Paradigm

by Helen Stringer

  Except there had to be.

  Every instinct told him to get out of there. To turn around and go back the way he’d come. Find another way to spring Nathan, anything…just go.

  He stepped into the room, bracing for the inevitable alarm.

  Silence.

  He scanned the walls for the tell-tale sparkle of camera lenses. Nothing. It was just a room. An ordinary room.

  In every superficial way it was the same as the room he’d just been in. The only notable difference seemed to be a small Muthascreen on the dresser and a painting on the wall. The painting was of a man sitting in what appeared to be a window in Renaissance Italy. Behind him was a hillside with soldiers and battles, but the man was dressed for court in elegant velvet and brocade and held a flower in the slender fingers of his right hand. There was nothing of the court dandy about him, however. His face was cold and his eyes black with an expression that was becoming increasingly familiar to Sam.

  “Another killer,” he muttered.

  He swung the painting aside, but there was no convenient safe, just a square of blank grey wall.

  “Where are you?”

  He looked around, then crossed the room to the alcove and gently moved the clothes aside. There it was: metallic and grey with an embossed ‘W’ that glowed slightly red below the silvery engraved words: Wotan Extra Key

  He sat on the floor and looked at it. He’d never cracked a safe in his life. He’d seen quite a lot of movies and read books in which people cracked safes, but that was clearly not going to be any help here. There weren’t any knobs or tumblers to listen to and finesse—there wasn’t even a discernable door. Just a flat, slightly shiny surface.

  Sam sighed. So that was that. He might as well get out of there. He reached out and touched the glossy surface. So near and yet…

  “Ow!”

  He snatched his hand back and stared at it and then at the safe. He reached out again and placed a finger tentatively on the ‘W,’ then pulled it back again. It was the weirdest sensation. As if something was crawling up his arm. Not painful, just…strange.

  He thought about it for a moment, then closed his eyes and put his hand flat against the surface of the door. It felt like a tickle at first, then more solid, but giving slightly, like thin ice on a pond. And then he saw it—every wire and solder, every delicate, shining, microscopic sliver of silicon and graphene. But he did more than see it, he became it and he moved it and as he did so the red ‘W’ turned blue and the two-inch thick titanium door swung open. He opened his eyes.

  “Holy shit.”

  There it was. The key to the Paradigm Device, strung on the monk’s delicately knotted silk cord, each knot representing a step on the path to enlightenment. But how was it possible? He reached into the safe and removed the key.

  And the loudest alarm he had ever heard suddenly went off.

  “Oh, crap-on-a-stick!”

  He leapt to his feet and darted out of the room and down the corridor but his way to the back entrance was already blocked. He managed to turn without being seen and headed further into the depths of the building as the sound of the pounding feet of Carolyn Bast’s employees got closer and closer from every direction.

  “What an idiot! What was I thinking?”

  He tried a door. Locked.

  “I mean, it’s the most obvious thing in the world! A stupid weight detector!”

  He tried another door. Locked. And another. Locked.

  “Come on people! Your fearless leader doesn’t lock her door and she’s got a safe and a genuine Da Vinci to protect!”

  He turned down a corridor marked “Visiting Consultants.” There was a good chance some of these might be empty.

  He tried a door. Locked.

  Another. Locked.

  Another.

  Unlocked!

  He opened the door a crack and listened. Silence. It was empty! He slid into the dark interior and closed the door, hardly daring to breathe. Booted feet lumbered past, first one way, then another. Then again, not so quickly. They’d lost him.

  “They’ll do a room-by-room search now.”

  Sam froze, then turned around slowly. A small candle flickered on what looked like a makeshift altar. It wasn’t enough to illuminate the whole room, but it was enough for him to see the tattoo and the fact that this time her black hair hung loose around her shoulders and she was wearing almost nothing at all.

  She crossed the room in a single smooth movement, like water, and pinned him against the door.

  “What have you done?”

  Sam held up the key.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the key to the box.”

  “You got into her safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Sam shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “I should kill you where you stand.”

  “Yeah, but for once you don’t have a knife at my throat. That’s kind of an advance, wouldn’t you say?”

  Alma glanced down briefly. Sam sighed. She had a slender stiletto pointed at his stomach.

  “You’ll hardly feel it,” she whispered. “It’ll go straight through to your left kidney. You’ll die without making a sound.”

  “I’d rather not. Die, I mean.”

  A door slammed.

  “They’ve started. Most of the rooms on this corridor are unoccupied. If I don’t kill you, they’ll assume I helped you.”

  “I’ll deny it. I’ll say I surprised you, held you against your will.”

  Alma glanced at him and Sam noticed the slight sideways smile again. Another door slammed.

  “Hide.”

  “What?”

  “Hide. I’ll deal with this.”

