by J Boyd Long
A minute went by, and nothing happened. The room was dim, lit only by the small red and green lights from the racks of computer equipment. Quentin and Bob sat breathing heavily in the silence, waiting for the door to be thrown open at any moment, and for whatever might follow that.
“I hope Tocho and Eissa made it back through the gate,” Bob muttered.
Quentin’s heart skipped a beat. He had been so wrapped up that he hadn’t even thought about them, and where they might be. A wave of guilt washed over him, and he strained to hear anything that might give him a clue as to what was happening, but his heart thudding in his chest seemed to drown out any other sounds.
“Well, no gunshots so far, so there’s that.” He tried to be optimistic, but dread was creeping into his gut. What if Eissa and Tocho got captured? What could they possibly do about that?
Another minute slowly passed in silence. Quentin managed to get his breathing under control, and was just about to ask Bob how his knee felt when he heard voices outside. In the next instant, the server room door flew open, and the lights came on. Footsteps were approaching, and Bob threw his hands up in the air.
“Don’t shoot, we’re civilians,” he shouted, gesturing at Quentin to follow suit. “We are not armed.”
Quentin raised his hands just as the first soldier reached them, the muzzle of his rifle leading the way. He felt his head falling forward, and he realized that he was graying out. He shook his head and sucked in a lungful of air, forcing himself to breath and stay conscious.
“On your feet,” barked the soldier. A second later, two more soldiers appeared, one on the outside of Bob, and the other on the outside of Quentin.
“I broke my knee when I fell down,” Bob said. “I can’t stand up on my own.”
The first soldier poked Bob’s knees with the barrel of his rifle, and Bob screamed, clutching his wounded knee. Quentin cringed at the sound, and froze halfway through the act of standing.
“Okay, stay on the floor. You, sit back down across from him.” He gestured towards Quentin, and pointed to the wall. “Now then, who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“We’ll answer all your questions,” Bob said, gritting his teeth. “But if you don’t mind, would you please identify yourself and your authority? The whole reason we hid was because we didn’t know who you are, or what your intentions are. We have nothing to hide.”
“I’m Sergeant Wilson, DimCorp Special Security. Now then, who are you, and what are you doing here? My manifest says no one is in this building except security.”
“I’m Robert Owens, Taylor Consulting. This is one of my staff, Quentin James. We’re not on your manifest because we’re doing an in-progress audit of the project, as well as internal processes. From what I understand, no one outside of the Corporate Headquarters knows about this, because they want to get real data.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked the soldier beside Quentin.
“It means that if people knew we were coming to check on them, they’d put on a show for us. The guys in the head shed want to know the truth of the situation. So, total operational security.” Bob grimaced, and tried to straighten his leg. “Now then, since we all know each other, I’m going to need you fellows to help me get up and out of here. I need to get my knee looked at.”
“Not so fast,” Sergeant Wilson said. “Why did you run and hide from us?”
“Are you serious?” Bob asked. “We’re in the heart of the most powerful and controversial thing in existence. When people with machine guns come running in, you assume the worst, and ask questions later. I’ve seen my share of attempted coups, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand there and risk getting shot, even if I am justified in my presence.” He gave Wilson a stern look. “Maybe you’re a bit too young to understand that, but if you make it to my age, and you hang up the uniform and turn in the gun, it changes your perspective a bit. It did for me, anyway.”
Quentin marveled at Bob’s ability to be calm and deliver such a smooth story. He realized that he believed every word Bob said, and he almost laughed out loud at himself. He managed to stifle it and return his focus to the discussion.
Sergeant Wilson stepped back and keyed the radio on his shoulder.
“Delta one, Delta seven, over.”
The reply came over his earpiece, so they could only hear his side of the conversation.
“I’ve got two unknown personnel, not on manifest, claiming to be with Taylor Consulting, doing a secret internal audit, can you check that out and confirm?”
He listened for a moment, then nodded. “10-4. I’m going to need a med-evac for one of them, white male, approximately seventy, injured knee while fleeing. We’re in Building 4, Level B1, in the DimGate Control Room.”
He stepped back to the group, and pulled two large plastic zip ties out. “We can’t confirm anything with the top brass tonight, obviously. Since you aren’t on the manifest, we’ve got to take you to a holding cell until they come in tomorrow and verify your authorization. I apologize for the inconvenience, but if you really are who you say you are, then you understand that we’ve got to go by the book.”
“Of course,” Bob said. “Standard procedure. This will all be cleared up in the morning.”
“We’ll get a med transport for you, sir,” Wilson said. “The other gentleman will come with us.”
Chapter 19
Quentin tried to emulate Bob’s attitude of calm superiority, but he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He was being arrested by DimCorp’s militia and separated from Bob, and he didn’t know whether Eissa and Tocho were captured or not. Hell, he hadn’t even managed to launch a virus. The mission was a total bust. He pushed his back into the wall, trying to still his quaking muscles.
