by Steven Gould
“Right.”
He jumped, appearing behind it, and peered in through the smoked glass of the rear doors. Nothing. He jumped inside, looked around, and returned to Millie.
“No driver, no paramedic. The gurney isn’t in there, either.”
“Trap,” she said. “But they wouldn’t have the ambulance unless they wanted to carry away a living person.”
Davy took a deep breath and blinked hard.
“Trap. Let’s trip it.”
He entered the building through the office. It was the only room that had a window, giving him a sight inside. The only noise he could detect was running water and once he left the office, it was everywhere, giving credence to the note left in the window.
He walked to the cryo fill tanks, gliding his feet along, not splashing, not lifting his feet and dripping. The rack with APEX ORB SVS on it was set back slightly. He noted the blocks of wood lifting it from the water and stopped, looking around for any sign of them.
He took out his cell phone and used the light. The cable running up to the rack was nearly invisible, but once he spotted it, he saw where the copper conductor was grounded to the frame with a screw and a freshly drilled hole.
Suddenly he was less sure that his daughter was all right, and absolutely furious. Were they watching? Or did they have something rigged to the current, so they could detect when the trap was sprung that way?
He went back to the office and grabbed a blue-plastic recycling bin that looked sturdy enough. He quietly emptied it onto the floor and, as he returned to the trap, he grabbed one of the dozens of chains used to secure bottles together so they wouldn’t topple.
Back by the rack, he inverted the recycling bin in the water and climbed up onto it, then tossed the chain over the rack, letting the other end drop into the water.
The spark was big enough to make him want to jump away. They did this next to full oxygen bottles? But then he heard a beeping noise from the back and the lights went out.
There were just two of them, dressed for the ambulance. One of them had an orange EMT trauma bag and the other one had a bright flashlight.
Screw it, he thought. The old ways are best.
He took the one with the flashlight first, and was back for the second one so fast that the first one hadn’t hit the water yet when his partner also appeared fifty feet above the water of the pit.
Back at TriCity, he ripped the cable off the rack and followed it back to where it was hooked to some kind of power supply plugged into the wall. On a piece of masking tape, someone had written 5,000 volts pulsed ECD.
He returned to the rooftop across the way. “All clear,” he told Millie.
They found the ambulance gurney in the employee break room. Right behind it, the owner was tied up in the closet.
“They came in before any of my employees. One of them stood beside me, smiling, as I sent them all home. None of them realized he had a gun in my kidney.” The man was shaken. “He took great pains to tell me I’d die slowly. ‘I’m a trained paramedic,’ he said. ‘You’ll bleed out before they can save you. It will really hurt.’”
“Have you seen Space Girl today?” Millie said.
“I’ve been tied up in that closet for five hours. I haven’t seen anybody. Bathroom,” he said. “NOW.”
Davy got out of his way.
FORTY-ONE
Cent: Nothing
Partway through the “interview” I decided I really owed Connie del Olmo an apology. Compared to the “interviewer” on the other side of the mirror, Connie was an angel from heaven.
Don’t think I wasn’t scared.
I was.
I was terrified they’d pull Joe back out of the oubliette and start cutting pieces off of him. This wasn’t fanciful imagination on my part. The possibility had already been discussed by the voice. Hyacinth had pulled out a knife clearly sharp enough to do the job and pointed her thumb toward the guards. “I have all the help I need.”
I looked past Hyacinth to the mirror. “What do you want, Mr. Gilead?”
I saw the Hyacinth’s eyes widen ever so slightly and knew I’d hit it on the nose.
“Who?” said the voice. He did it well, really, but I didn’t buy it. I just looked in the direction of the mirror and raised my eyebrows.
There was a sound like something brushing the mic, and muffled speech, then the mic was uncovered and a different voice came on, deeper, older, not frail exactly, but definitely not young. “So my name is not unknown to you.”
“Yes.”
“That explains a few things. What are your father’s intentions? Toward me and my organization, that is.”
“Two years ago? He was just following the strings. More recently it’s been getting a little bit more personal. And really, Mr. Gilead, if you’d just ignored us, you could’ve gone on pulling your strings and running things from behind the curtains. But you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” I hadn’t realized how much anger I’d been holding. “All in all, it would’ve been better if you’d just sent an e-mail.”
“I doubt your father would have answered. I have quite a few more questions. For instance, where are your other bases? Who has your father been working with at the CIA? And is it really true that you could destroy any satellite currently in Earth orbit?”
I would’ve pinched the bridge of my nose if I could reach it. My face must’ve shown something of this.
Gilead said, “What would you call that expression, Ms. Pope? Disdain? Disbelief?”
I said, “Disbelief is pretty close. Do you really think you have any chance of getting my cooperation?”
Hyacinth said, “Disbelief and a little bit of contempt, apparently.”
I smoothed my expression. Contempt was too strong. I remembered Dad’s scars and the story of his time in these people’s hands. I thought Gilead was insane, but that was not a comforting realization.
He waxed philosophical. “I’ve always found it fascinating that young people have such a sense of immortality. It’s probably—”
“Evolutionary?” I said. “Oddly enough, I’ve had this exact lecture from my mother.”
