by Greg Bear
The lift door closes. “Very brave,” Giffey says. Baker coils around their legs like an affectionate snake, and the Hammer smells of sweet rubber. The explosives it has extruded leave their odoriferous traces on its shell.
They begin their descent to the ground floor lobby.
18
“Their warbeiter in the elevator shaft has connected itself to a secondary power supply that it does not control,” Roddy tells Jill. “They are coming down to my mother’s area. They are coming into my area.”
Jill sees the shaft from above; below, she sees the segments of dark warbeiter connected to the elevator’s mechanisms and controls. Roddy highlights for her the unwitting join with the power supply. Then, he pumps a huge current through the wiring. Purple arcs cut through the shaft, knocking the segments of warbeiter about like scattered Frisbees, melting them.
“I know what I must do,” Roddy says. “The other greens are expendable; I can’t save them. But I must not harm Marcus Reilly.”
Jill tries to communicate, but Roddy is not listening. He has cut her out of his decision loops; her suggestions did not take.
The only courtesy he affords her is a glimpse of clumps of shapeless paper, wax, and mud. The image is brief but clear—insects, bees and wasps. Seefa Schnee has harnessed the neural qualities of hive insects.
They are part of Roddy’s mind.
19
Jonathan smells smoke—not just the sweet-rubber odor of explosive, but something burning, and hot metal. There is a sharp ting on the roof of the lift, then a heavy clunk and a patter of lesser impacts.
Giffey squeezes Marcus into a comer and tells Jenner, “I’m switching to line-of-sight.” He touches his pad to Charlie’s shiny flank, presses a few quick buttons, relays the change of control to the warbeiter’s receiver and data port. He does the same with the flexer/controller coiled on the floor.
The elevator makes a grating sound and they all stare at each other with comic alertness, like dogs hearing a whistle.
Pickwenn glances up. A mass of red-hot metal pushes through the plastic roof and drops directly onto his face. He writhes and drops, does not even have time to scream. His legs kick, connect with Jonathan’s shin. Jonathan grimaces in pain but he can’t move, the lift is too crowded.
The elevator screeches to a halt. The doors refuse to open, though the display indicates they have reached the ground floor lobby. Marcus is holding on to Jonathan and Giffey has taken refuge under the Hammer’s rear overhang, vying for the space with Jenner.
More slams and tings on the roof.
The elevator air is opaque with smoke and the smell of seared flesh. Jenner curses loudly and continuously, incomprehensible and awful sounds, like animals throwing up. Jonathan can’t breathe. Marcus is climbing over him. “Open the doors!” Marcus cries. “Open the doors!”
Jenner squeezes from behind the Hammer with a grunt. He and Hale try to pry the doors open with their hands. The air in the elevator is clearing, a fan has come on, they can breathe, but the enclosed space is terrifying. Jenner slams himself against the doors, but they refuse to part.
Outside, deep, barely audible, a sound: droning.
Giffey lifts his head. “What in hell is that?”
“Sounds like a motor,” Hale says.
Jenner tries to wedge his fingers between the doors. No success. Sweat drips from his face. He shoves Marcus aside roughly and tries again. Hale places his palms flat against the left door. They make squeaking noises; he can’t get a grip. Giffey stands back, considering.
Jonathan sees that Marcus has no idea what the droning means. He can’t hear himself think; Jenner is loudly repeating shattered obscenities, his head pumping back and forth on his neck with each outburst.
On the floor, Pickwenn moans, not dead yet, but at least he has stopped kicking.
Outside, they hear screams. The buzz-saw hum grows louder. Fists pound on the door from the outside, trying to get in.
Giffey claps his hand over Jenner’s mouth. The screams outside blend into one dissolving acid wail of pain.
Jonathan pushes himself back as far from the door as he can.
The screams fade, decline in number and volume. The last voice, high-pitched, calls out to Allah, to Mother.
Jamal Cadey.
They have been in the elevator for ten minutes. None of them has the courage to say a word, or make a move; sweat drips on the floor.
The smoke builds again. The blowers can’t dissipate it fast enough.