  Sam opened his mouth with the intention of pointing out that the room was the size of a shoebox and hiding wasn’t really a viable option, when there was a sharp rap at the door. He froze. Alma glared at him.

  He looked around. The only possible hiding places were the small clothes alcove and the bed. He took his coat off, flung it into the alcove and squirmed under the bed.

  Another loud knock on the door. Alma flung it wide. The mercenary, who had clearly been ready to yell at her for the delay, was suddenly struck dumb, his face a stunned mask as he stared at the barely-clothed girl in front of him.

  “Yes?” she hissed.

  “The…um…someone broke in…we’re…um…”

  “There’s no one here.”

  “Why did you take so long to…um…to—”

  “I was making my obeisance to Tumatauenga,” she said, gesturing toward the candle.

  “To what?” said the soldier, now thoroughly confused, but still unable to take his eyes off her.

  “Tumatauenga. The god of war of my people. Tribute to him cannot be interrupted without a sacrifice.”

  “S…sacrifice?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him, her gaze hard as steel, and any resolve the soldier had once possessed slowly melted away. His gun suddenly seemed heavy in his hands and he glanced down the corridor in a way that made it obvious he wished he was anywhere except in front of this particular room.

  “Right,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “Okay. If you see anyone…”

  Alma didn’t wait for him to finish. She closed the door and listened until the footsteps faded away, then she sat on the bed.

  “Holy crap,” said Sam, sliding out. “You are seriously scary.”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes, really.” He joined her on the bed. “Is that really who you were, y’know… praying to?”

  Alma smiled. This time there was no mistaking it: a mischievous sideways grin that lit up her face.

  “No,” she said. “I just like candles.”

  Sam stared at her. For a moment the warrior had fallen away and he was looking at the girl she ought to have been—smart, funny and careless.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I was jus
t thinking.”

  “You want to stop that. You could sprain something.”

  Sam smiled a little and looked away. The candle on the small stand began to gutter and fade.

  “My mom and dad used to talk about the time when they were kids. They didn’t have to run or fight or do shit like this. They just went to school, played outside, came home for dinner, had dates…they were just kids.”

  “Huh,” said Alma.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But I bet they still worried about stuff. Nothing’s ever simple. Shit like what?”

  “We got arrested trying to leave town.”

  “So?”

  “Running away from the police is a hanging offence.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. The mayor has Nathan. I get the key or he dies. Except most likely we both die.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Alma.

  “No?”

  “No. I’d say it was certain.”

  “Har har.”

  They sat silently for a moment, listening to the sound of boots racing up and down the corridors.

  “Are you okay?” asked Alma, staring at him with what appeared to be genuine concern.

  “What?”

  “You look kind of…peaky.”

  “I’m fine,” said Sam, a little too quickly. “The cops roughed me up a bit is all.”

  Her dark eyes seemed to bore right through him, seeing the lie for what it was. He looked away and tried to assume a more cheerful expression, but wasn’t sure it really came. The constant muffled buzzing in his head made it hard to concentrate. Even with the pills, there was still the vague sensation of electrical interference, like being on a shared phone line, but never quite hearing the other conversation.

  “Would you like me to bust him out for you?”

  “Who?”

  “Nathan.”

  He turned and looked at her again. The mask was back in place and the child pushed away once more, leaving only a faint glimmer in the dark eyes as if the girl she ought to have been was peering out from a distant room.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s to get? Would you like me to bust him out? It’s an offer.”

  “Yeah, but why? I mean, you save us in the clearing when you don’t know us from a hole in the ground, then you turn out to be working for Bast and come looking to kill me.”

  “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “If it hadn’t been me, would you have killed me?”

  “Yes.”

  Sam stood up and stalked to the other side of the small room.

  “Y’see, that’s what I have a hard time with. You’re working for Bast. You’ll do terrible things for her, but then…” He turned around slowly as the realization dawned. “Who are you really working for?”

  “Maybe I’m not working for anyone.”

  “Right.”

  Sam retrieved his coat from the alcove and put it on. He stared at the door for a moment before turning back to Alma.

  “You called it ‘it.’ I mean, you didn’t, I did. But you didn’t say anything.”

  “What?”

  “Back in the hotel. I said that it had been listening, but you didn’t ask what, you just showed me the jammer.”

  Alma shook her head.

  “I don’t think this is the time to—”

  “Yes, it is,” said Sam, his voice suddenly urgent. “You know, don’t you? About Mutha.”

  “I know that you think it’s alive.”

  “But—”

  “I know someone else who believes the same thing, ok? That’s all. I’m used to people talking about it as if was a living, thinking thing.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think it’s an interface. That’s all. It’s programmed to talk, but it’s still just a machine. You know what else I think?”

  “No.”

  “I think you need to stop worrying about whether some machine is sentient and concentrate on getting out of here.”