“I don’t think she took it in quite the same direction I’m going,” Gilead said. “Ms. Pope, let’s have Mr. Trujeque up again. I think we could benefit from a practical demonstration.”
Damn. “You really don’t want to do that.”
“Oh, I really think I do.”
“Let me rephrase that then,” I said, watching the guards unlatch the grate. “I don’t think the results you will get are the one you are expecting.”
They pulled the grate open. It was a lot harder, apparently, to get someone out of the oubliette than to put them in, especially if you wanted them conscious. The guard reaching down had to pull back up, one hand to his face. His eye was swelling shut.
Mr. Gilead was not pleased. “What happened?”
“Lucky kick,” the guard said. “Should’ve cuffed his legs. I’ll get ’em.”
He bent back to the grate and Mr. Gilead said, “Wait.” The volume of the speakers increased. “Mr. Trujeque, if you do not stand up and cooperate I will have Ms. Pope cut one of your girlfriend’s ears off. Either one, Ms. Pope. Lady’s choice.”
“Joe,” I called. “Both hulls.”
“Huh?” he said. “Down here?”
“Trillion to one!” I took three deep, fast breaths.
“What is that supposed to do?” Hyacinth said, taking the knife back out of her front pocket. She was making a show of it, using her thumb to swing the blade out slowly until it locked open with an audible “click.”
Over the speaker Gilead said, “Mr. Trujeque, your girlfriend is about to lose an ear. Don’t you think—”
Hyacinth took a step closer and I twinned.
To space.
The air rushing out of the chamber staggered the guards and Hyacinth, though she kept her knife. Sound was leaving with the conducting medium and the last words I heard over the speaker we
re “Kill her n—” I was holding my throat open, letting the air leave my lungs.
Two seconds.
I suppose they could have built the window to withstand pressure from both sides. They’d been so busy making sure it could withstand anything that they’d failed to consider what happened when it was up against nothing.
The steel frame and mirror pulled away from the wall, bolts tearing from the concrete, and the frame folded along the lower left corner where bolts still held. Papers and books and a person wearing a tie blew through the opening, falling to the floor around me. An older man clung to the counter just inside the other room, his face constricted with rage. He was screaming words, I think, but I couldn’t hear them and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear them.
Five seconds.
The far room was full of fog that streamed toward me revealing wainscoting and wood panels, built-in bookshelves, a mahogany bar. There was a brief rushing sound as the air from that room rushed through me, temporarily raising the local pressure, then the sound hissed away again. Hyacinth pulled her hand back and lunged toward me.
Seven seconds.
The door visible in the far wall of the next room was steel in a steel frame and probably opened out. It withstood the pressure, but the wall next to it did not. Books, shelves, paneling, metal studs, and Sheetrock blew toward me. Another wave of air hissed by. Hyacinth’s blade flashed forward, reflected intensely bright sunlight, then passed from sight, followed by her arm, her head and shoulders, and then the rest of her, disappearing into silence.
Nine seconds.
One guard was on his knees, fighting to stay up, and the other was lying on his side, blood streaming from his mouth and nose. He’d let go of the grate to the oubliette but the rush of air had been keeping it open. Now it started falling.
Eleven seconds.
I could feel water boiling off of my tongue and my head swam, but all my concentration was on the twinning, on maintaining this hole into vacuum. The grate slammed back into its frame and though I couldn’t hear it, I felt it distantly through the chair.
Thirteen seconds.
My sight was tunneling in and I saw the last upright guard fall forward onto his face, definitely unconscious, making no effort to catch himself with his ar—
*
“—ent. Cent!”
Joe had his hands on both sides of my face, looking into my eyes. His hands were still cuffed but clearly not still behind his back. I tried to lift my hand and realized I was still locked in that damn chair.
“Hmmm?” I said.
“Are you okay?”
“How … long?”
“Uh, long? Oh, how long were you out? It’s only been a minute or two since you … you did that thing.”
I shook my head, trying to clear it. I was still having trouble thinking but I couldn’t tell if it was from the depressurization or the earlier electrocution or whatever they’d drugged me with to transport me here from TriCity.
Wherever here was.
I scanned the room. There was one guard lying on the floor, bloody mouth, clearly dead. The older man—Gilead?—lay across the counter with his head partway into this room, staring fixedly at nothing. I didn’t see the other guard or the man who’d blown into the room.
Or Hyacinth.
“How’d you get out?” I asked.
He pointed with both hands at the grate. “I got the cuffs under my legs and in front of me as soon as those assholes dumped me down there. I don’t think I ever lost consciousness, but I sure got dizzy.”
“I saw the grate shut!”
“Yeah. Saw that, but thank God, it didn’t latch.”
“Where’s the guard and that other guy?”
“When I popped up out of the hole, the other guard was just coming around, so I snagged his collar and pulled him down headfirst while he was still groggy and used him as a step stool to get the rest of the way up. He was just getting turned around when I stuffed the guy in the suit down and they got tangled. I got the grate latched before they could get unstuck.”
“Unstuck?”
“Unwedged. It was tight down there with just one of me. What happened to that Ms. Pope? Did she book?”
