by Hocking, Ian
Saskia stood. “Fine.”
“One more thing. The repair man will arrive at nine o’clock on Monday morning. Tomorrow. If you haven’t solved the case by then, IA will move in. If you have, you’ll hand over your notes to Stone and we’ll nail the guy.”
Saskia left her office. In the corridor, thank God, the air conditioning worked. Everything worked, from the freshly-picked friezes to the brass finishings. But the FIB did not suffer from cash flow. As a private organisation, it loaned itself to certain governments and wealthy individuals. The crime game could be good for both sides of the law.
She entered the lift and said, “Lobby.” Beneath the manual panel someone had written: “Another fine product of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation.”
At the bottom of the building the doors opened onto the mezzanine floor, which held a bar, restaurant and café. The entire area was brightly illuminated with natural light from huge windows. The air was filled with a thousand busy footsteps. Saskia took an escalator to the ground floor proper and entered a second elevator. She pressed her thumb against a panel and said “Down”.
The basement was a stack of grey corridors and grey people. They walked on silent errands. They ignored her and each other. To her surprise, one of them stopped and said: “Have I seen you somewhere before?”
She tapped the ID on her lapel. “Detective Saskia Brandt. Is there a problem?”
The man gave her an appraising look and continued on his errand. “Never mind,” he said.
Saskia located the domestic surveillance office and went inside. She found the operator in charge of camera security and told him the boss wanted to see him. He left irritably. When he returned, Saskia had gone.
Into the Dark
The nightmares had lasted years. In them, David had run through the research centre as though it were a submarine stuck in a crash-dive. Post-traumatic stress, the psychologist had said. But those nightmarish corridors had been faded memories from a younger man’s mind. They were ghosts of something already dead. Here and now they were more hostile and grotesque.
“Bomb damage,” muttered McWhirter, and David, by this time, was too tired to reply. They had been walking for fifteen minutes, but in the cold darkness, his energy and motivation were at low ebb. A colder silence had descended between the two men.
“We must be nearly there.”
“Aye.”
They began to make their way north, along the third corridor of the H-shaped floor. McWhirter called a halt and checked his map. Wearily, David dug him in the ribs. “What the hell do you need a map for? This place is laid out like a hotel.”
David stood and panted. He was out of shape. His eyes caught the sparkling orbs of the old colonel. As dust trickled down between them, David saw those orbs narrow.
“I suppose you know this place pretty well.”
A groan came from above their heads.
“I suppose I do. I worked here. So did you.”
McWhirter stepped forward. He was much taller. “The bombers knew this place well.”
“Agreed,” said David. “It was an inside job.”
The colonel ignored him. “They knew where to set the charges. They knew when the scientists would be in the hall, away from danger. And they knew precisely which project to bomb.”
David held his gaze. Behind his own, blood was rushing. “Aren’t you a bit old to be playing games, Colonel?”
The colonel pointed his torch at David’s face. The world went white. “Now tell me, laddie. Just between us. Did you do it?”
There was another noise from the ceiling. Neither man dared to check it. David said, “My wife died in the explosion. My Helen. I’ve been haunted by her death for twenty years. If I ever saw the man who did it, I would kill him. Now forget about it. It’s not my fault you were caught napping.”
The torch light did not move. David kept his stare fixed, though he could see nothing. McWhirter moved the torch. The whiteness vanished, replaced by an enormous afterimage that was equally blinding.
“Let’s go.”
As David was about to step forward, to follow McWhirter, he heard a splintering sound. He looked up and saw the ceiling bulge. The walls quivered and dust rained. David spat and coughed. He scrambled forward, tripped, and knocked his head against a rocklike protuberance of reinforced concrete. His hardhat saved his life, but the world rolled from side to side and he couldn’t stand. Dizzily, he guessed that he was about to die, and at that moment hands grabbed the hood of his coat and hauled him across the floor. There was a booming rumble as masonry fell into the corridor behind him. It missed his toes by inches.