Sergeant Wilson knelt down beside Bob.
“I have to follow procedures, sir, so I’m going to handcuff you. Please place your hands behind your back.”
“Of course,” Bob said. “Just be easy, these old shoulders don’t bend the way they used to.”
He leaned forward and moved his arms behind his back. Sergeant Wilson pulled the zip tie around his wrists, and gently tightened it.
“Parks, you stay with him. The medical team won’t give you any trouble. You stay glued to him until they release him, then bring him to the top and put him in with this one. Don’t book him, since this is a DUV.”
“What’s a DUV?” Quentin asked.
“Detention Until Verification,” Wilson said. “It’s not an arrest, we’re just holding you briefly. Assuming everything checks out, of course. If it doesn’t, then it would become a different situation.”
“I understand,” Bob said. He shifted a bit, and grimaced. “Can you boys help me up before you go? I’m better off standing on one leg than sitting with my hands restrained. This is really hard on my shoulders and my knee.”
“Let’s get him out there in a chair,” Wilson directed. He turned to Quentin. “I’ve got to restrain you too, sir. Please stand and turn around, and place your hands behind your back.”
Quentin complied, silently thanking Bob and Tocho for their wisdom in coming without guns, as he was patted down. Bob was lifted to his feet and patted down as well, and assisted down the aisle to the door. Sergeant Wilson and Quentin followed behind them.
“Quentin, pay attention to everything,” Bob called over his shoulder. “I want you to consider this a training exercise. You may not be able to take notes, so make a point of consciously remembering details, just like we talk about in our training sessions. A good auditor notices the details.”
“Yes, sir,” Quentin replied. While the speech was partly for show, he was still impressed that Bob had the audacity to tell him bluntly to pay attention to where he was going, and to watch the guards who were watching him.
“You hear that, boys?” Sergeant Wilson asked with a smirk. “We’re being graded, so make sure you do everything by the book.”
Bob chuckled dryly. “Everything is a train
ing opportunity, Sergeant Wilson, am I right?”
“Absolutely,” Wilson said.
Once Bob was settled into a chair, Wilson led Quentin to the door. The other soldier followed them. Quentin cautiously glanced around the DimGate room but saw no sign of Eissa or Tocho. They turned and walked up the hallway beside the control room, and through the double doors. He was in new territory, and focused on memorizing the layout of the building as they went. He doubted that he would get an opportunity to escape and run, but Bob told him to pay attention, and it gave him something to focus on besides the panic that was threatening to consume him.
On the other side of the double doors a hallway ran to the left and right, and there was a stairway directly in front of them, leading both up and down. Quentin noted the sign on the wall stating that they were on Level B1. Arrows on the sign indicated that there were two more basement levels, and four upper levels. They went up.
On the ground level, they exited the stairwell into a huge lobby with a high ceiling, resembling a medium-sized convention center. There was a fountain in the center of it, surrounded by couches and small tables and chairs. A bank of elevators stood to one side, with yellow construction tape across the doors and out of service signs in front of them.
Wilson led them across the floor towards a large glass wall. Their footsteps echoed loudly off the high ceiling, adding to the white noise of the fountain. There were a series of doors leading outside, and a security kiosk in front of each one. Only one of them was occupied, and they walked directly to it.
Quentin’s legs and arms were trembling, and he cursed himself for being unable to hide his fear. He was sure that the soldiers would recognize his shaking arms as a sign of guilt, and he prayed that he wouldn’t have to speak, as he had no faith in his ability to talk without bursting into tears.
“What up, Sergeant Wilson?” the guard at the door asked as he stood up to greet them. “You find a creeper?”
“Yeah man,” Wilson said. “Did you screen him in?”
“No, wasn’t me,” he replied, glancing at Quentin. “Did you come in through here? It might’ve been the Stickman, while I was on rounds. I just came on the door at midnight.”
Quentin tried to think quickly. If they asked Bob the same question when he came through here, Bob would have an answer, and if their answers were wildly different, then that would arouse suspicion. He could say that they came in through another door, but then they would want to know which one, and he wouldn’t have an answer for that. Before he could decide what to say, Wilson spoke to the guard again.
“Shit, you part-timer.” Wilson laughed. “You got it made, you know that? Working the doors midnight to eight, when nobody’s here. You got it made, man.”
Quentin sagged in relief. No one expected him to say anything. While the guards seemed to be doing their jobs by the book, they were much more relaxed and jovial about it than he would have expected. These didn’t seem like trigger-happy killers. They really weren’t any different than some of the guys he worked with at IBZ.
“Damn right I do,” the door guard said with a grin. He pushed a button, and the door to the outside buzzed for a second, and popped open. “Go on, super-trooper, go do your thing.”