  Sam nodded and stared at the door. He didn’t know why he felt so disappointed. His dad had told him that no one knew—that Hermes made sure that the secret remained just that, and if he wanted to live he had to keep his own counsel as well. He’d heard Mutha himself, back when his dad was still alive. The subtle change in tone of a muthascreen when it identified his father and began the wheedling, cooing conversation. It was always the same, and it always ended with Elkanah packing up his family and moving deeper into the Wilds. Even at that young age, Sam had realized that the Great Brain wanted his dad back. He’d always assumed that it was because of his knowledge, but back in the hotel it had recognized Sam, and he’d never even been in the same room as his dad when he’d talked to Mutha. And it had said that it missed him. Missed Sam. Missed a person it had never seen.

  He glanced at Alma. The secret had always been easy to keep, but now he wanted someone else to know. He wanted to be able to talk about it. The headaches were awful, but it was the whispering and scratching inside his head that scared him most. The whispering wasn’t voices. It wasn’t Mutha. At least, not yet.

  “Tell me,” said Alma, her dark eyes fixed on his face.

  Sam attempted a smile and shook his head.

  “There’s something you want to say,” insisted Alma. “Say it. It can’t make things any worse.”

  But, of course, it could. Hermes made it their business to track down anyone who so much as suggested that they might no longer have control of their creation, so Sam tried the smile again.

  “Any chance of a diversion?”

  “You won’t make it.”

  He shrugged and waited. Alma picked up a piece of leather strung with razor blades. Sam watched as she pulled her hair back and braided the blades into it before joining him at the door.

  “Why are you so angry?” she asked.

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Yes, you are. I know anger. I live with it…and so do you.”

  “Diversion?”

  Alma glared at him for a moment, then grabbed her boots and slid them on.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll go out and lead them in the wrong direction. You try and get to the exit. I don’t imagine for a minute you’ll make it, but it’s the best I can do. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure…Uh…aren’t you going to put something else on?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s…no reason.”

  Alma rolled her eyes, glanced around, grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it on.

  “Happy now?”

  “Yes. I mean…” His voice trailed off.

  “Porangi,” she muttered, moving to the door again and reaching for the handle. “Uh…This’ll work best if you get out of the way and let me out.”

  Sam stepped aside.

  “If I get killed…”

  “When. When you get killed.”

  “Get Nathan out. Can you promise me that?”

  Alma looked at him and nodded her head sharply.

  “Thanks.”

  “One minute, then head for the exit.”

  Sam closed the door behind her as she strode into the corridor and started barking orders and leading the soldiers away. He waited, then took a deep breath and opened the door again. The corridor was empty. He slid out and made his way back toward the exit, past Carolyn Bast’s room and along the characterless grey hallways.

  Then it was there, the door and freedom. He couldn’t believe it. Was he actually going to get out? He pressed the release and the heavy door whispered into its pocket in the wall revealing a face he already knew.

  “Surely you’re not leaving so soon?”

  Carolyn Bast was much more beautiful in person, but also colder and almost totally without any discernable emotion. It was like looking at a painting by a psychopath—all the details of a human being were present but there was no actual humanity. Sam glanced back, but he knew it was hopeless.

  “Setzen?”
<
br />   Sam had heard that name before. In the bar. The man who liked to make an entrance. The one with all the biomechanical upgrades. His heart sank.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  The big man strode around the corner of the building, his scars and implants even more impressive up close. He was flanked by two mercenaries, beetle-browed and dim looking, but with a granite-jawed attitude that Sam had seen before. These were men who always obeyed orders.

  “I will have another guest for dinner. Will you tell the cook?”

  “Of course,” growled Setzen with a leering grin that told Sam that this was unlikely to be a pleasant experience. “Levitt, Cranby, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

  The two men stepped forward, yanked Sam through the door and grabbed his arms. He rolled his eyes. This Setzen guy really liked theatrics.

  “You will join me for dinner, won’t you?” cooed Carolyn Bast as though she had just run into him while out on a country walk. “I do so love good conversation.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “Lovely. See that he’s there at eight, boys. Oh, and clean him up a bit. After all, I have standards to maintain.”

  Chapter 11

  THE CELL WAS SMALL, and much better built than the one in City Hall. It also had an actual bed and a flush toilet. Sam lay back and tried to get some sleep, but it wouldn’t come.

  Why had he asked Alma about Mutha? What did it matter whether she knew, or thought she knew, that the Plex was alive? And why on earth had he said it out loud? As long as it had been a secret that only he knew, it was almost as if it weren’t true. He could ignore it and get on with his life. But now that he’d spoken the words, it was all he could think of.

  It wasn’t really about whether or not Mutha really was sentient, either. He’d never doubted that, not after hearing his father arguing with the thing. At first he’d thought it was someone back at the lab, one of his parents’ old colleagues, but his mother had explained that it was the thing itself, tempting, cajoling, urging him to return.

  Then his father died and the conversation had stopped.