by Bill Fawcett
Apparently struck by the oddity of Larson's reaction, Taziar approached, Frisbee in hand. "What you do?"
Larson held up a finger, a plea for a few moments of silent truce.
We're on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building. The first observation deck.
Larson nodded, then remembered she could not see gestures. All right. The information seemed to come far too slowly. He doubted this had anything to do with a simple fear of heights. The emotion behind the sending seemed far too urgent.
There're men.
Men?
With guns.
Larson's heart seemed to stop in mid-beat. For a moment, he hovered in a startled oblivion that precluded thought.
They won't let us leave.
Something tugged at Larson's shirt. He looked down to Tim and Taziar, the Frisbee tucked under the climber's arm. "Is it Silme?"
"It's Silme," Larson confirmed. "Big trouble." He returned to the internal conversation. Silme, we'll be right there. I'll take the details on the way.
Be careful, please, they thought in unison.
* * *
The taxi ride passed in a blur of mental communication broken only by pauses to explain the situation to Taziar and Tim.
They call themselves the Vietnam Peace Liberation Army.
A "peace" army. Too concerned to appreciate the irony, Larson pressed. What do they want?
As far as I can tell, they want the government to pull out of the war.
"They want us out of the war," Larson explained aloud, queasy from the mingled odors of stale cigarette smoke and exhaust.
"Sounds worthy," Taziar said, staring out the window at the skyscrapers zipping past.
"Worthy," Larson repeated, battling down his own memories of Vietnam. Once, flashbacks had plagued him mercilessly; and every stressful situation sent him plunging back into hellish and vivid memory. Silme and a god had reconnected the frayed and looped pathways of Larson's remembrances, returning control. He snorted. "Worthy indeed . . . if you totally ignore the fact that they're making their point by holding innocents at gun point." His own words sent him back into silent communication. Can you tell what they're planning?
I can only read surface thoughts, Silme reminded. Anything else would take magic.
Larson tried to radiate encouragement. She should be capable of extrapolating some long-term intentions from their current focus.
The leader . . . they call him Banqo.
Banqo.
In their language, that means "spiritual guide."
It sounded somewhat Spanish to Larson, though the word did not translate into anything he understood. Though a related tongue, his high school French added little. What language is that?
Made-up one, Silme sent. As far as I can tell, it only consists of a few key words. Her presence disappeared abruptly.
Alarmed, Larson chased her. Silme. Silme! "Damn it all to hell, I've lost her." Silme! He shifted wildly in his seat. Silme!!
Taziar caught Larson's arm. "Easy. What happened?"
The question seemed like moronic delay. "I lost her! I lost Silme."
Taziar's voice remained quiet and level, a starkly nonchalant contrast to Larson's desperation. "How?"
"How?" Larson repeated. "I don't know how! One moment she's there; the next she's not." Silme! Damn it, where are you? Hopeless frustration fueled his anger. He had no way to contact her and could only wait for her to come to him again, if ever.
Al. Silme's touch carried none of the desperation that had tainted Larson's since her disappearance.
Larson froze. Silme? What happened? Are you all right?
As "all right" as anyone held at gun point, I suppose.
Larson rolled his eyes. Less than a year in America, and she's already learned New Yorker sarcasm.
Unaware that Larson had reestablished contact, Taziar continued in the ancient language they had shared in the other world. "Calm down, Al. She probably has something she has to do there. Appease a zealot. Soothe another captive."
Larson raised a hand to stay Silme, though she could not appreciate the gesture. "I've got her back."
Taziar waved broadly to indicate that he had proved his point.
How many are there?
Silme addressed the ambiguous question with both answers. Three maniacs. Seventeen hostages.
That's it?
You wanted more?
Larson hurried to correct a misconception that might make him appear callous. Of course not. But I'd heard something like ten thousand visitors come every day. Pretty much all of them go to the observation deck.
