AA23.
They had a crew there guarding the hub, and she had little doubt why. Her explosions had certainly started by now, and word of the Brig being compromised had undoubtedly been relayed around. Given that Micah—in the guise of a man Oswald Silver knew and seemed to fear, Will Stark—had arrived in the ship in docking bay AA23, they’d reasonably ramped up the security there.
She wasn’t worried. She was invisible. She had a few grenades. She had a timed explosive. And she had her handgun.
For the first time, she felt a high degree of confidence that this would work. She was going home. Her eyes roamed and found a large digital clock inside the hub control room. 1930. She had plenty of time left. Should she try to covertly board the ship now?
As she pondered this, her eyes wandered around. The area was quite impressive, after all.
And then she saw him.
Oswald Silver was engaged in a demonstrative conversation with a woman Sheila couldn't identify but thought looked familiar. Silver's face was purpling in anger, aging his recently youthened face. Sheila was faced with the odd thought that this tiny woman with the long hair somehow intimidated the great Oswald Silver.
When the two parted ways, Sheila decided she knew how she'd spend at least a few minutes of her remaining time on the space station before making her way to the sphere.
She followed the woman, determined to find out who she was—and how it was that she could control the most powerful man in the West. She’d tail her, silent and invisible as always, and then get back in plenty of time to board the ship before her scheduled departure time.
What could possibly go wrong?
—18—
DEIRDRE SILVER
THERE WAS NOTHING to do in the room but wait. Or exercise. Or take showers. Or work on her hair.
It was now, when she wasn’t struggling to survive, when she wasn’t worried that the Ravagers would enter this space and devour her, when she realized that despite his bluster Jeffrey knew he couldn’t kill her, not yet… it was now that she realized she was bored. She was accustomed to meetings, interacting with people, talking over communicators, typing emails and text messages, watching programs on the view screen to see what was said about her or just for mindless entertainment.
She lived her life bouncing from one external stimulus to the next.
There were no external stimuli here. Nothing. Silence. No communicators. No Internet. Nothing.
It drove her crazy. She began to wish that Jeffrey would burst into the room shouting that he was about to kill her with his bare hands to activate the adrenaline rush that would follow. Even if she died at his hands, it would be better than the current boredom, which might kill her anyway.
She tried to sleep. But there was no mental or physical fatigue.
She did some of the exercises Roddy taught her, working up a decent sweat, wondering what he was doing right now. Desdemona had inferred they’d caught him, too. But how? Roddy had left the planet with her father.
Hadn’t he? Or had he, too, ignored orders and come running to try to save her?
That thought provided a bit of exhilaration in an otherwise dull time.
She finished exercising and used the shower, toweling herself dry as best she could. She worked a few new knots from her hair, then wrapped it up into a tight, flat bun on her head.
And then she sat on the bed to wait for Miriam’s return, eyes fixed on the door, ears ignoring any sound but the knock at the door, the click indicating that food service had arrived to bring fresh food and remove the remnants of her previous meal.
Her eyes began to feel heavy.
She nearly jumped from her bed when the knock finally came, slid forward to the edge of her bed, toes on the ground, trying to keep any excitement from her face. Just in case the person coming through the door wasn’t Miriam.
The locking mechanism clicked, disengaged, and the door swung open. Miriam entered, and Deirdre felt a small burst of happy exhilaration. The door clicked shut behind Miriam, and Deirdre noted the slight adjustment in the other woman’s wardrobe, suggesting she’d succeeded in fulfilling Deirdre’s requests.
Miriam moved around the cart closer to Deirdre and leaned forward. “I got everything.” Her voice was a whisper, with a conspiratorial undertone.
“Good,” Deirdre replied, trying not to smile. There was still too much that could go wrong, too much that could turn her short-term triumph into a long-term defeat. Smiles could come later.
They spent the next several minutes swapping clothes. Miriam stripped off the protective germ mask, dark hair net, and the loose scrubs worn by the kitchen staff. Deirdre unsnapped her prisoner’s garb, trying to ignore the fact that Miriam kept sneaking glances at her as she stripped her clothing. The women were of a similar height and weight, and thus the loose-fitting kitchen scrubs fit perfectly. With her long tresses tucked up inside the hair net, her face largely hidden by the germ mask, and her natural curves muted by the loose clothing, Deirdre could now pass as a random kitchen worker.
The trick would be passing as a specific kitchen worker, though. Long enough to be free of her guard companion, long enough to ensure nobody realized that Miriam didn’t look exactly like herself.
“I got you something else,” Miriam said. She held out a small case. “Contact lenses.”
“Why?” Deirdre frowned. “I can see fine.”
“They're zero prescription… but they're tinted brown.”
Deirdre let the smile come this time. “Good idea.”
It took her a moment to get them both in; she’d never needed corrective lenses before. And then she used the scant makeup supplies to alter her skin tone, just slightly, to better match Miriam’s.
When she finished, she motioned for Miriam to stand next to her. At a quick glance, they could pass for sisters. That was good enough. It would have to be good enough.