“She did leave,” I said. “Can you get out of those cuffs?”
He bent down and picked up an automatic pistol. “It was on the floor. I guess the guard drew it but passed out before he could decide what to shoot. The dead guy still has his.” He put the grip in my hand.
“I was going to try and shoot the chain myself but it was really awkward.” He pulled his hands apart stretching the handcuff chain taut. “I figured you could fire and I’d hold the chain in front of the muzzle.”
Did this idea sound bad because I was still dizzy or even though I was still dizzy?
Even though, I decided. “Why don’t you go look for a handcuff key in the guard’s pockets?” I said.
Joe stared down at the gun, his mouth open. “Or maybe I could go look for a key in the guard’s pockets,” he said brightly.
It was not in his pockets but it was on a key ring clipped to his belt. Fortunately, this included a key that fit the massive padlock on the back of my chair. Once that was off, Joe twisted the released lever and all seven restraining cuffs—ankles, wrists, elbows, and neck—opened.
I nearly fainted when I staggered upright, but a few deep breaths and Joe’s hand on my elbow steadied me.
I checked both men’s pulses just to be sure, wrist and throat. These weren’t the first dead men I’d ever seen, but Gilead and the guard were the first ones I’d killed. I didn’t know how to count Hyacinth.
“Stroke maybe? Looks kind of old,” said Joe peering at Gilead. “The guard … well, he held his breath, clearly. Embolism.”
“I think so. Don’t know about Gilead.” I shut away the view of both corpses by burying my face in Joe’s chest and putting my arms around him.
He squeezed back. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Oh, I wanted to, so bad. I shook my head. “Not yet.” I gestured at the guard and the grate. “There could be people out there who got caught in this.”
Joe looked at me like I was crazy, but when I didn’t say anything else, he picked up the automatic pistol again.
“Do you even know how to fire that?”
He pointed at the trigger, then the muzzle. “It’s a Glock. You squeeze that part, things come out of that part. Very fast.”
At least he wasn’t pointing it at me or himself, but my face was expressing doubt.
He pulled the slide half back and showed me that there was a bullet in the chamber. When he held the gun down and to the side, he did not put his index finger in the trigger guard, but held it straight along the frame above.
Maybe he wouldn’t shoot himself. “Okay.”
“Do you want the other gun?” He tilted his head toward the dead guard.
“Not really,” I said.
He took the magazine from the other gun and the two spare clips from the guard’s belt.
We couldn’t open the door, the one that looked like it belonged on a submarine. “Maybe they do it remotely,” I said, pointing my chin at the observation window.
Joe eyed Gilead’s corpse and said doubtfully, “We could climb through.”
I shuddered.
I jumped us past the body into the paneled room. There were files and books and papers and a computer workstation. I knew Dad would really like to see this stuff, but I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t open the door into this room, but walked through the torn wall into a hallway.
There were three cells, empty, no bars, just steel doors with reinforced-glass inspection windows and pass-through slots for meals.
“I woke up in one of those,” Joe said. He rubbed his right buttock. “They stuck me with a needle when they grabbed me.”
We found an elevator. There was only an “up” call button. Joe pushed it and it opened immediately. I glanced inside—three floors G1 to G3. We were G3. Joe m
oved to enter and I blocked him, shaking my head.
The stairs weren’t marked, but the door to the stairwell opened outward and the catch had ripped during the “evacuation,” so it was open.
On the next level up, there was a dining room and a kitchen and three bedroom suites, luxurious, in the manner of the observation room below. Two of the suites showed signs of occupancy. Several containers had exploded in the kitchen, and flour and dry cereal and some sticky liquid were sprayed across the floor.
On the top level there was another kitchen, more institutional, a dining/TV room and several small rooms that screamed servants’ quarters. Things were scattered up here, too, and we heard voices from the other end.
Two paramedics came up the hall, one pushing a gurney and one carrying a trauma bag. The uniforms looked all right but their faces looked demented.
Worry will do that.
I stepped out into the hall.
“We were just leaving,” I said.
Mom jumped the five yards to me, her arms on my shoulders, peering at my face. The uniform she wore was too big, the pants cuffs were rolled up and the shirt bunched at the waist. “Are you all right? What did they do to you?”
“Why is your uniform wet?” I asked.
Dad saw me and his knees buckled before he caught himself and leaned heavily against the gurney.
When Joe heard Mom’s voice, he stepped around the corner, Glock no longer held at the ready.
Mom took in his split lip and bruised face. “What did they do to both of you?”
Joe grinned. “You should ask what Cent did to them!”
Dad straightened. He looked like he’d aged ten years, I thought, but in a light voice he asked, “Okay. What did you do to them?”
“Nothing,” I said. “A lot of nothing.”
*
Mom wanted Joe and me medically checked, but I was reluctant. I’d probably feel different by tomorrow, but after the day I’d just had, there wasn’t a doctor on Earth that I’d trust. Fortunately I knew one off the planet.
Flight Surgeon Rasmussen-Grebenchekova heard our stories, shook her head, and checked us over for barotrauma, paying special attention to our ears, sinuses, and lungs.