In the silence, the air was thick with dust and a pungent odour. David coughed and groped about. He couldn’t open his eyes.
“Colonel?” he called out. “Colonel!”
He stood and the blood drained from his head. He nearly fainted. For support, he leaned forward on something dark. It felt like a shoulder. He whipped away his hand and, carefully, opened his eyes. It was McWhirter. The colonel had fallen backwards in the shape of a star. He had tripped after pulling David clear. Emerging from his abdomen and chest were three fingers of rusty steel. That explained the smell. The steel protuded from a large block of reinforced concrete.
“Oh God.”
There was no reply. Blood dribbled from the colonel’s mouth. His eyes were dry. David stared at him. There was no sense of panic. Just utter unreality. Eventually, his stupor was broken by the pop of McWhirter’s torch as it fell from his relaxing fingers and broke on the floor. The corridor became black. David pulled out his walkie-talkie.
“Hello?” he whispered. There was no reply. He tried to remain calm. Touching the walkie-talkie revealed that the antenna had snapped. He needed to replace it. He pulled open the case and touched the antenna wire. It was bare. With the wire held against the bare metal protruding from McWhirter, he tried again. “Hello? Any person please reply. I need help. McWhirter’s dead. Hello?”
Very faintly, a voice answered.
David sighed with relief. “Say again, over.”
The voice belonged to a young man. He said: “Repeat, identify yourself. Over.”
“My name is David Proctor. Professor David Proctor. I was with Colonel McWhirter. I need some help. Over.”
“Say again? Where’s the colonel?”
“He’s dead.”
There was a pause. “What happened?”
“There was a cave-in. The corridor is blocked. I don’t have a torch. I’m at the junction of D-corridor, on the lowest level.”
“OK, David, keep calm. Is the roof stable now?”
David scowled. “I’m perfectly calm. The roof has stopped making noises, which is a good sign.”
“Sit tight.” The voice added, “And don’t speak too loudly. Out.”
David stared in disgust at his fingers. They were wet with visceral material. He sat on the floor, contemplating the swiftness of the disaster, and what would be happening if he had rejected McWhirter’s summons that morning, or if McWhirter had managed to stay alive, or a thousand things. After a long, lonely moment he heard a bleep in his ear.
“Not now, Ego,” he whispered.
“But I have an idea.”
On the same level as David, only thirty metres away, a young woman put down her walkie-talkie. In front of her was a large object that resembled an aquarium. Through its transparent panels she could see something akin to the coloured gases of Jupiter. During her briefing, McWhirter had told her that it was a prototype liquid memory storage device, capable of holding more than the sum of mankind’s knowledge a billion times over. Light from its exotic interior cast patterns on the walls.
She noticed a glow, like moonlight, in the corridor outside.
She lay prone along one flank of the storage device. She trained her rifle on the doorway. In the relative brightness of the room she saw little of the corridor.
The glow became brighter. Everything was silent. She wondered if the resea
rch centre had ghosts.
She called, “Stop. Identify yourself.”
A man emerged and stood on the threshold. In his leading hand he held a flat object, which she guessed was an infra-red camera. “I said halt,” she repeated. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“I asked first.”
“Professor David Proctor. I’ve just come from McWhirter. He’s dead.”
“I told you to wait at the scene.”
“And I continued to my old laboratory to find you here. There, summarized.”
She regarded him blankly. He was an unremarkable, middle-aged man. He was exhausted and dusty but impressed with himself. He had been issued with standard equipment and even wore a hard-hat, albeit at a foppish angle. His appearance and his story were credible. “Throw me your ID,” she said.
“Where’s the man I talked to?”
“You’re looking at him. Throw it.”
David pulled out his wallet. He slid it across the floor.
“Nice gun,” he said, as she scrutinised the ID. “Who are you going to shoot in a deserted tomb like this?”
