Contest

by Matthew Reilly

  A sweeping, curving, vicious-looking blade. An extra-terrestrial cutlass.

  Swain lifted his gaze. A thick leather-like baldric hung over Balthazar’s shoulder, attaching itself to the belt at his waist. Fastened to the leather strap were various sheaths and scabbards—and in them, a whole assortment of lethal throwing knives.

  ‘You see them?’ Selexin whispered.

  ‘I see them.’

  ‘Criseans,’ Selexin said respectfully. ‘Very impressive bladesmen. Very quick, too. Fast. Take your eyes off him for a second and before you know it, you’ll have a knife lodged in your heart.’

  Swain didn’t answer. Selexin turned to him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Daddy . . .’ Holly said. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘We’re just waiting, honey.’

  With one eye on Balthazar, Swain scanned the parking lot. Looking for something . . . looking for a way out . . .

  There.

  In the south-west corner of the lot, maybe twenty yards away from them—a pair of elevators, encased inside a brightly lit glass-walled foyer. It was the same elevator bay he had seen earlier, only here it opened out onto the parking lot.

  Swain handed Holly to Hawkins, at the same time as he pulled Hawkins’ heavy police flashlight from his gunbelt.

  ‘Whatever happens here,’ Swain said, ‘I want you to run as fast as you can to those elevators over there, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Once you’re inside and the doors are shut, let it go halfway up a floor and press the Emergency Stop button. Okay?’

  Hawkins nodded.

  ‘You should be safe there,’ Swain said, rolling the big flashlight over in his hand. ‘I don’t think they’ll have figured out how to use elevators yet.’

  Beside them, Selexin was watching the other two contestants warily. ‘What happens now?’ Swain asked him.

  At first there was no reply. The little man just stared intently at the empty carpark. And then, without turning his head, Selexin said, ‘Anything.’

  Reese moved first. Darting towards Swain. Heavy, bounding steps.

  Swain felt adrenalin surge through his body. He swallowed, gripped the flashlight tightly.

  Reese kept coming.

  Christ, Swain thought, how the hell do you fight a thing like that?

  He tensed to run, but suddenly Selexin grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Wha—?’ Swain watched Reese charge toward them.

  ‘Trust me,’ Selexin’s voice was like ice.

  Reese was bounding toward them now. Swain wanted desperately to run. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Balthazar slowly unsheath a pair of throwing knives—

  And then Reese turned.

  Sharply and unexpectedly. Away from Swain and the group.

  Toward Balthazar.

  ‘Ha! She had to,’ Selexin whispered proudly. ‘Had to. Classic huntsman behaviour . . .’

  Then suddenly, in a blur of motion, Swain saw Balthazar’s right arm move in a rapid throwing action—and abruptly two flashes of silver fanned out from his hand, whistling through the air.

  Thud!

  A glinting steel throwing knife embedded itself in the concrete pillar between Swain and Hawkins, missing them both by inches!

  The second futuristic-looking knife was intended for Reese, but unlike Swain, she was ready for it. Running low and fast, she rolled right when she detected the flying blade coming toward her and—crack!—the throwing knife, flying downward, lodged in the floor of the parking lot underneath her, cracking the shiny new concrete, standing almost upright.

  Selexin was still praising his tactical decision. ‘I tell you, classic huntsman behaviour. You take out the more dangerous prey first, catch it off-guard—’

  ‘Tell me about it later,’ Swain said as he glanced over his shoulder to see Reese—shrieking wildly—slam into Balthazar, toppling him over backwards.

  Swain pushed Hawkins toward the elevator bay. ‘Go!’

  Hawkins took off, holding Holly close to his chest, running straight for the elevators.

  Swain was about to follow them when he turned for a final look at the battle behind him.

  Reese had Balthazar pinned to the ground beneath her, jamming his hands down beneath her powerful stubby forelimbs. Balthazar was struggling desperately, reaching for his cutlass on the floor, inches out of his reach.

  But the weight was too much.

