He could hear no noise from beyond. Holding his breath, he placed his fingertips against the inside of the latch and pushed carefully against it. The catch sprung free and the panel opened.

  Instantly, light flooded in, bathing a thin angle of the conduit a brilliant white. Lash turned away and shut the panel. A brightly lit office—or worse, a corridor—lay beyond. No good: he’d have to try elsewhere.

  He moved forward again, passing another panel, then another. At the fourth panel, he stopped. Once again, he pressed his fingers to the latch; once again, he eased it open. This time, the light beyond was dimmer. Perhaps it was a storage area, or the office of someone who’d left for the day. Either way, he wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

  As stealthily as he could, Lash pushed the panel wider. The space beyond was silent.

  He pulled himself forward on his elbows, peered out. In the dim light he could make out a darkened terminal, a shadowy desk. A deserted office: he was in luck.

  Quietly, but as quickly as possible, he pulled himself out the accessway and into the office. As he rose to his feet, his shoulders, hunched so long in the cramped conduits, protested vigorously. He glanced around, hoping to find some memorandum or fire exit diagram that would give the floor—but except for the ubiquitous desk and monitor the office appeared unused, empty.