by Sam Fisher
Bandonis nodded. ‘Yes, but the other half aren’t.’
‘Okay, but then, Michael,’ de Silva went on, turning back to Xavier, ‘your brother was telling the truth about one thing, wasn’t he? If the linkway is impassable or destroyed, we’ll be trapped.’
‘There’s always that possibility,’ Michael conceded. He looked from face to face. ‘But I’m hoping we won’t need the linkway.’
Emily Xavier was the first to hear the strange hissing sound. ‘Dad, what’s that?’ she asked suddenly.
‘What’s what?’
‘That sound?’
‘Hissing,’ Craig Deloray said. ‘It’s coming from up there.’ He pointed to the ceiling a few metres across the hall towards the escalators that fell away to the first floor. He walked over, staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s a gas leak,’ he called to the others. ‘Methane, I think.’
No one saw where the flame came from. The first anyone knew about it was when a sheet of fire shot out from the ceiling. From a few metres away, it looked like a powerful jet spewing from a hose, a deadly cascade of orange and yellow flame. It caught Craig’s left side and enveloped him. He screamed. His clothes caught alight instantly and his hair burst into a mass of sizzling black. The stink hit the others before they could even comprehend what was happening.
Sigmund was the first to react. He was the only one of the men still wearing a dinner jacket. He pulled it off in one smooth movement as he ran towards the stricken security man.
Deloray was blown off his feet by the force of the blast. Screeching in agony, he landed in a fiery heap. They all heard a fizz as his body hit the sodden carpet. It sounded like a pork chop being thrown onto a barbecue. He writhed and rolled over the wet carpet trying to put out the fire.
Sigmund grabbed the man’s kicking right leg, keeping as far away as possible from the still gushing flame. Deloray was smothered in fire now, his clothes peeling away, his hair a charred mess. Clear of the gaseous burst, Sigmund repeatedly smacked his jacket onto Deloray’s body, but it was making very little difference.
De Silva looked up as a burst of fire-retardant foam showered down. Michael was holding a fire extinguisher and frantically spraying it in a wide arch over the burning security man. In a few moments, the fire was out. Sigmund slammed the jacket down a few more times for good measure. They both noticed Craig Deloray had stopped screaming. He was lying still on his front.
Michael got down on his knees and gingerly turned Craig over. His face was frozen in a horrible grimace. Half of the flesh had been ripped away by the flames, his teeth and jaw bone were exposed on one side. The remaining skin had been charred black, bubbled and fried.
‘MICHAEL!’ Hilary screamed.
He span around to see his wife clutching their daughter and pointing towards the ceiling. Her eyes reflected the bright yellow slurry of fire sweeping across the ceiling towards the escalators.
‘Run!’ Michael yelled. ‘Go!’
He jumped to his feet and saw that Sigmund was already dashing after Hilary and Emily. Miguel Bandonis was only metres away and had just seen the fire. Without thinking, acting purely on impulse, Michael Xavier ran as fast as he could across the squelching carpet towards the top of the escalator. He could see Hilary and Emily had made it to the top step and were running down as fast as they dared. He was about to shout to them again when he slipped, his feet sliding awkwardly on the soaked floor. He fell backwards, banging his head on the floor. A terrible pain shot down his spine. He tried to pull himself up and felt strong arms grabbing him under the shoulders. He saw Sigmund in front of him, heading down the escalator, and felt a burst of heat on the back of his neck. He cried out in panic. The smell of burning hair filled his nostrils.
He was stumbling, falling again. Then he caught himself, snatched at the rubber handrail and felt a hand grip his free arm, glimpsing Miguel Bandonis beside him on the escalator.