“Shit,” Giffey says. From a crouch, hand over his mouth and nose, he pushes Pickwenn into a corner. Giffey urges the Hammer forward and tells it what to do.
With its two sharp-nosed grips, it wedges into the crack between the doors. Its fiber sinews and cables snap and twang, and with a shudder throughout its body, it pries the doors apart, snapping metal safety bars and warping the inner facing.
The lift has stopped two feet above the ground floor. Molten metal sizzles in flaming drips between the lift cabin and the shaft wall.
Marcus kicks at Pickwenn’s still body and it rolls out of the lift. A shapeless clump of flexer detaches from the face and rattles on the lobby’s stone floor.
The Hammer braces itself, reaches up, and shoves at the upper edge of the lift frame, pushing them lower by another foot.
Jonathan somehow manages to squeeze over the Hammer’s thick leg and jumps through the smoke, tiny flecks of molten aluminum burning his neck and arm. He lands beside Marcus. Baker slithers past with a scrabble of multiple legs.
The elevator snarls and ratchets down several more inches and the Hammer jumps free, Giffey and Jenner clinging to it like rag dolls.
Jonathan rolls to one side. Marcus is not so quick or agile. The Hammer’s right ped comes down on his leg. Marcus makes a large silent O with his mouth, eyes blank with surprise and anticipation of pain.
Smoke curls in the lobby, hiding and then lifting, revealing. The floor in front of the lift door is littered with more blackened, misshapen segments of the flexer Giffey had assigned to the shaft. Another, less damaged segment crawls out of the shaft and shivers, then stalls on the shining stone floor. The intact Baker examines this pitiful portion of its brother with quick, jerking pokes of its head.
Other than a liquid ratcheting sound from within the Hammer, the ground floor lobby is eerily quiet.
Marcus begins to moan, his voice getting higher. Jonathan tries to pull him free. Like a horse, the Hammer lifts its ped and sets it down again, away from the old man.
Jonathan straightens and stands, looks up from Marcus. Through the smoke he sees bodies on the lobby floor: Cadey, the man called Pent. Cadey has his arm flung over Pent, whose face is as round and swollen as a sausage, and about the same color. They do not move.
A dying bee crawls over Pent’s face. More insects, bees and wasps, crawl on the floor, and a few buzz through the air disconsolately. Giffey swats at a wasp as it circles his face. He knocks it to the floor and steps on it.
Hale steps out of the lift and swipes his hand at the smoke. He stares in slack-jawed surprise at the bodies, then backs up as if he would crawl into the lift again. “Giffey! You said there would be something here! There’s nothing for us, NOTHING!”
Giffey for a moment seems lost, confused, then he grins like a devil and looks up and spins on the balls of his feet. “Where are you, Bell-ringer?” He leans down beside Marcus and grabs his collar. Marcus grimaces in pain. “You old, cruel sonofabitch. Your Quasimodo isn’t up in the heights, is he? He’s down in the dungeon. He’s still hard at work. Let’s go find him, before he gets up his courage and kills us, too.”
20
Mary steps down from the passenger ramp onto the cracked asphalt and faces stinging snow and a bitter, toothy wind. The time is sixteen and the weather is bearing down, the sky is dark blue-gray and the clouds’ bellies are twisted like loose coils of yarn.
Four county sheriff’s deputies and someone tall and heavy in a thick gray jacket a
wait them a few yards from the ramp. The agents and Martin Burke descended before her and are meeting with the deputies now. Mary blinks and clears snow grains from her lashes; the big guy is the county sheriff himself. Some arms are being waved, but everybody is cold and anxious to get inside, so the argument moves across the field.
Mary follows, feeling like an afterthought. Then she realizes a thin young man with prominent teeth and a nervous officiousness is her own assigned deputy. He gestures, and she follows.
She stares through the wind-streaked thatch of snow grains to the terminal. It’s vintage 2020, pre-revolt, archaic cheerful curves and ambitious walls of glass paid for by resolute hunters and small-time mining engineers and migrant tree cutters.