She smiled and threw the wallet back. He caught it awkwardly. “You, maybe.”
David forced a laugh and stepped into the room. He pulled his eyes from the gun and gazed at the familiar-unfamiliar laboratory. This had been his workplace for a number of years. From here, he and his research partner, Bruce Shimoda, had programmed the software that took advantage of the massive computing capabilities of the storage device. Three doorways led from the room. One went to the corridor, one to a computer suite and one to overnight living quarters.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? We used to call it the fish tank.”
“I told you to stop where you are. I want to ask you some questions. You don’t seem too concerned about the colonel’s death.”
“Neither do you, young lady,” he snapped.
“Did you kill him?”
He noticed that the gun was tracking him. “Absolutely not. He died when the ceiling caved in. A tricky way to murder someone, wouldn’t you agree?”
She didn’t lower the gun. “Yes, it would be tricky.”
“Young woman, please move aside. I have work to do.”
She lowered her rifle and watched as he walked into the living quarters.
He used Ego to view the room and remained near the doorway. McWhirter’s death had made him cautious. Not scared, exactly; not yet. But he checked the ceiling and walls.
The room was comparatively tidy. Most of its furniture had been destroyed by fire. There were pipes that terminated in a filthy sink, a torn mattress, blackened plastic chairs and some unidentifiable debris. The walls were crumbling and the interior partitions, which had divided the area into a dining room, bedroom and bathroom, were gone. David held his light on a shape in the corner. He felt the guard enter the room.
“Perhaps I should introduce myself,” she said. “I’m Caroline.”
“Hello, Caroline. Call me David. Never Dave.” They shook hands and David had the fleeting impression of participating in something utterly absurd. “Shine your torch over here.”
He knelt alongside the mattress and tugged carefully at the zip of a sleeping bag. When the zip was open he flung back the fabric to reveal a body.
“And this,” he said, “is Doctor Bruce Shimoda.”
Though David had not seen that face in the flesh for twenty years, he recognised his old friend immediately. Bruce appeared to be dead. His oriental, sunken face was lifeless and curiously lopsided. He wore two or three jumpers, a scarf, and there was a blanket around the legs. Nevertheless, his body looked small and vulnerable. His hands were drawn against the chest, little more than claws. Two rolls of fabric, which cushioned his head, aroused David’s interest. They had been placed either side of a device that resembled a neck brace. David checked between the rolls and saw, sure enough, the wet-wire connection. He sighed.
“Is he breathing?” asked Caroline.
“Yes, he’s alive. But barely.” David ripped open the Velcro cover of his first-aid kit. “Couldn’t you have done something for him?”
“I’ve only been here a few hours. McWhirter couldn’t get a medic down. It was too dangerous. I thought you were a medical doctor.”
“Like I told the colonel, that was a long time ago,” he said, but he examined Bruce thoroughly. He had lost a great deal of fluid from bedsores. They were badly infected. “He’s been inside for two or three days, I’d guess.”
“Inside what?”
“See the cable?” He pointed at the wet-wire connection that led away from Bruce’s head. “This plugs into his brain stem. The connection leads to the computer. The computer is running a virtual universe. As far as Bruce is concerned, he’s now inside that universe.”
Caroline smiled. “Weird.”
“Weird and, as it happens, fatal,” David said sharply. “The connection can’t be removed.”
“Why not?”
“We were never sure. When we unplugged the rats, they died. Same with the chimps. Apart from one. He had a series of strokes and slipped into a permanent coma.”
“Well, then,” she reasoned, “just cut it.”
“That had the same effect.”
“Or turn off the computer.”
“That too.”
“Oh.” Caroline stared at the sleeping face and the room around them. She waited while David applied fresh dressings. She said, “It’s funny.”
“What is?” said David, not looking up.
“The lights are off, even though this section has power. How did he connect himself in the dark? He doesn’t have a torch. There was no fire. Do you think there’s someone else down here? Someone who turned off the lights after?”