There was a scramble when the guns came out. Smashed into every elevator. Rushed down the stairs. I'm guessing the gunmen stranded a couple hundred people when they disabled the elevators.
Disabled. Another surprise. Aren't there like a hundred of them?
More like sixty. Seventy, maybe. They did something on the roof that took out all of them at once, I think.
Silme's uncertainty forced Larson to remember she only read surface thoughts. He fidgeted, willing the cab faster through the milling cars. Everyone seemed in a hurry, yet they still managed to block one another from moving anywhere quickly.
Tim tugged at his brother's sleeve. "Is Mom all right?"
The question jarred Larson back to the present. It was an important point that he should have asked long ago. A warm flush of embarrassment crept over his features. Silme. Pam? My mom? How are they . . . handling this?
A lot better now that they know I'm in contact with you.
Taziar was right again . . . damn it. "Mom's fine," Larson told his little brother. "Pam and Silme, too. But we've got to do what we can to help them." Can you tell if they're capable of hurting anyone?
Silme did not reply. At first, Larson thought he had lost her again, but a trickle of discomfort seeped through their contact. She was still there.
Silme.
They shot two men they believed were security guards.
Dread stabbed through Larson's gut. He tried to hold it from his thoughts, to force a calm rationality that would show Silme he had the matter in hand when, in fact, he stood spare inches from a blithering panic. Shot, was all he trusted himself to send.
One's dead. The other's not yet, but it's only a matter of time. Remorse tainted Silme's sending. If only I still had my magic, I could heal him.
If you still had your magic, Silme, the gods would have taken you back to your world and time. You wouldn't be here to help anyone, and I'd have killed myself long ago.
Don't say that.
It's true. Larson refused to lie. I couldn't live without you, so keep yourself safe.
The cabby's gruff voice startled Larson. "This's as close we get.
Larson glanced at the street signs: Broadway and Fourth, two blocks short.
"Something's going on. Never seen a crowd like this here. Usually just a few gawking tourists—from Ioway or Idaho or some such."
Larson craned his neck. A hovering mass of humanity filled the streets, all centered on his goal. The Empire State Building towered over the crowd like a massive rocket, its antenna disappearing into the clouds.
"Thanks." He leapt from the car, leaving Taziar to pay the tab. The little man made a good living, along with Silme, with their sleight-of-hand/mind-reading act. It seemed a strange pairing, given that Taziar, with his mind barriers, was the one person whose thoughts Silme could not access. Somehow, they made it work.
Without a backward glance, Larson strode into the throng. Taziar and Tim caught up to him in a few paces. "So what's the deal?" his brother asked.
Larson softly detailed the information Silme had given him, skipping the part about the dead and dying men. It would only worry and upset Tim, and it would change nothing that Taziar did.
"Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me," Larson said mechanically as he shoved through the seething clot of people. He tried to keep his manner businesslike and his voice an authoritative monotone. Most edged as
ide, assuming him a professional of some kind. Some shot him dirty looks that questioned his right to progress while they remained pinned in place. A few times, he weathered shoves or elbows that barely budged his solid, weight-trained frame. No one directly challenged him, mercifully, for he would not have hesitated to deck anyone who dared to delay him.
Taziar and Tim managed to keep up, though Larson did not worry how they did so. He trusted the little climber to pace or exceed him in any endeavor that involved movement, though Taziar more often used dexterity, stealth, crawling, and climbing than the more direct and physical course Larson usually chose. Tim, apparently, simply slid into his brother's wake.
Tell me anything you can about these gunmen. Larson appreciated that the matter-of-fact, composed manner he adopted to sweep him through the crowd translated to his communication with Silme. It might soothe her to believe him in control.
Silme obliged. Their names are Bob Hendricks, that's Banqo, Steve Heston, and Mike Pevrin. They call Steve "Hyron," which to them means "soldier in the cause." Mike is "Taybar" or "adviser."
Great, a bunch of grown men with guns who think they're playing clubhouse. Have you tried to communicate with them?