In the lee of the terminal, the deputy sheriff records their names and ranks on a sheet of paper. Daniels tries to explain that the sheriff’s office has no jurisdiction, that they are traveling under federal treaty permit, but the sheriff pointedly ignores her.
Burke stands to one side, out of the way, while the formalities are attended to.
“Mrs. Kemper is here,” the sheriff announces as the paperwork is completed. He tucks his chin into his chest, eyes staring from under bushy brows. “She’s the president. She’s here, and she’s madder than a hot clip.” He lifts his brows and nods succinctly, as if that’s all the information they need for now.
Daniels gives Mary a quick conspiratorial grin, then sobers.
Inside the terminal, they pass through an archway made of interlaced deer antlers. The ticketing area and passenger lounge resemble an old-style hunting lodge, complete with a fierce blaze in a huge stone fireplace. Airport personnel, mostly young women, watch from behind their log counters. There are no other passengers.
Mary sees three men, two more young women, and a stout, strong-looking older woman standing near the fireplace, warming themselves. The older woman in the center, with a squat face and short gray hair, Mary recognizes from news vids: Andrea Jackson Kemper, the president of Green Idaho.
Kemper advances with her entourage over the carpeted floor and stares at the new arrivals with angry gray eyes. “I’d like to know what you’re doing here,” she says. Before they can answer, she adds, “I’ve been told there’s already a federal undercover man in Moscow. That violates our treaty. My office, and the sheriff, are supposed to be informed of any federal entry.” Kemper’s gaze falls on Mary and she examines her quickly from head to foot, like some peculiar animal.
“We’re not aware of any other agents,” Torres says stiffly. Mary guesses that Hench is aware, however.
“I’m sure you aren’t,” Kemper says acidly.
A young, strong-looking blond man wearing a black denim longsuit steps forward. “A high-ranking senator on Federal Oversight and Security Data sent us confirmation this afternoon. He also tells us you’ve been flying in to Idaho to meet with citizens from outside the state. That sounds damned suspicious to us.”
Kemper holds up her hand to forestall any further discussion. Then, half-audibly, she says, “Some elected representatives in your frigging government still believe in liberty. Some still have a sense of honor.”
“Excuse me, Madam President.” The sheriff steps in. “We have a big problem here. There’s a disturbance at Omphalos, and my guess is,” as he stares at the agents and Mary, “some of you know why. We’d like you to come with us to that location and render assistance.”
“We have no jurisdiction as active agents here—” Daniels begins, but the president shakes her head and raises an admonitory finger.
“Word gets out,” the sheriff says, “and we’ll have armed hotheads crawling from behind every rock and tree. It’ll be a free-for-all and a lot of people will get hurt.”
“We want this taken care of quickly and quietly,” Kemper says. “I don’t care about the goddamned building. Someone’s been pouring bribes into every office below mine for years to get the damned thing built. They’ve ignored me, so I say the hell with Omphalos. But help us get this under control and then get all your people out of here, and I do mean all of them, before our defense forces get wind of it.”
The president stares at Burke, and then she looks at Mary again, more particularly at her uniform. “You’re a city cop, aren’t you?”
“Mary Choy, fourth rank, Seattle Public Defense,” Mary says.
“You’ve certainly got yourself in bad company,” the president tells her. The blond aide tells Kemper that Mary has an entry permit okayed by their office and the county sheriff. Kemper shakes her head. “Honey, if these Federals were the only ones here, I’d boot them out so goddamned fast they’d need to set their watches back a day. But my daddy was a Seattle city cop. You’re a sight, but you’re a hell of a lot more welcome than these folks.” Kemper sniffs. “You keep an eye on them, honey. They’d as soon bite your ass as pick their noses.” She stalks away, followed by her aides.
Daniels and Torres exchange looks. “Thank you,” Daniels says to Mary in an undertone.
Torres is clearly miffed. “Someone in Washington has got some real explaining to do,” he mutters.
Two deputies escort them to a county all-terrain vehicle parked by the curb, in a taxi zone. The president’s ATV, mud-brown and armored like a tank, pulls away from the same zone and vanishes in a drifting curtain of snow.
