Grabbing the towel, and with some help from a moderately sharp edge of the shelving, Morgan tore the towel into four pieces. Two she wrapped tightly around her palms, with the other two wrapped around her knees.
Back up the shelves she went, sitting herself on the top shelf. As carefully as she could manage she reached out and grabbed the edge of the opening, scooting her butt forward until she could grab on with both hands.
Slipping off the shelf, Morgan hung in space for a moment, and then she started hauling herself up.
Her arms burned, but she kept at it, until she could get one forearm into the hole, giving her better leverage to heave her whole upper body in, and finally pull her legs the rest of the way up.
Ugh. This place smells like something died in here, Morgan thought, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
The dust and grime was so bad that Morgan wouldn’t have been able to tell what color the metal had originally been, even if she could have seen it in the dark.
That’s going to be a problem, she thought as she glanced back at the opening, her only source of light. Do I close it, and work in the dark, or do I leave it open and give them a really good idea of where I went?
Shaking her head Morgan folded herself up so she could turn around – it was that narrow and cramped, even for someone as small as she was – and tugged the cover back in place.
I’ve worked in the dark before.
Morgan thought she had left the tunnels far behind her, but closing the ceiling brought with it so much more than darkness.
Oh, her current circumstances were quite different than the mines had been. Smooth metal instead of rough stone was only the most obvious one. In some ways, her work in space was closer to the mines – similar goals, similar outfits even, plus her tools.
The danger here is the same, though, Morgan admitted to herself. Take too long, get caught, get lost, any or all of those could end with me hurt or dead.
Morgan carefully got turned back the right way, and started crawling forward. If she didn’t know better, she would swear she could smell the dust of the mines.
This brought about an irrational burst of panic, along with the sensation that the walls were slowly moving in closer, that the air was thinning.
Morgan collapsed onto the floor, her hands trembling, her heart and breath racing.
No. I’m not there anymore. I escaped Hillman, and I will escape from here.
Hyperventilating, Morgan cast about for something to focus on as she fought to bring her breathing under control. She thought of Haruhi, of Gertrude, even Emily.
They’ll be waiting for me to get home. Emily will be looking for me. I am not going to be stopped by some blasted tunnel.
Gradually Morgan calmed, her heart finally stopping its hammering in her chest.
She reached out, brushing her fingertips along the grimy wall.
At least it’s so narrow that I can’t get accidentally turned around. It is odd that I haven’t come across any intersections though.
Morgan tapped a finger on the bottom of the crawlway, the metal echoing slightly.
Unless this just runs along all the rooms, and all the exits are just like the one I came in through?
Starting forward again, slowly, Morgan tried to feel for any cracks or seams in the floor, something that would indicate a panel she could remove. It was so hard to tell. The whole thing was a series of tiles, and none of them seemed especially different from the rest.
Her panic was rising again, but Morgan couldn’t help herself from thinking of all the ways this could go wrong.
And how much of the noise that I am making can be heard from below? Morgan shook her head, actually taking the step of pinching herself hard on the arm, since a slap wasn’t really possible in the cramped space.
Stop it. Focus on what you can control.
The only thing she could control was herself, so she pressed on.
Morgan lost track of time, but it couldn’t have been too many minutes later that the crawlway hit a dead end. Morgan had not found anything that she could recognize as an exit, or even an intersection.
What is this thing even for? She wondered, achy, tired, and still fighting off a bit of panic. It doesn’t seem to be for access to machinery or components for maintenance. It also isn’t an air duct, because I don’t see any grates to let the air into the rooms below, or fans to circulate the air, anything.
Unless… it used to be? If they replaced the air system, they wouldn’t bother to tear out the old stuff. And it would explain why it’s so dirty in here.
Okay. Assuming I’m right. Does this help me?
Morgan rested her head on the wall ahead of her, the dead end of the tunnel.
If this used to be an air duct, there would have been vents, and fans. What if the panel I moved to get in here is newer? Something they put in place to replace the vents, to close them off from the rest of the building?
They would have done the same to the fans, right? But it they were replaced later, they probably aren’t welded as strongly, and definitely aren’t nano-fabricated as a single piece.
Probing at the edges, Morgan could tell it had a bit of give.
And I’m back to listening through metal again, Morgan grouched to herself, shifting about in the air duct to try and see if there was anyone on the other side of the metal sheet. She didn’t hear anything. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything to hear.
Here goes nothing, Morgan thought as she pushed against the end plate as hard as she could, and she could feel the metal flexing, but it didn’t pop loose.
Going back to feeling at the edges, Morgan tried to figure out if it was welded all the way around, or just a few spot welds.
The news wasn’t great, but it could have been worse. All four corners were securely welded, but the rest of the edges were not.
Time for the noisy solution, Morgan thought with a mental sigh. A tool would be nice, or at least some shoes, but oh well.
Turning about in the duct wasn’t easy, as Morgan already knew, but it turned out to be much simpler than trying to get the towel strips moved from her knees to her feet.
