Paradigm (12 page)

“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 just 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?”

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

T
he 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.

Until that night in the clearing.

It had been Mutha guiding the attackers. He knew the voice too well to doubt it. But why was it looking for him? If it hadn’t been for the loud com-link, he’d have thought they were just opportunistic scavengers. But they weren’t.

He turned onto his side and stared at the wall. A few moments later he felt something wet on his face. He reached up and wiped it away, but more came. Tears without crying, pouring down his face as if he had suddenly sprung a leak. He hadn’t cried for years. He wouldn’t allow himself. Once both his parents were gone, he couldn’t let anyone see any sign of weakness or emotion.

But they were there now, streaming silently down his face.

Because he knew. Suddenly he knew.

There was no com-link.

And the buzzing wasn’t just the precursor to a headache. It was exactly what it sounded like—whispering.

“Did you hear any voices?”

His dad had known. He’d expected it to come with Sam’s headache in Chicago all those years ago, but it had waited like a time bomb in his head. Waited for that moment in the dark under the ironwood trees.

Sam lay still, wondering why it had taken him so long to put two and two together. Why he’d persisted in telling himself it was just a precursor of the headaches.

He rolled onto his back and examined the smooth grey ceiling. There was a spider in one corner, industriously bundling up its most recent kill, saving the juicy bits for later.

Voices were bad. Even if it wasn’t Mutha, voices were still bad. He’d read plenty of books where people heard voices in their heads and the outcome was never good. Usually it meant heavy medication for the rest of their lives, or worse: incarceration in some kind of mental institution. There weren’t many of them left now, but those that still existed could give the Victorians a run for their money.

Was that why his dad had given him the green pills? He’d told Sam they were for the headaches, but maybe they were more than that. Some kind of medication to delay the psychosis he knew would strike his son. Did it run in the family? Was that why he’d asked about it in Chicago? Or was it all something to do with that “locule” stuff Drake had mentioned? Sam had never heard the word before, but the old man had expected him to know all about it.
A thing within a thing within a thing
.

He turned on his side again, wishing that they’d just come and get him. Get it over with. He needed to get out of his head and face something concrete, like Carolyn Bast and whatever she meant by “dinner party.”

The minutes ticked by. He got up and listened at the cell door for any sign of life, but it was as if he was the only person left on the planet. No stomping boots, no barked orders, nothing.

He sat on the bed again and his thoughts wandered to Nathan. Vincent had implied that he had once been a Rover, but what was the big deal about that? Granted, he hadn’t known Nathan all that long and most people in the Wilds had something in their pasts they’d rather forget, but that didn’t explain his naked terror at the mere sight of the travelers. Sam couldn’t help feeling sorry for them—cursed with the lifespan of mayflies through no fault of their own. Perhaps their methods of survival were a bit morally dubious, but he found it difficult to condemn them for that. Dead by eighteen. The life expectancy of a cat.

He lay down and closed his eyes. He really wanted to sleep, but it was no good. His brain still galloped along, the endless questions punctuated by the image of Alma, her black hair around her shoulders and that smile, the real smile, on her face.

It was a relief when the cell door finally scraped open and Levitt and Cranby stepped inside.

“It’s time,” grunted Cranby. “Stand up.”

Sam hauled himself to his feet, picked up his coat and started rummaged through the pockets.

“Now!” barked Levitt.

“I’m just…she said to make sure I was…” his voice trailed off as he found his vest, put it on, and fastened the watch in place before shrugging on the big coat.

“Quit goofing around!” yelled Cranby, grabbing him by the arm and half-flinging him toward the door.

Sam steadied himself, then fell in between the two guards as Cranby led the way along the corridor to an elevator. They shoved Sam inside, reached in and hit a button.

“There’ll be someone else waiting up above. And don’t get any smart ideas—it’s an express.”

The doors whispered shut and the elevator ascended about two stories, by Sam’s calculation, before the doors slid open again revealing yet another armed man-mountain. Sam couldn’t help wondering where Bast found these guys. That kind of bulk generally required a lot of food and some serious steroids, neither of which were easy to come by any more.

The man reached into the elevator and heaved Sam out.

“Jeeze!” complained Sam as he stumbled into the opposite wall. “What is with you guys and the shoving?”

“Shut up,” snarled the mountain, giving Sam another push. “This way.”

They marched along the gently curving corridor in silence, but hadn’t gone far before the mountain’s com-line buzzed.

“MacLaine here,” he said. “What?...I’m escorting a prisoner…Can’t someone else …No, sir! … Yes, sir! Right away, sir!”

He clicked off and pushed Sam forward again.

“Bad day at the office?” said Sam, smirking.

“Hey, you!” barked the mountain.

A shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and turn around. Sam tried to stop the grin that was trying to take over his face.

“What?” said Alma, her face a mask.

“Take this prisoner to Bast. They want me in interrogation.”

“I don’t do pick-up and delivery.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon. Henderson’ll drill me a new one if I don’t get down there. Seriously… I’ll give you my meat ration.”

Alma stared at him for a moment.

“All of it?”

“Yeah.”

“Deal.”

The mountain nodded his thanks and took off at a trot in the opposite direction. Alma grabbed Sam and gave him the approved company shove along the corridor.

“Move it!” she growled.

Sam waited until he could no longer hear the clod-hopping steps of the mountain, then spun around, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hello, again,” he said. “I assume the message was you.”