David’s hands froze. “He did it in darkness – the same way he did everything in life. He’s been blind since the age of ten.”
“Oh.” She watched as he opened Bruce’s eyes and cupped his hand over each. “What are you doing?”
“He’s had a minor stroke already. He’s got two more days left, maybe three.” David took a syringe from the first-aid kit, attached a needle, drew some liquid from an ampoule and injected the sleeping form. “I’ve just given him some antibiotics. Help me set up a drip. He needs fluid.”
He went about his work efficiently and calmly. A saline drip in one arm. An antibiotic drip in the other. But it was impossible not to think of former, better times. They had been best friends. Impossible not to think of Bruce living like a rat in the darkness, preparing his nest, preparing to die. David was coping well until he found a note in his trouser pocket. It read:
Well well well after all these years! I’m looking forward to seeing an old friend. Come into my parlour and let me take a look at you...
“Aw, shit,” he said. Then he sat back, hugged his knees and wept. Caroline nearly touched his shoulder. A moment later, she left.
David emerged after fifteen minutes. Caroline was watching the patterns inside the liquid storage device. She felt him stop behind her. Instinctively, though she couldn’t be sure why, she cradled her rifle.
“Hypnotic,” he murmured, as though hypnotized himself.
“Mmm.”
“Tell me,” he said cheerfully, settling beside her on the cold floor, “how are we going to get out of here? The cave-in that killed McWhirter blocked the main passage.”
“Yes, I checked thoroughly. There is no way out. The radios aren’t powerful enough to get through to the team in the hotel.”
David laughed. He wanted to sound coolly detached, but his laughter was shrill. “So we’re up to our necks in the bad stuff. I hope you’ve brought an extra suicide pill.”
Caroline got up and walked to the corner of the room. For the first time, David noticed a strange-looking device in the shadows. It had a keyboard and a chunky, orange exterior. It looked like a ‘black box’ flight recorder She reached down and tore a strip of paper from the top.
“This is an Extremel
y Low Frequency transmitter,” Caroline said. “It can transmit and receive through solid rock. While you were with Bruce I managed to send a message and get one back, but now they’re not responding.”
“What was the message?”
“I told them McWhirter was dead, you were alive, had made contact with me, and all exits are blocked.”
David nodded. He wondered how deep they were. “And what did they say to that?”
She handed him the paper. It read:
TESTACEGIKMOQSUWYTEST###YRMSGRCVD#EVAC#2 (TWO)HOURS#RPT#2(TWO)HOURS#FNDCVR##END
“How moving. What does it mean?”
“The first part’s a test pattern. Then: ‘Your message received. Evacuation in two hours, repeat, two hours. Find cover. Message ends.’”
David’s eyes widened. “They’re not going to blast their way down, surely? They’ll bury us all.”
“Relax,” she said, taking the paper from his hand. “The demolitions expert is a friend of mine. He’s good.”
He examined his watch. “So at 7:30 p.m. we’ll be busted out. But why so soon? We can last down here a while. There are things I need to do.”
Caroline crouched and looked into his eyes. She was attempting a very serious moment, but David, who was old enough to be her father, noticed that her eyes were very, very green. “McWhirter didn’t tell you, did he? About the air.”
“What air?”
Caroline said nothing.
David took Ego from his wallet and said, “Ego, check the atmosphere.”
“It will take ten seconds,” said Ego. Caroline narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t hear Ego, but she could read David’s expression.
“Nice,” she said. “I’ve never seen a model so advanced.”
“You wouldn’t have,” he replied. “Ego is a prototype. This test is designed for travelling businessmen worried about air pollution.”
“Businesspeople. Who designed it?”
“Designed her. Me.”
“Atmospheric analysis complete,” said a little voice in his ear. “Though gaseous elements are at their normal proportions, the air contains a significant amount of dust. The dust particles are dangerously radioactive. Exposure is not recommended for longer than one hour.”