Deidre donned the soft slippers Miriam used as the guard pounded on the door, asking if Miriam was okay, demanding to know what was taking so long. Miriam shouted back that she was fine, adding a few intentional coughs to her response.
The two women stood facing each other. “Just don't say much,” Miriam murmured. “I rarely talk to the guard, so just ignore him or grunt answers. I don’t talk to the other prisoners, either. That shouldn’t matter; I switched up our rounds so you’re the last one for this shift. Follow the guard back to the kitchen, leave the cart where the markings indicate, and follow the signs to reach my room. 227.” She thought for a moment, then pulled the lanyard off her head and handed it over. “This will let you into my room and give you access anywhere you want to go.”
Deirdre donned the lanyard. “Thank you.” She paused. “What about the—?”
Miriam lifted the covering off the lower section of the cart and pulled out the small semi-automatic weapon and a fully loaded spare magazine. “Safety's on. Be careful.”
Deidre raised her smock and stuffed the weapon into her waistband, then embraced her ally. “Thank you, Miriam, for everything.” She pulled away, her face tightening with worry. “I hope you don't get into too much trouble for this.”
Miriam shook her head. “I won't get in trouble, so don’t worry about that. This will expose those opposed to your family, and those are the people who should be worried. I’m not sure if the guard outside is loyal or not, because I never thought to pay attention to him. But it’s best to assume he’s an enemy agent. Don’t say anything to him. Keep your head down. Cough if someone asks you something; I’ve been doing that all day so people think I’m getting sick. Remember that, right now, your voice is the weak link in your disguise. Don’t use it, and everything should be fine.”
Deirdre hesitated, then hugged the woman once more. Miriam seemed surprised, then patted Deirdre on the back. “Good luck, Deirdre.”
“Thanks again, Miriam.”
“Yep. Don’t forget the cart.” Miriam smiled faintly. “But leave the food. I’m going to be pretty hungry when I f
inally get free.”
Deirdre nodded and set the tray on the bed. Then, as she'd told Miriam she'd do, she used the thin bedsheets to bind the woman's hands and loosely muzzle her. Deirdre grimaced at Miriam, whose eyes twinkled above the gag. She then took a deep breath, pulled the cart to the door, and knocked to signal for the guard to release the locks.
She heard the click and heard the door whoosh open. She positioned herself so he couldn’t see into the room; if he spotted the real Miriam bound on the bed, Deirdre would be exposed before she ever got out of her cell. She backed out of the room, pushing the guard out of the way, then stepped around to pull the door closed. She forced herself not to breathe a sigh of relief when the locks engaged.
She could feel his eyes on her. “What took you so long? You’re not supposed to fraternize with the prisoners.”
Deirdre coughed, then shrugged, then coughed again.
The guard rolled his eyes and, after ensuring the door was locked tight, marched ahead of her. Deirdre pushed the cart, following behind at a reasonable distance, twisting through hallways that all seemed the same size and passing doors that had no identifying marks. She was lost quickly, and doubted she could get back to her old room now without help. Her eyes, long attuned to subtleties in shape and color, realized that the hallways had subtle changes in coloring, lighting levels, and the size of the floor tiles. Frequent travelers here—guards, kitchen delivery staff—would be able to recognize those patterns as street signs, and use them to maneuver around without issue.
An escaped prisoner, though, could wander around for hours, and still not figure out how to escape the maze.
The guard finally stopped by one of the doors and waved his identification badge in front of the security device. She heard the now familiar clicking sound as the door unlocked. The guard pulled the door open and held it, motioning for Deirdre to walk through.
She did… and found herself transported from the sterile sameness of the prison wing into the loud, colorful underbelly of the main activity hub of the fortress called New Venice.
Here, brightly colored signs overhead named the hallways like streets, making clear exactly where you were at all times. Other signs pointed out the direction to other sections of the fortress: sleeping quarters, meeting rooms, mess hall, kitchen, maintenance, infrastructure, armory, garage. The first sign noted that the prison wing entrance was behind them, though Deidre doubted there was much of a line to get inside.
The signs helped, but she knew she couldn’t make her reliance on them obvious. As a resident of this facility, Miriam wouldn’t need to check her whereabouts against street signs, or determine her next turn using the information on the directional signs, at least not more than once. Miriam would know the most efficient route from the kitchens to the residential wing, and would be unlikely to even check the signs. But there was nothing she could do about that, just stay away from crowds and play up the sickness angle, suggesting as necessary that whatever ailed her was disorienting in nature, and hope that the people here weren’t too concerned about sick colleagues. She didn’t want anyone offering to help her make her way back to her room.
Once she was in Miriam’s room, though, she’d have to “get better” and memorize the best route from there to wherever she’d head next as part of her escape. No uncertainty, no checking the signs every few seconds. She’d have to blend in like a local.
The guard approached her slowly from behind, like a predator stalking its prey. He leaned in close, and she could smell onions on his breath, no doubt a remnant of an earlier meal. He put an arm around her and pulled her in close. “See you later, then?” His voice almost purred with anticipation.