  Reese’s jaws were salivating wildly above his head, the saliva gushing in heavy torrents all over Balthazar’s face. And then Reese began to slash at him with her foreclaws—vicious sweeping slashes that drew whole chunks of flesh from Balthazar’s chest.

  It was disgusting, Swain thought. Disgusting, violent and brutal.

  He watched in horror as Balthazar shook his head rapidly from side to side, screaming in pain trying to avoid eye contact with Reese’s swaying antennae, trying to get his head clear of the blinding saliva, while at the same time feebly attempting to fend off her savage blows. It was desperation. The total and utter desperation of a man fighting for his very life.

  And Stephen Swain felt angry. Indignant and furious at the whole scene in front of him.

  He spun quickly to see Hawkins and Holly reach the glassed-in elevator bay and enter it. Hawkins quickly pressed the UP button on the wall. Neither of the two elevators opened immediately. The lifts were on the way.

  They’d be safe.

  Swain turned back to face the battle, the anger welling up inside him. Balthazar was still struggling, swishing his head from side to side, his cries of pain drowned out by the saliva gushing down into his screaming mouth. Reese was still firmly on top of him, violently slashing, squealing maniacally.

  And then Swain saw Reese’s tail rise. Slowly and silently behind her, like an enormous scorpion, out of Balthazar’s view.

  And with that, Swain knew what he had to do.

  He ran.

  Straight at them.

  Reese’s tail was poised now, arcing high over her head . . . ready to strike . . . and then Balthazar saw it too and he began to scream . . .

  With Hawkins’ heavy police flashlight in front of him, Swain slammed into Reese, knocking her off Balthazar, sending all three of them sprawling onto the concrete floor.

  Reese fell onto her back and Swain tumbled on top of her. She let out an ear-piercing shriek as her body writhed about on the concrete, bucking and kicking, trying desperately to throw Swain clear.

  Swain’s grip on her slipped and suddenly he was in mid-air and all he could see was a kaleidoscope of grey walls, white fluorescent light and concrete pavement. He hit the floor hard, chest-first, and rolled onto his back—

  —only to see Reese’s sharp tail rushing toward his face!

  Swain swerved his head left and the tail hit the concrete with a loud thud.

  Swain glanced quickly at the spot where his head had been. Broken chunks of cement surrounded a small crater the size of a tennis ball in the concrete floor.

  Jesus Christ.

  Swain was still on the floor, rolling fast. Reese was crab-walking next to him, moving equally fast, banging her tail down like a piledriver.

  The tail came crashing down again, right next to Swain’s head.

  In the nanoseconds of time in which the mind operates, Swain tried to weigh up his options. He couldn’t run. There was no way he could get up and clear in time. And he couldn’t fight Reese. Christ, if a warrior like Balthazar couldn’t beat her, how the hell could he?

  No, somehow he had to get out of here. But to do that, he had to do something that would buy him enough time to get clear.

  And so Swain did the only thing he could think to do.

  With all his strength he swung Hawkins’ heavy police flashlight—baseball-style—at Reese’s tail, planted in the concrete.

  He aimed for the tip of the tail, the thinnest part, from the side.

  The f
lashlight hit its mark—hard—impacting against the tapered tip of the tail. There was a loud, blood-curdling snap! of breaking bone as the tail bent instantly and Reese roared in agony, instantly pulling away from Swain.

  Swain seized the chance.

  He leapt to his feet and looked over at the two elevators inside the glass-walled foyer. The doors to the left-hand elevator were opening and Hawkins, carrying Holly, was getting inside, looking back questioningly at Swain with every step.

  ‘Go! Go!’ Swain yelled. ‘I’ll catch up!’

  Hawkins ducked inside the elevator and hit a button and the elevator doors closed. Swain swung back to the fight.

  Reese had backed off several steps, consumed with her broken tail. Balthazar was now rising unsteadily to his feet, his head bent as he tried to clear the saliva from his eyes.

  Swain stumbled over to Balthazar. The big man’s eyes were still covered in gooey saliva, the exposed skin on his chest horribly shredded and caked in thick blood, his face locked in a grimace of extreme pain.