Only verbally. Haven't spoken in their heads yet. Silme anticipated Larson's next question. They seem unstable.
Duh.
I don't know how they might react to an intruder in their minds. Thought I'd save it as a surprise maneuver or if things get desperate.
Good thinking. Larson tripped over someone's leg and jostled into an enormous man wearing fringed jeans and a Grateful Dead t-shirt. He whirled, jowly face locked in a dangerous scowl, dark eyes sizing up Larson.
Reflexively, Larson curled his hands into fists and screwed his features into his best boxing face. The other man muttered something Larson could not decipher, then turned back toward the Empire State Building. Larson continued to excuse and pardon himself through the crowd.
I can't do anything more than exchange information.
Larson realized that, if the men figured out what Silme could do, they would probably kill her to protect their plans from her invasion. He tried to hide that concern from his surface thoughts. No need to further alarm Silme. You're right. Don't tip your hand until absolutely necessary.
If Silme picked up on Larson's underlying concern, she gave no hint of her knowledge. All right.
As Larson shoved his way toward the front of the crowd, he saw police hurriedly cordoning off the area with poles and yellow tape while others kept the mob at bay with shouts and gestures. Taziar caught at Larson's shirt. "Al, I'll need a distraction."
Larson quickly filled Taziar in on the rest of the conversation, then added, "What are you planning to do?"
Taziar studied the building momentarily, then retreated back into the crowd. "You don't want to know."
Larson did, but he did not get the opportunity to press. He glanced to his left, where Tim silently studied the situation. "You stay here," he told his younger brother. "Don't go anywhere with anyone unless it's the police or a member of our family."
Tim nodded. "Be careful."
It was not a promise Larson could fairly make, so he chose no reply instead. Thrusting out his chest and squaring his shoulders, he stepped over the police tape. A sudden hush fell over the crowd in his quarter.
A harried-looking policeman with sweat-plastered brown hair dangling from beneath his cap lunged for Larson, whistle blowing.
Ignoring him, Larson strode boldly toward the Broadway entrance.
"Hey," the policeman called. "Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
Larson jabbed a thumb toward the tallest building in the world. "My fiancée, my mother, and my sister are in there."
Another policeman joined the first, a red-faced, heavy-set man who looked irritated to have to deal with one rabble-rouser amid a crisis and an unruly mob. "Join the club, man. Lots of people got relatives in there. We're doing everything we can."
Larson attempted to step around the larger man. "Look. There're only seventeen hostages, and three of them are my fiancée, my mother, and my sister. So, at most, there're thirteen people in the same boat as me. And your best just isn't good enough."
The red-faced man turned purple and sidestepped back into Larson's path. The other officer looked stunned. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Let's just say I served a stint in Vietnam but you won't find any record of it." For the first time, Larson tried to use the contradiction to his advantage by implying that he had served as part of a clandestine force. "You won't find any record of any kind on my fiancée. And we have a 'special' form of communication."
The larger man rolled his eyes and looped a finger near his temple.
But the smaller man ignored his comrade, clearly impressed by Larson knowing the exact count of hostages. Likely, they had discussed the Vietnamese Peace Army's demands and details by telephone and not with the press or public. "What else do you know?"
Larson recited what Silme had told him: "Bob Hendricks, Steve Heston, and Mike Pevrin."
The larger policeman shifted impatiently from foot to foot. "You're wasting time we could be spending rescuing your relatives and the others. Who do you think you are? Maxwell Smart and 99?" He made a throwaway gesture. "Get back behind the tape."
When the smaller cop returned only a blank look, Larson tried another tack. "Banqo, Hyron, and Taybar. Those were the real names of the hostage-takers and their aliases."
Now, even the heavy man's eyes widened, then narrowed suddenly in clear suspicion. "How do you . . . know that?"