“Shut up and listen,” whispered Alma, moving in close. “I’ve been talking to the kitchen staff. The drinks are okay, so is most of the food.”

“Most? Wait…it really is a dinner?”

“Yes. Steer clear of the fish. Apparently she has it shipped in from some lake up north.”

“Tahoe?”

“You know about it?”

“I’ve heard. The fish are toxic.”

“According to the chef some people like it. The dinner’s in there,” she said, nodding towards a grey door at the end of the corridor. “Catch you later.”

Sam waited until she had gone, then turned and looked at the door. Every instinct told him to turn and run, but he knew it would be pointless. He reached forward, pushed the door open, stepped inside…and stopped.

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this. It was an actual old fashioned dining room, with a beautifully set table, elegant chairs, candles, and even a floral table center. There was a sideboard on the left side of the room, laden with silverware and a large covered tureen, while on the right was a long bar groaning under the weight of every kind of liquor, liqueur and cordial imaginable.

A man in a dark suit and bow tie appeared at Sam’s side.

“Commander Bast’s apologies, sir, but she is momentarily detained. She asked that you get a drink and join the other guests on the balcony. May I take your coat?”

Sam hadn’t even noticed the balcony, but there it was—through a set of leaded glass double doors at the end of the room. He shifted his pill box to another pocket and handed his greatcoat to the obsequious man, then got a glass of water from an equally deferential bartender and meandered across the room and outside.

Only it wasn’t outside, and it wasn’t so much a balcony as a cantilevered room. Like the dining room, it had an opulence that belied its location: marble facings, a sinuous wrought iron table, decorative cabinets, chairs, and a small green sofa. All perched high above some kind of office area.

Setzen was there, along with an overly touchy-feely woman and four other people he had never seen before. Other than Setzen, the people appeared to be civilians, and quite wealthy ones at that, if their clothes were anything to go by. None of them paid any attention to Sam, much to his relief. He had no experience of any kind of formal gathering, but had read enough to know that some kind of small talk would be required and he really didn’t feel up to the task. He leaned over the balcony and peered down, then wished he hadn’t.

The space was almost completely occupied by people sitting at, or huddled around, desks and tables of every size and shape. At first sight, it looked as if there was no technology in the room, but the sudden, searing pain and unmistakable screaming voices in his head told Sam that each of them was connected with the others and with every operation that Carolyn Bast was running all over the world. For a moment he was frozen, and it took a supreme effort to step back, gasping, his hand instinctively reaching for the pill box in his pocket. He looked up. Setzen smiled and nodded a greeting, then turned his attention back to the other guests.

Sam sat down on the green couch, took the pill and waited for the cacophony in his head to subside to the familiar muffled buzz.

There was no mistaking it this time. Those were definitely voices. Not Mutha’s voice, but the voices of all the people who were using it. Did that make it worse or better? Should he try to hear what they were saying? Or would actually listening to the voices be a spectacularly bad idea?

He was still sitting on the balcony when Carolyn Bast finally joined her guests, breezing into the dining room in a diaphanous green dress that seemed to float around her body rather than actually touch it. The effect was very feminine and totally incongruous.

The other guests had moved into the dining room as their hostess welcomed each in turn, chatting and laughing as if she were a pre-collapse suburban housewife and they were her closest friends in the world. Sam felt sick and was wondering if there was any way he could get out of this and go back to his cell, when he noticed Setzen whispering something to his boss. They both glanced over at him and Carolyn Bast nodded slightly before joining Sam out on the balcony.

“What are you doing here?” she cooed, her voice all solicitous concern.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, unsure of how to respond.

“Well, come inside. There’s nothing out here but a boring view of a lot of boring people.”

Sam stood up and allowed himself to be propelled into the candle-lit dining room. As soon as he was inside, the balcony door closed and floor-length bronze-colored curtains swept across the entire wall, completing the illusion of a dining room in some grand country house rather than in a faceless office building in a grim city state.

The candles flickered against the silver and rare porcelain, and softened the faces of the guests as they stood, drinks in hand, talking softly. Sam glanced at Setzen, now deep in conversation with the clingy woman, and couldn’t help but notice that all the candles in the world couldn’t do much for his stark demeanor, any more than Carolyn Bast’s dress and attitude disguised the psychopath beneath.

“You look quite presentable,” she said, smiling. “Well done. The watch is a particularly nice touch.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt like a small animal in a trap, hopeful of escape but resigned to the inevitable grisly end.

“And what is your name?”

“Sam. Sam Cooper.”

“Well, Sam, come and meet some people,” she said, looping her arm into his as if they’d known each other for years. “I believe you’ve met Major Setzen, one of my best operatives.”

“You flatter me, Commander,” he growled.

“Not at all. Oh, and this is Mrs. Longford, the wife of Century City’s esteemed mayor.”

“The mayor?”

Sam was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. The way she had been behaving around Setzen, it hadn’t occurred to him that she could be married.

“Yes,” she simpered. “But please call me Phyllida, everyone does.”

Sam managed a smile as Carolyn Bast led him away and over to the next two guests. The first was an overweight man with a lazy eye and a bulbous nose who she introduced as Hector Stone. He shook Sam’s hand with an unpleasantly sweaty paw.

“Pleased to meet you, son,” he gurgled. “What’s your line? I’m in oil myself.”

“Plenty of time for chat later, Hector,” said Carolyn Bast, smiling. “I’m just making sure Sam here gets to meet everyone. Sam, this is Ida Caxton, she’s a reporter.”