More than once she banged her head, elbow, or arm into the sides, resulting in more than a couple quiet thumps.
Each time Morgan would wince, but she just reminded herself she was about to start kicking the wall, so a few extra sounds wasn’t going to make much of a difference.
Morgan drew back her foot to kick, and just had to take a moment to snort in amusement at the absurdity of it all.
I really need to stop getting stuck in maintenance spaces, she thought.
The first kick set the panel to reverberating like a gong, but didn’t budge it noticeably. Morgan didn’t pause to check, she just kicked it again. If anything was going to get her noticed, this was it.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. she repeated in her mind, timed with the kicks. It took something like a dozen kicks, but the panel dropped away, clattering to the floor below, out of sight.
It doesn’t sound like the floor is that far down, Morgan thought.
Scooting forward rather than take the time to turn back around, Morgan gasped as a ragged bit of the frame caught at her left leg, tearing a gash in the skin. She didn’t stop or slow down until her legs were dangling in the air. Turning over onto her stomach she grabbed the edge, pushing her torso the rest of the way out, hanging by her fingers for a moment before dropping down to the floor.
The room was almost as dark as the duct had been, which was still an improvement, as she could see anything at all.
It looked like she was in a bedroom. Or at least, it was a room being used as one. There was a bunk bed in one corner, some containers and dressers.
Nothing that looks like a weapon. Pity. She picked up a discarded piece of clothing, dropping it almost immediately. And I really doubt anything here will fit me. A blasted giant lives here. Best get moving.
The door was, mercifully, unlocked. Light was spilling under it, hopefull
y that didn’t mean whatever room she was about to enter was occupied.
Her best guess put close to the exterior, both based on how far she thought she had crawled, and where the closet had been in the building.
That the air duct didn’t continue on any farther backed up the guess too – if this was the farthest room the system serviced there was no need to have the ductwork go all the way across.
Despite the loudness of her entry into the room Morgan tried to be quiet in opening the door, and only after listening for anything on the other side.
Steeling herself Morgan opened the door just wide enough to slip through, squeezing her eyes mostly shut just beforehand.
Even so, the transition into a normally lit room was blinding. Morgan could tell the room was large, but not much beyond that.
“Did you enjoy your tour of our filthy plumbing?”
It was the Old Lady.
Morgan froze in place. She could try and fight, sure, but they had to be armed, and she couldn’t even properly see how many men were with the Old Lady, let alone where they were.
“It reminded me of home,” Morgan answered truthfully. “Though I think at this point a shower would be a good idea, for your sake as well as mine.”
The Old Lady just grunted, before speaking to the man Morgan could now see was standing against the wall not five feet away from her.
“Take her back to the closet. And this time make sure she doesn’t try to escape.”
“Right,” the man said, and Morgan could see him raise his arms in the corner of her vision.
Turning she saw he was raising his rifle in the split second before he brought the stock down on the top of her head.
Morgan didn’t pass out immediately, she wasn’t that lucky.
Aside from the pain exploding in her head and the stars in her eyes, Morgan thought she could hear the Old Lady talking. Yelling, actually.
“Damn fool, are you trying to kill…”
CHAPTER 6
The eternal war of the police is to find balance. They are supposed to protect the people, but also suspect and mistrust them. They are empowered to wound and even kill when the conditions warrant it, but are supposed to de-escalate. Too much, and the police become the enemy of the people. Too little, and the criminals have the upper hand, and law and order disappears in anarchy and rule of the strong.
- Commissioner Luther Elba, Landing, Planet Hyperion
GERTRUDE
FOUR DAYS.
That was all it had been. And yet it felt like an eternity, time stretched to the breaking point where each breath, each blink and moment, felt like it contained a whole galaxy of worry, fear, and anger, with grief only held back by an unholy alliance of denial and hope.
Gertrude had experienced this before, oh, too many times.
The hours after the assault transport carrying Lady Novan, along with her troops, had crashed had been even worse than this.
And when she’d learned that her beloved husband was among the dead? That had made the tearful waiting seem joyous in comparison.
And for all of Gertrude’s worry for Morgan’s wellbeing, it was worse for Haruhi. Gertrude was thankful beyond being able to express it that Haruhi had not been there for the attack, nor had she seen the aftermath, but she knew that ‘bad people’ had taken Morgan, and that was more than enough to set her imagination running wild. Haruhi had been too young to understand when her father had died, but that wasn’t the case anymore.
At the moment she had – finally – fallen asleep, after only fitful naps over the past days. As Gertrude had accompanied Lady Novan on their current mission they had left the poor little girl asleep in one of the guest bedrooms of Novan Hall, watched over by Boris and the rest of Lady Novan’s capable staff.
I hope she stays asleep. She likes Boris and, as much as he denies it, he is good with children. But that’s not the same as my being there.
Lady Novan had been putting the pressure on the government to do more than placidly investigate the attack, but actually take action, up to and including going directly to the prime minister.