As they walked outside and across the street, Quentin glanced around. It was night time, but the entire area was lit up by arc-sodium lights, casting a coppery tint on everything. The steel buildings around them were huge, with few windows and minimal landscaping. The streets were wide, presumably to accommodate truck traffic. The building they had just exited looked out of place with its black glass walls rising up into the sky, as if it had been transplanted from the business district of a big city and put into the middle of an industrial park.
The building in front of them was much smaller, and only a single story of dirty white masonry. It was flanked on both sides by massive warehouses. While the area they had just come from was all new construction, thanks to Bob and Tocho’s bomb, everything out here looked like it had been here for a long time. DimCorp might invest a lot of money in building the DimGate system, but it didn’t look like they spent much on facility upkeep.
Wilson guided them up the sidewalk past the security vehicles parked in front of the building, keeping a firm grip on his upper arm. The sign beside the door displayed a typical security badge, with a phone number in big block print beneath it. The legend on the glass door did little to make him feel at home: Welcome to DimCorp Campus Security. The other guard held the door open as they passed through.
The entry foyer was cramped with the three of them in it. There was a single chair against a wall, and a few investment and banking magazines on a small table beside it. The wall opposite the door was cement block on the lower half, and plexiglass on the upper half, showing a room full of mostly-empty desks. A bored-looking guard glanced up, and buzzed them in. The door to their left popped open with a loud click, and Sergeant Wilson led them through.
They stopped at a desk on the other side of the office, and Wilson grabbed a clipboard with a pen attached to it by a long plastic chain. The guard that had accompanied them wandered off down the hallway.
“Name.”
“Quentin James.”
Wilson wrote rapidly.
“Date of birth?”
Quentin was overwhelmed with the sudden understanding of how much he didn’t know about being in another dimension. Did everyone go by the same calendar system? How different was the English language? What if they fingerprinted him, would they be able to tell that he worked for IBZ, and was wanted by DimCorp Security? Eissa and Bob had both told him to stick to the truth as much as possible. He didn’t have time to make up a plausible lie for everything Wilson asked him, and he doubted that he would be able to remember what he said if he did lie. The truth seemed to be his best bet, at least to begin with.
“26 September, 1975.”
“Citizen number.”
Shit.
“Uh, I don’t have it memorized.”
“Let’s see your ID card,” Wilson said, looking up from his clipboard. “Oh yeah, you’re still cuffed. What pocket is it in?”
“We don’t, ah, we don’t carry ID cards,” Quentin said. He tried to channel Bob. “It ends up being a liability, since we travel to a lot of dimensions, because things are different in every dimension. We’re sort of clandestine. A lot of places we go, people don’t know there are other dimensions. We have to blend in.”
“Huh,” Wilson grunted. “I’m starting to think you guys are spooks.” He scribbled a few more things on the clipboard.
Quentin debated on elaborating his story and confirming Wilson’s suspicions. Maybe if Wilson thought they were secret corporate agents instead of consultants, he would just let them go. No one wanted to mess with secret agents, right?
“Come on,” Wilson said, dropping the clipboard back on the desk. “Let’s get you in a holding cell.”
The cell that Quentin found himself in was not what he had pictured. Never having been in jail before, he only had movies to pull his expectations from, and he was surprised at the reality.
The room was an ordinary room, with cement block walls instead of bars. The only window was in the door, which was a heavy-duty steel door. The upper half of the door was a wire-reinforced security glass window, so that the occupants of the room could be observed from outside.
The room itself was ten feet by ten feet square, with a very high ceiling, and beige paint covering everything. There were two bunk beds with no mattresses, one on each side of the room, and in the back left corner was a toilet with a water fountain on top of it. Quentin was a bit disturbed about the sterility of the concept, and hoped he wasn’t there long enough to have to use it.
The fluorescent lighting was bright, and he noticed that there was no switch to turn it off. Wilson stopped him just inside the door, and cut the zip tie off his wrists.
“Okay, buddy, you hang tight here. Your boss will be here when the medics get him fixed up. The
y’ll bring you some breakfast at seven, and hopefully they can get some answers from your office and get you out of here by nine or ten.”
Quentin nodded, massaging his wrists. He sat down on the bare springs of one of the lower bunks as Wilson left, and he heard the electric lock buzz, sealing him in. A sudden wave of claustrophobic panic washed over him. His chest tightened so much that he could barely inhale, and he had to stop himself from racing over to the door and banging on it, begging to be let out.
He lay back on the bunk and forced his focus onto his breathing, as Tocho had tried to teach him. I know that I breathe in, he chanted silently, as he sucked in a shuddering lungful of air. I know that I breathe out. He repeated the process, trying to slow his heart rate down some with each breath. He realized on the third breathe that he was thinking about Bob, wishing he was in the cell to help him deal with the moment, and pulled his attention back to his breathing.