Lights streamed past. Another burst of heat came from directly overhead. He heard Hilary scream and his stomach felt like it was falling out of his body. Then he saw his wife and daughter. A sheet of flame shot down from the sloping ceiling above the frozen metal steps. It missed them by centimetres and was sucked back into a panel overhead. The escalator stairs seemed to rear up. He collided with Miguel. An elbow slammed into his damaged side sending a flood of pain through his body. He waited for the crunch of impact, saw blurred steel, a flash of black rubber railing, the soiled white of his shirt sleeve. But the bone-shattering landing never came. He fell onto his side, hitting a hard floor covered with soft carpet. He rolled away just as Miguel crashed down beside him. Pulling himself up, Michael looked down to see the engineer lying on his front, groaning into the carpet. Michael helped him to his feet and looked up. Hilary was standing just up ahead of them, her face a picture of terror. Xavier was about to ask what had happened when he saw for himself. The staircase down to the lower ground floor was completely blocked with burning rubble.
47
‘The casino,’ Michael yelled, grabbing his wife and daughter and shoving them towards a set of heavy double doors. He turned back to Miguel. The man was getting to his feet, grasping his side, clearly in agony and barely able to walk. Sigmund was there in a second, and between them they helped the injured man towards the casino.
The sound of the fire filled the hall as flames found new material, new fuel. Superheated air rushed across the ceiling and embers dropped and fizzed on the wet carpet. In a few moments, the three men had traversed the short distance to the doors and dived through. Dumping Miguel on the carpet just inside the casino, Michael and Sigmund rushed back to the doors and heaved them shut.
Hilary collapsed to her knees. Emily was gasping for air. Michael went over to them. ‘You okay?’
Hilary nodded.
‘We have a few minutes,’ Michael said. ‘Those are fire doors. They’ll hold back the flames for a bit.’ He walked over to Miguel. The man’s shirt was wet with blood. He crouched beside him and gently lifted the wet fabric. There was a deep gash in his side. Standing up, Xavier ran over to the office of the casino close to the doors. Rifling through a cupboard beside a desk to one side of the room, he found a First Aid kit and dashed back to the others.
Throwing open the box, Michael found antiseptic cream, wipes, iodine, pads, plasters and bandages. ‘This will hurt,’ he told Miguel. The man nodded. Michael cleaned the wound, smeared it with antiseptic and pressed a pad onto it. Miguel yelped.
‘Sorry.’
Michael stuck the pad to Miguel’s abdomen with two large plasters then wrapped bandage around his waist.
‘Thank you,’ Miguel said, between gritted teeth.
‘So, how’re we going to get down to the subs?’ Sigmund asked. He was standing beside them breathing heavily.
Michael said nothing, just gazed around the vast space, his expression desperate. Then they all heard a sound. It was familiar, but wildly incongruous, a clanking of metal against metal, a tumbling of coins.
Michael and Sigmund took a couple of paces in the direction of the sound. Turning into an aisle of slot machines, they saw a man in a dirty dinner suit and a Stetson standing at a machine. He had just yanked the handle and was watching the spinning wheels intently. He seemed completely oblivious to them.
Michael and Sigmund approached slowly. They were almost at the man’s side before he glanced round and produced a crooked smile. ‘I’m just having the best run. Friggin’ unbelievable.’ His voice was a heavy Texan drawl. He was a short, overweight man of about 50. Neither Michael nor Sigmund recognised him. His dinner suit was ripped and covered in dust, the Stetson was powdered grey. He had a dark bruise on his left cheek and his upper lip was swollen.
‘I’m Michael Xavier, and this is Sigmund de Silva,’ Michael said, unable to keep the bemusement from his voice.
‘Yes, I know who you are,’ the man said, keeping his eyes fixed on the spinning wheels.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Gil,’ he said. ‘Gil Tallow.’
/>
Michael vaguely recognised the name – one of Johnny’s business pals.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Sigmund asked.
The man did not take his eyes from the wheels. ‘Winning!’ he said. ‘I’m winning.’ Then he turned to face the two men square-on, pushed the hat back up his forehead and beamed. ‘It’s sooo darn exciting!’
‘Why are you here?’ Michael persisted. ‘I didn’t see you at dinner.’
‘No. Damn pissed about that.’ And he looked into Michael’s eyes, his face suddenly serious. ‘Martha was so friggin’ late. We came through the linkway from the other dome, what’s it called?’