There were whispers that the aborted assassination had rattled the baroness, that she was fearful for her safety if another attempt was made, but Gertrude knew better.
Threaten Lady Novan, and she’d take the appropriate action.
Threaten those she considered under her protection? The gloves came off, and she would show those stupid enough to do so why she had earned the nickname of ‘the Iron Colonel.’
Is it Iron General now, I wonder? Gertrude idly mused, wishing they could stop waiting and get on with the day’s events.
In a stark contrast to Gertrude’s nervous energy, Lady Novan was perfectly calm and collected.
She sat, prim and proper, her normal more militaristic attire replaced with something more suitable for a meeting of the lords, conversing on her uplink with some noble or other, as if there was no rush at all.
The call finished, and still they waited. Lady Novan indicated for Gertrude to join her on the bench.
Gertrude sat down with a little sigh.
“Fretting does Morgan no good at all, Gertrude,” Lady Novan said, whispering quietly enough that not even her guards – who now numbered eight rather than the four who had previously accompanied her – could overhear. There were also regular police guards on duty, but they were not as close, and in any case they were too busy pretending not to be annoyed that the armed civilian bodyguards had taken over the hallway.
“I just wish there was more we could do.”
“We are doing everything that can be done. More than most people could manage, in fact. Without the information we, as well as the other passengers, were able to give the police we wouldn’t be here waiting for this operation to start. The terrorists covered their electronic tracks well.
“That there has been no ransom demand is troubling,” Lady Novan said bluntly, “but that we have also not found a body is encouraging.”
“But why hold her? As cowardly as it was, I can see why they took her in the first place, to secure their escape, but why not release her after? She’s no threat to them.”
Lady Novan inclined her head slightly.
“That is a good question, one we don’t have an answer for. These terrorists have been causing problems for years, decades really, but haven’t gone after civilian targets. It’s one of the reasons the government hadn’t cracked down on them harder before now, despite the Brighton Rebellion. They considered them a more manageable risk than any group that would replace them, which potentially would be more radical and violent.”
“That’s a…” Gertrude started to say, but stopped as the door opened at last.
“They are about to start,” the police officer who entered the room said. “Lady Novan, if you would follow me, I will take you to the viewing room.”
Lady Novan did not answer but just stood smoothly and nodded, stepping through the doorway to join the police officer.
Gertrude hastily stood and joined her as four of the bodyguards followed. The other four stayed in the hallway, which was the only entrance into or out of the SWAT headquarters.
The room they were lead to was cool, cold even. It was also noticeably more dimly lit than the rest of the building, even with the light from innumerable screens and holo-tanks adding their glow to the light from the overhead fixtures.
As they walked in, most of the displays were showing the same thing – armored police officers seated in air cars, swaying slightly as the movement of the cars jostled them.
No, not the same thing, Gertrude realized. Each one was a different air car, with different police officers.
They merely looked identical at a first glance because the uniforms were, well, uniform, and the air cars themselves were all the same model.
Gertrude stepped a bit closer to Lady Novan.
“How many?” she asked in a whisper.
“We have pulled in SWAT teams from half the continent. We are goin
g to hit almost two dozen safe houses, simultaneously. This represents every major hideout we had any inkling of, plus a few more they have identified in the last couple days.”
“They found more that quickly? Why then weren’t they found years ago?” Gertrude asked, not saying but thinking the obvious corollary, And if you had found them couldn’t the attack have been stopped before it began?
“Yes, well, it is easier to get funding for investigation and surveillance when the threat is immediate and visceral, rather than abstract and distant.”
It wasn’t an apology, but simply an explanation. Gertrude knew Lady Novan wasn’t to blame, but it was easier to deal with anger and outrage when directed at a person rather than a nebulous group or idea such as a government as a whole.
Nearly as one the air cars came to a shuddering stop, the police inside lurching forward in their safety harnesses as the pilots brought their vehicles in for a rapid landing.
Almost before the cars had completely stopped, the police were shrugging off their harnesses and pouring out onto rooftops, landing pads, and, in a few instances, grassy hills or dirt roads.
The cameras were obviously mounted on one of the policemen’s helmets, making following the events somewhat difficult as the feed bobbed and weaved with the movements of the wearer.
There was no audio, or at least not any that was being broadcast into the room.
Is the one with the camera the leader? Gertrude wondered. They seemed to be hanging back in most cases, moving their field of view back and forth over the other officers. Giving orders, maybe?
There was no knocking on doors. These people were not messing around or taking half measures. They quickly rushed up to the doors, splitting into two groups, pressed up on either side of the door – whatever form that took in each case, from a small hatch all the way up to an entrance big enough to admit an air car – and sticking small blocks of something onto it.
Then they backed up a few paces, hunkering down and covering their heads.
Explosives, Gertrude thought, nodding appreciatively. That will get them in right quick.
“What is the plan?” Gertrude asked Lady Novan.
Black Holiday (The Black Chronicles Book 2) Page 10