The interior of the ATV is a tight fit for the ten of them, and Mary sits on a hard bench at the rear, every bump rattling her teeth like castanets.
In Green Idaho, the roads have a lot of bumps.
21
The man named Jack Giffey has been fading in and out. The reversal of all their plans, no real surprise, acts like a cold spray of water, waking someone else who seems to be trying to climb into his head and take over the driver’s seat, and Giffey can’t put up much fight. His fabric is pretty threadbare.
He wonders for a moment if he’s suffering from Jenner’s malady, but he’s never had therapy—not to his knowledge. He does not think he should be vulnerable to whatever the old man or Omphalos has unleashed.
So who is the father of two that keeps putting his foot on the brakes and jerking the wheel away from Jack Giffey? He’s been seeing the faces of two teenage boys and a woman, a split-level old house in Port-au-Prince. This guy lives in Hispaniola and doesn’t seem to have much to do—his occupation and much of his life is still a marshy blank. Thinking and remembering about this more primary and convincing fellow gives Giffey the shivers and makes his head hurt, as if a little soldering iron is being shoved up through his spine into the base of his brain. It makes his eyes vibrate.
The situation right here and now is plenty complicated without distractions. For a few minutes, Giffey is strong enough to take over, issuing orders to Jenner to reconnoiter the lounge. He returns the young man’s flechette pistol.
Jenner clamps his mouth shut with a visible effort and does what he is told, evoking a sudden chilly respect and affection from Giffey, but Hale is getting to be a problem.
Hale is still babbling about getting out of the building.
Giffey bends down over the bodies and surmises that Pent was killed by hundreds of stings. His face, and Cadey’s, are masses of red welts.
Cadey probably did not die from his bites: he has a flechette burrow in the center of his chest, and a little pool of blood under him. Pent apparently shot the small brown man before he died.
Hale shouts, “We should bust out through the garage and get the hell out of here!”
Briefly, Giffey gives up the reins again to the uncomprehending father of two, and stares at Hale with wide eyes. Then good old brave, ever-competent Jack returns, replays what Hale has said, glances at Marcus and Jonathan, and shakes his head.
“My God… Jamal,” Marcus is saying, touching the small brown man’s dead, puffy face.
Jonathan has his eyes on Giffey, and Giffey catches his calm, observant expression. He wonders if maybe this quiet and heretofore compliant hostage has more in him than he first thought.
He’s a family man. Sometimes they do surprising things.
“I’m a family man, too,” Giffey tells Hale, who stops in mid-harangue to stare in shock. “Do you know who I really am?”
Hale gapes, hands swinging by his side. “Fuck, no,” Hale says. “Do you?”
“Just so,” Giffey says; nodding. “Now listen. If Jenner comes back and says it’s clear, maybe we can get out of here that way. But first, we really do need to get below.” He lies to Hale: “Where do you think they’d keep the real stuff? It’s more likely to be secure below ground, don’t you think?”
“Fuck no I don’t think. It goes completely against the plans you provided,” Hale reminds him, punching his finger into Giffey’s chest. “The plans show the vaults in the higher levels, above ground, each vault with its own private cache.”
“Somebody lied,” Giffey guesses. He pats Hale’s shoulder. “If we leave now, aren’t we just the proper little losers?”
Hale doesn’t fathom this. “I don’t fucking care,” he shouts at Giffey. Suddenly his eyes widen. “Christ. The lounge. Where is Hally?” Distracted, he starts to wander toward the arched entrance of the hall leading back to the lounge. Jenner returns through the arch, bumps into Hale, and then shoves past, and Hale loses yet another head of steam, stopping suddenly with legs splayed and fists clenched.
“They’re all dead… muh fih shi.” Jenner points. “Miz Preston, the other woman, the… all of them, all swollen—bitten. There are ants in the room. On the floor. Big black ones. I think I saw more wasps.” He tosses his head to keep from shouting nonsense.
Giffey stares at Jenner intently, weighing this report against the young man’s behavior.
Jonathan swims through the nightmare with a steady stroke now. Everything is getting more highly colored and intense.
“Hostages?” Giffey asks.