En masse, the crowd went suddenly quiet and seemed to gasp in a collective breath. Knowing it probably had something to do with Taziar, Larson resisted the urge to look and draw the cops' attention, though that proved far more difficult than he expected. He dreaded the thought that the desperate kidnappers might have thrown someone from the building.
Silme's voice echoed through Larson's head. They're angry the police won't provide a helicopter.
They won't? It was a pointless question asked from distracted instinct.
They say it's too windy right now.
Wondering if this was a ruse, Larson asked, Is it?
Silme returned to sarcasm, a sure sign that she was more stressed than she was letting on to those around her, Last time I flew a helicopter . . .
Is it windy?
Well, yeah.
The conversation gained Larson nothing. He imagined a variety of air currents swept the Empire State Building at the calmest of times, but he thought he remembered talk of building a helipad on the top. Or maybe it was a dirigible mast. He shook the thought aside.
Larson looked up to find the policeman still glaring down at him, dark brows beetled. "So, how do you know so much?"
"I just told you." Growing impatient, Larson hoped Taziar had done whatever had required his stalling. "My fiancée and I—"
"I heard that," the large man growled, "and I'm not buying. How do I know you're not just another member of the gang?"
Larson could think of several ways but saw no reason to bother. Neither of them had time for it. "Look, my mother, sister, and my fiancee are up there, held at gun point. I don't have to prove anything to you."
The bigger cop glanced at his companion, who had gone silent, studying Larson intently. The look spoke of irritation and withering disdain. "Oh, you do have to prove it. You have to get past me to enter that building, and I have orders not to let anyone through."
Larson forced his tone to a deadly and serious calm. "Shoot me, if you have to. I'm going in."
Quick as a cat, Larson dodged around the larger man and strode toward the fire stairs.
The mob cheered, and Larson pretended not to hear the policeman's shouts over the tumult. The walkie-talkie on his belt blasted a strong round of static, followed by clear words: " . . . climbing the building!"
The cop scurried after Larson, who quickened his pace. He glanced upward. The sun sheened from
the chrome-nickel steel mullions and into his eyes, but he could make out a small, dark shape huddled against the spandrels. Taziar.
Apparently believing the thought for her, Silme responded. What about him?
He's climbing the freaking building!
A shock of clear surprise radiated from Silme. Does he know we're eighty-six floors up?
Of course. I told him. Did you think that would discourage him? They both knew Taziar had a fatal attraction for anything anyone deemed impossible.
What if he falls?
Larson did not bother to send the obvious answer. Already, the little climber had clambered over the five-story base to the main portion of the tower, some seven floors above street level, enough to threaten life and limb, undeterred by a frantic group of policemen shouting at him through a bull horn.
"Let him go," Larson heard the smaller cop say behind him.
The larger one snarled in response. "Let him go. Let him go? Why?"
" 'Cause even if he makes it past the others, even if he makes it up the one thousand five hundred and seventy-five stairs—and I doubt it—he ain't going to be in any condition to do anything once he gets there."
"If he gets there."
The rest disappeared beneath the blather of the crowd, the shouts of the policemen, and the crackle of static and voices through radios. Larson reached the outer fire stairs, their usually locked door propped open by another pair of policemen.
Larson ran toward them.
Al! Silme's sudden return startled Larson, and he nearly fell on his face. Where are you?
Heading for the stairs.
The stairs? But there's like two thousand of them.
Great. Fifteen hundred wasn't enough. She has to throw bigger numbers at me. He shielded the thought from his sending. What do you want me to do? Make like Shadow?
Of course not. I want you to stay there and help the police. I'll send information.
Oh, yeah. That's worked great so far. Again, Larson guarded his sending.
The policemen blocked the stairwell. "No one allowed in there, sonny," one said.
Larson stopped. Too vexed to discuss the matter again, he pretended to turn away, spun completely around, and crashed a fist against one's shoulder. Impact drove the man sideways with a gasp, opening the way just long enough for Larson to dash through it. He sprinted up the stairs.