‘Beta.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Beta. We’re headed for the banquet when the whole friggin’ place starts a-shakin’. One wild ride,’ he added with a grin, and turned back to the machine.
‘Where’s Martha?’ Michael asked.
‘Oh, she’s dead,’ Gil responded without looking away from the slot machine.
Michael glanced at Sigmund, who looked completely lost. Then he noticed how Gil’s hand was shaking so much it took him a few moments to slip a coin into the slot at the top of the machine.
‘So ... so, Gil,’ Michael said. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Back stairs,’ he replied and turned to give Michael a puzzled look. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to the far wall of the huge open space. ‘Ain’t that obvious? The main stairs are backed up worse than an old lady on a cheese diet.’ Then he gave a manic laugh. ‘Thought that was pretty friggin’ apparent.’
‘Gil, there’s been a terrible accident,’ Sigmund began. ‘We’ve got to try to get down to the lower ground floor. It’s our best chance of survival.’
Gil ignored him.
‘Gil?’ Michael said and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.
‘Don’t you friggin’ touch me,’ Gil Tallow spat. For the first time, he took his hand from the arm of the machine, and span on his heel. ‘I know your game, mister,’ he hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Oh, yeah.’ He snarled. ‘Oh, yeah.’
Michael pulled back, speechless.
‘You wanna piece of the action, don’t ya? That’s your friggin’ trick, ain’t it?’ Tallow’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘WELL YOU AIN’T HAVING NONE!’ he yelled suddenly, his eyes ablaze. Before Michael could realise what was happening, the man pulled a length of metal pipe from the far side of the slot machine. Gripping it in his right hand, he swung it round. The pipe cut the air, missing Michael by a centimetre. He leapt to the side and fell over his own feet, landing with his back against another slot machine on the other side of the aisle.
Stunned, Sigmund had frozen to the spot. Gil Tallow looked at them and laughed, let the pipe slip through his twitching fingers and turned back to the machine. ‘Darn farm hands,’ he exclaimed and spat on the floor between them. ‘Bunch of friggin’ pussies.’
Sigmund did not waste a second. He pulled Michael to his feet and gripped him by the shoulders. ‘Don’t say another word, Michael,’ he said under his breath. ‘The crazy fucker’s helped us more than he’ll ever know.’
48
Gobi Desert, China
Steph worked her way through the material she had collected from the wreckage of the Silverback. Very little of it was useable. Almost all the components of the aircraft were sealed units and highly specialised. They did not lend themselves naturally to being cannibalised. What she had salvaged lay on a rickety table close to the fire. Howard was cooking up some food in the kitchen just a few metres away. It smelled surprisingly good.
On the table lay a bunch of different coloured wires, a power pack from a coolant unit, a solar power cell and some parts from a shattered communication console. Beside the pile of smashed equipment stood Howard’s old radio.
Using a miniature screwdriver from the toolkit she had found in the wrecked plane, Steph prised open the back of a small metal unit. Inside lay a deceptively simple array of wires and plastic rectangles placed in a regular arrangement. Although it looked no more complex than the sort of device a young techno enthusiast might build with his first electronic design kit, it was a machine with the computing power of a TV station.
The CARPA eggheads who designed the module used components so small that they had reached the effective limit for miniaturisation at which a fundamental principle of quantum theory called Heisenberg’s Uncertainty began to interfere with the functioning of the device. This meant that the innards of any form of processor could get no smaller unless, that is, quantum computing mechanisms were used. (This was how Sybil operated and it gave the Base One computer extraordinary processing power. Unfortunately, this could still only be achieved with a large machine such as Sybil – a computer that took up a huge room in the lowest level of Base One on Tintara. Even the scientists at CARPA were a long way from building miniature quantum computers.)
Steph studied the inside of the module and suddenly felt overwhelmed by the task she had set herself. A surge of anger erupted inside her and she slammed down the metal box, rocking the old handmade table so that it almost toppled over.
‘What’re you hoping to achieve?’ It was Josh. He was pulling himself up on some animal skins that had been rolled up to form a pillow.