  Swain grabbed his arm and simply said, ‘Come with me.’

  Balthazar said nothing, merely allowed Swain to take his arm and pull him away. Swain looped the big man’s arm over his shoulder and helped him towards the elevators.

  Selexin just stood there, gaping at Swain in utter amazement.

  ‘You coming?’ Swain said as he dragged Balthazar past the little man.

  Stunned, Selexin looked from Swain to Balthazar’s guide—who just shrugged uncomprehendingly—then to Reese, and then finally to the elevators. Then he hurried after Swain.

  Swain burst into the glass-walled elevator bay, hit the UP button. Balthazar was still draped over his shoulder, his guide right behind him. Swain spun to see Reese banging her tail on the concrete floor. Two loud bangs were followed by a third that emitted a sickening cracking sound.

  Reese roared savagely and Swain knew at once what that meant. She had straightened the fracture. Once she was over the instant pain she would be moving again—

  Reese was moving again. Toward the elevator.

  Swain jammed his finger down on the UP button. ‘Come on! Come on!’

  Reese was darting left and right, scuttling in a crab-like manner across the wide parking lot floor, coming closer . . .

  She stopped. Fifteen yards away from the elevator bay.

  Swain noticed that this time her tail didn’t swish menacingly back and forth behind her. It just sat there, limp on the floor, motionless.

  Reese hissed softly in the silence of the parking lot, her antennae swaying hypnotically above her head.

  Swain watched her through the glass walls of the elevator bay, entranced.

  Selexin shoved him hard, jolting him sideways. ‘Don’t look at the antennae!’

  Swain blinked back to his senses. He couldn’t even remember looking at the antennae . . .

  There was a loud bing from behind him and he spun to see the second elevator’s doors grinding open.

  ‘Everybody inside,’ he said, suddenly back to life, hurling Balthazar into the lift. Once inside, he hurriedly pressed 1 and then DOOR CLOSE.

  Nothing happened.

  Swain looked out and saw Reese bounding toward the glass elevator bay.

  He pressed DOOR CLOSE repeatedly.

  The doors remained open.

  Reese was getting closer, charging.

  Suddenly there was a click and the elevator doors slowly began to close.

  Smash!

  Glass exploded everywhere as Reese burst through the clear glass door of the elevator bay. She landed clumsily inside the small foyer, sliding across the floor on a carpet of tiny glass fragments, sprawled out on all four legs.

  The doors were inching closer.

  And then, to Swain’s horror, Reese slid to a halt right in front of the elevator and started getting to her feet.

  The doors kept closing. Reese was on her feet again. The doors were almost joined. Reese tensed herself to leap—

  And the doors joined.

  And the lift began to move upward.

  Swain exhaled with relief.

  And then with all her weight Reese hit the exterior doors.

  Hard and loud. Denting the doors inward, tearing them apart at the centre, shaking the whole elevator and stopping it with a loud scraping lurch.

  Two feet above the ground.

  The lift rocked. Selexin clutched at Swain’s leg for balance. Balthazar sat in the rear comer, head bent, body limp, swaying with the elevator’s movement.

  Swain regained his balance and saw the doors, pushed inward, creating a gap one foot wide at the centre.

  Too narrow, he thought. She can’t get in.

  Reese rammed the doors again.

  The elevator shook. The gap widened.

  Swain pressed the UP button on the panel, but the elevator still didn’t move. The large inward dent in the doors was keeping them from closing, and the lift wouldn’t move again until they were shut.

  Reese now had her snout and antennae inside the elevator doors. She was snapping her jaws ferociously from side to side, flinging saliva everywhere, desperately trying to force the doors open—her antennae slicing through the air like twin whips.

  Swain tightened his grip on Hawkins’ flashlight and stepped toward her.

  Suddenly Reese surged forward, rocking the elevator. Swain fell, slipping on the wet floor, falling backwards, the flashlight flying from his hand into the corner of the lift. He looked up to see Reese lunging ferociously at his feet, snapping wildly, held back by the doors—saw the frenzied, salivating jaws, the four sets of bared, jagged teeth only inches away from his feet. About to—

  Swain turned his eyes clear, took a deep breath and in a flashing instant thought, I can’t believe I am going to do this. Then he kicked hard, landing the sole of his shoe squarely on Reese’s front teeth, breaking three instantly.