She turned her head away, coughed, and shook her head. Odd that Miriam hadn’t mentioned that there was something going on between she and the guard. Or that he, at least, was interested.
His eyes clouded. “Oh.” He seemed to debate saying more. Deirdre held her hand to her mouth and coughed again, keeping her head low so he couldn’t see into her eyes.
Thankfully, he got the message. He removed his arm from around her shoulder and walked away. Deirdre wondered if she’d just ruined something for Miriam… and if she’d helped her ally in so doing.
With the guard now departed from her side, she needed to take the cart to the kitchen. Something screamed in her ear to simply leave it where she was and get to Miriam’s room quickly, but she wanted to keep things as normal as possible. She kept her head down, stopping occasionally to mix a cough with a clandestine glance at the arrows pointing to the kitchen. She finally found it, left her cart at the spot designated by the bright paint on the concrete floor at the direction of the applicable signage.
She wound her way through the colorful interior of the fortress, which was set up like a minor city… and Deirdre realized it had to act as just that. She walked past shops and restaurants and manufacturing zones where people built the goods and cooked the food sold there. She passed an area called “Research” and wondered what they were researching; it must be important, because it looked to be the largest wing of the complex. She finally made it to the quieter wing of private quarters and followed the signs quickly to room 227. She studied the locking mechanism on the door, stretched Miriam’s badge out, and swiped it through the designated slot, hoping they’d not already found the young kitchen worker bound to the bed in the prison wing.
But the lock clicked open, and Deidre pushed her way into the room, shoving the door closed behind her.
She let herself collapse against the door, eyes closed, letting the adrenaline and panic wear off in the form of rapid breaths, until she felt under control. Then she pushed herself away from the door and back to a standing position, looking around.
Miriam's room was small, a single space for everything save for a small private bathroom. It was clean, except for a few stray articles of clothing strewn about on the bed. She didn't see a spot in the room for cooking; perhaps everyone here ate in the communal spaces. It made sense; adding kitchen-like spaces to each private room would greatly increase the required floor space in a fortress designed for space efficiency. Deirdre’s eyes fell upon the door to the bathroom, and, only now realizing her desperate need, Deirdre made use of the facility. She stared at her face in the mirror when she finished and splashed cold water on it. She decided she liked the look with brown eyes, and opted to leave the tinted contact lenses in even after she’d gotten free of the fortress and had no further use of her Miriam disguise.
She nearly slapped herself in anger. Her thoughts had so long been focused on her appearance and how she could use that to manipulate others that it interfered in her thinking process now, when faced with decisions impacting her very survival. Survival didn’t care what she looked like; it cared that she made the right decisions, at the right time, and acted upon them. No, she’d leave the contacts in because it would help maintain her disguise. And she’d discard them when they dried out and caused discomfort, impacted her ability to see, and potentially imperiled her existence.
Nobody cares what you look like anymore, Deirdre.
It was a painful truth. But it was necessary to remind herself nonetheless.
She switched gears. She decided that she’d need to reach another fortress, like this one, but where the risk of infiltration by unfriendlies would be as near zero as possible. New Venice taught her that nothing was certain; she could do nothing more than make logical decisions designed to improve her odds. To that end, she decided that the best place to target would be New Phoenix, near the mighty chasm in the southwest portion of this part of the Western territory. The weather there was hot and dry, and her father preferred weather of that sort, having little interest in rain, clouds, or cold. Oswald Silver had made it clear that he’d be spending his post-terraforming days there; even if enemies had built a foothold there now, his scout teams would arrive, check for traps and mutinous elements, and declare things all clear. She certainly hoped those individuals would demand to inspect
prisoners so Oswald would know which he might wish to visit himself.
She’d use that system to her advantage, announcing her presence as she neared the facility and informing those in attendance to alert her father that she’d arrived early for her initial inspection of the facility prior to her father’s later landfall.
If nothing else, that would force the hand of any in authority there working against Oswald.
Her mind slipped back to her previous thoughts, though, when she realized her parents’ subterfuge—likely faking her mother’s death, then hiding Delilah’s survival from her—meant she couldn’t rely on her father to save her if she got into trouble. Her lips curled, survival instinct activated. She’d use their names to obtain safe lodging, figure out loyalties, and position herself to play both sides against each other to her benefit.
Somewhat like Jeffrey and Desdemona.
Deirdre sighed. People really did have more in common with their enemies than they’d ever care to admit.
Her next challenge was transport. She wasn’t hiking north to the nearest of the great inland lakes, a distance she could cover on foot. She’d need to trek overland for several thousand miles. She wasn’t sure the exact distance, but it wasn’t something she could walk, not in any feasible time frame. And overland travel now meant considering the Ravager threat. She knew they’d be turned off eventually, making travel outdoors without one of the Diasteel suits possible once more. She doubted she could commandeer a suit without risking the security team here, and, given the level of devastation and the speed of the Ravager spread, she doubted the little robots would still be on the hunt. She made the decision quickly, decisive, a trait she’d learned running her operations within Diasteel. She’d make no accommodation in her travel plans for the Ravagers. They were either defunct, or she’d be dead.
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