‘Hi,’ Steph responded. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘I was fine ... until the alarm call,’ he declared, glancing at the box Steph had brought down on the table.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘I’m actually feeling a million times better.’ He went to move his legs. ‘Ow!’
‘Easy tiger.’
‘No, it’s just pins and needles, Steph. The knee is feeling ... well almost bearable,’ he said and grinned. ‘So, you going to tell me?’ And he nodded to the muddle of objects on the table.
‘Howard lent us his radio. Says it’s no good to him as it is. It’s actually working fine. It’s just that any signal it could pick up is jammed.’
‘So, what good is it to us?’
‘It occurred to me that if the range of the interference is limited, then we might still pick up a signal from Tom. Or we could send a high frequency signal to him. E-Force comms work on ultra high frequency radio waves, remember.’
‘So you’re hoping the Chinese jamming won’t reach such high frequencies?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But then, if the Chinese jamming signal doesn’t reach that part of the radio spectrum, why haven’t you been able to pick up anything from Base One?’
‘Because this dear old thing,’ and she patted the wooden casing of the radio affectionately, ‘... would not be able to operate at that range, unmodified.’
‘Hence that lot.’ Josh nodded towards the pile of salvaged components. ‘Anything I can do?’
Steph ran her fingers over her chin. ‘I’m not so sure either of us can, Josh.’ She lifted up a metal box about 5 centimetres square. It had three red leads coming from its underside. Apart from that it was featureless.
‘A comms modulator,’ Josh said.
‘Yeah, found it in this piece of console.’ Steph pointed to a length of shattered plastic about 30 centimetres long and 15 centimetres wide to which three similar metal boxes were attached. ‘It should boost the signal to cover either end of the range of the old radio.’
Howard walked in, wiping his hands on an old rag. ‘Ah, how’s the patient?’
‘Feeling much better, thanks.’
Howard shook his head. ‘Steph was trying to explain about the nanowhatsits. I know I’ve lost touch living out here, but that’s pretty amazing.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Josh said, nodding. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I still find it incredible.’
‘So, what are you trying to do with my old radio, Steph?’
She repeated what she had told Josh.
‘That’s good ... isn’t it?’
‘Would be, except I can’t power the modulator.’
‘What about my generator? It’s as ancient as the radio, but it has a f
air old kick.’
Steph smiled. ‘I’m sure it does, Howard, but it has to be a very precise power signature, or the components will fry – assuming the modulator is still working, of course.’
Howard sat down in the only other chair, close to the end of Josh’s bier.
‘God! How dumb am I?’ Josh said suddenly. ‘The cybersuit. We could use its powerpack.’
‘Nice idea, Josh, but it won’t work. The suit has an entirely different modulation system.’
‘Damn it, I knew that.’
‘You’re forgiven,’ Steph said with a smile.
Howard stood up and walked over to a pair of shelves cut into the wall close to the exit. He rummaged around for a few moments, mumbling to himself. Steph turned back to the pile of components on the table. Josh closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, Howard was walking back towards them. ‘Will this help?’ On the table, he placed an ugly-looking mess of wires and bulbous clumps of insulation tape that sprouted from a small, lidless wooden box.
‘Er ... what is it?’
‘A transformer, of sorts.’
Steph stared at it. Josh was leaning up on one elbow peering over towards the table.
‘Made it from bits of the original Toyota and other odds and ends I’ve found over the years.’
‘But why?’
‘I’ll have you know it’s extremely useful.’
Steph and Josh looked at him doubtfully.
‘Almost every electrical device I brought with me has long since gone the journey,’ Howard said. ‘Any replacements I’ve managed to procure have been by bartering with nomads who pass by occasionally, or from the market in Fung Ching Wa. I discovered quite early on though that only rarely do two devices work on the same voltage. Most of them are Chinese, Russian, American and a few European products, and by the time I get them they’ve almost always been mauled by the locals. So, I built this.’ He looked down at the contraption with pride. ‘A transformer. It can handle most voltage changes. You could hook it up to its operator and get the power signature you need’