  Reese recoiled, shrieking fiercely as she fell backwards onto the floor below.

  Swain kicked again, this time at the doors, in a vain attempt to straighten the large inward dents. He gave them three hammering blows, but barely made an impression. The doors were double-strength, too strong.

  And then suddenly—whack!—a giant leather boot came crashing down on the battered doors, and the dents straightened markedly.

  It was Balthazar!

  He had slid over to where Swain was lying and, despite his injuries, had unleashed a powerful kick of his own at the doors.

  Whack! Whack!

  Two more thunderous blows and the dents straightened fully and the doors eased shut and Balthazar fell to the floor in exhaustion and the elevator lifted and at last, there was silence.

  ‘Grid two-twelve’ the assistant said, reading from his clipboard. ‘The area bounded by 14th Street and Delancey on the north-south axis. Medium rise zone: standard commercial-residential area, couple of buildings on the National Register, a few parks. Nothing special.’

  Robert K. Charlton sat back in his chair.

  ‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘Nothing special, except that in the last couple of hours, we’ve had over a hundred and eighty complaints from an area that hardly ever says boo.’

  He handed a sheet of paper over his desk to his assistant.

  ‘Take a look at that. It’s from the switch. One girl down there has had—what is it now?—fifty-one, no, fifty-two probable 401s on her own. All from two-twelve.’

  Slightly overweight, 54 years old, and a man who had spent way too much time in the same job, Bob Charlton was the evening watch supervisor for Consolidated Edison, the city’s main electricity supplier. His office was situated one floor above Con Ed’s switch-board and it was hardly ostentatious. It comprised a wraparound Ikea desk—with a computer on it—surrounded by that beige-coloured shelving common to middle-management offices the world over.

  ‘And do you know what that means?’ Charlton asked.

  ‘What?’ his assistant said. His name was Rudy.

  ‘I
t means that somebody has got to the main,’ Charlton said. ‘Cut it off. Shut it down. Or maybe even overloaded it. Shit. Run down to Dispatch and see if any of our guys were down in that grid today. I’ll give the cops a call, see if they’ve found any punks cutting cables.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Rudy left the room.

  Charlton swung around in his swivel chair to face a map of Manhattan Island he had pinned to the wall behind his desk.

  To Charlton, Manhattan looked like a warped diamond—three perfectly straight sides, with one side, the north-eastern, jagged and twisted. Electrical grids stretched across the island’s breadth like lines on a football field.

  He found the horizontal rectangle that displayed grid two-twelve. It was down near the southern end of the island, a few miles north of the World Trade Centre.

  He thought about the report.

  Medium rise zone. Standard commercial-residential area, couple of buildings on the National Register. A few parks.

  The National Register.

  The National Register of Historic Places.

  He thought about that. Lately Con Ed had been bullied by the Mayor’s Office into linking up some of the older buildings of the city to the new mains. Not surprisingly, there had been a truckload of problems. Some of the older buildings had circuitry dating back before the First World War, others didn’t even have circuitry. Linking them up had been unusually difficult and it wasn’t uncommon for one building’s overload to screw up the networking for an entire city grid.

  Charlton flicked on his computer and called up the file on the National Register. It wouldn’t have all the historically protected buildings in the city, only the ones that Con Ed had worked on. That would be good enough.

  He called up grid two-twelve. There were five hits. He pressed DISPLAY.

  The screen scrolled out a more detailed list of names and Charlton was leaning forward to read them when the phone rang.

  ‘Charlton.’

  ‘Sir, it’s me.’ It was Rudy.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m down in Dispatch, and they say that none of their guys has been in two-twelve for nearly three weeks.’

  Charlton frowned. ‘You sure?’

  ‘They’ve got records on disk if you want them.’

  ‘No, that will be fine. Well done, Rudy.’