‘Thank you, si—’
Charlton hung up.
‘Damn.’
He was hoping it had been someone from Dispatch. At least then it would have been traceable. There would be a record of where the break—or shutdown, or overload—in the main was. A record of where the work had been done.
Now there was no knowing where the break was. Other shorts could be detected with Con Ed’s computers, tracing every line. But for that you needed the main to be on-line.
But with the main down in a particular grid, that grid became a black hole as far as computer tracing was concerned. And the break lay somewhere within that black hole.
Now it was guesswork.
Charlton swore. The first thing to do was call the police. See if they had pulled in someone in the last twenty-four hours hacking at the cables somewhere. Anything like that.
He sighed. It was going to be a long night. He picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Good evening, this is Bob Charlton, I’m the evening watch supervisor down here at Consolidated Edison. I’d like to speak with Lieutenant Peters, please. Yes, I’ll hold.’
As he waited on hold, Charlton looked idly back at the map of Manhattan Island. Soon his call was put through and he turned away from the map altogether.
All the while the computer screen on his desk remained on.
And for the whole time he was on the phone, Bob Charlton never noticed the last line of the list of historic buildings on the screen. The line read:
GRID 212: LISTING No. 5
NEW YORK STATE LIBRARY (1897)
CONNECTED TO NETWORK: 17 FEBRUARY 1995
After a few moments, Charlton said excitedly, ‘You did—when? I’ll be down there in twenty minutes.’ Then he hung up, grabbed his coat and quickly left his office.
A few seconds later, he returned and leaned across his desk.
And switched off his computer.
Swain pressed the red emergency stop button and the elevator creaked loudly to a halt. He reached up for the hatch in the ceiling.
Balthazar, his energy now completely spent after repairing the elevator doors, sat propped up against the corner of the lift, his head bowed, groaning. His guide stood unsympathetically beside him, glaring at Selexin.
Swain was opening the hatch in the ceiling of the elevator when the other guide spoke. ‘Come on, Selexin, get on with it.’ He nodded at Balthazar. ‘Finish it.’
Swain stopped what he was doing and turned to face the others.
Selexin said, ‘That is not for me to decide. You of all people know that.’
The other guide spun to face Swain. ‘Well? Look at him’—a jerk toward Balthazar in the corner—‘he cannot fight anymore. He cannot even defend himself. Finish it. Finish it now. Our fight is over.’
Swain swallowed. The little guide possessed an unusual strength in his defiance—the strength of a man who knows he is about to die.
‘Yes,’ Swain said slowly to himself. ‘Yes.’
He looked again at Balthazar. It was only then that he noticed just how big the bearded man was. Not six foot. More like six-eight. But that didn’t seem to matter now.
Balthazar lifted his head and stared up at Swain. His eyes were severely bloodshot, red-rimmed; his chest ripped to shreds.
Swain took a slow step forward and stood over him.
Selexin must have noticed his hesitation. ‘You must,’ he said, softly. ‘You have to.’
Balthazar never took his eyes off Swain. The big bearded man took a deep breath as Swain reached down and slowly—very slowly—unsheathed one of the long daggers from the baldric draped across his chest. The dagger hissed against the sheath as Swain pulled it out.
Balthazar shut his eyes, resigned to his fate, unable to offer any defence.
Knife in hand, Swain shot a final questioning glance at Selexin. The little man nodded solemnly.
Swain turned back to Balthazar, lowered the knife, pointed it at the big man’s heart. And then he did it.
He slid the blade gently back into its sheath.
And then he stepped away, back toward the hatch in the ceiling of the elevator, back to what he’d been doing.
Balthazar’s eyes opened, puzzled.
Selexin rolled his eyes.
The other guide was simply thunderstruck. He said to Selexin, ‘He can’t do that.’ Then to Swain, who was back at the ceiling, tossing open the hatch, ‘You can’t do that.’
‘I just did,’ Swain said. The hatch banged open.
He turned, not looking at the other guide, but rather, straight at Selexin. ‘Because that’s not what I do.’
With that, Swain grabbed Hawkins’ police flashlight and poked his head up through the open hatch. He had something else on his mind.
He peered up into the dark elevator shaft, flicking on the flashlight. He was hoping that Hawkins had done what he had told him to do.
He had.
The other elevator lay right there, only a few feet away, right alongside Swain’s elevator, halted halfway between this floor and the one above. Swain aimed the beam of the flashlight up into the shaft. Greasy cables stretched up into the darkness. The doors to the next floor were about eight feet above him. On them were written the black-painted words: GROUND FLOOR.
The shaft was silent.
The other elevator sat still, perhaps a foot above Swain’s, a small slit of yellow light betraying a crack in its side panelling.
‘Holly? Hawkins?’ Swain whispered.
He heard Holly’s voice—‘Daddy!’—and he felt a wave of relief wash over him.
‘We’re here, sir,’ Hawkins’ voice said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘We’re fine here. How about you two?’
‘We’re okay. Want us to come over?’
‘No. You stay where you are,’ Swain said. ‘Our elevator has taken a beating, the doors are busted. They probably won’t open again, so we’ll come over there. See if you can open the hatch in the roof.’
‘Okay.’
Swain dropped back into his elevator and surveyed the group around him—Balthazar and the two guides. Hmmm.
‘All right, everyone, listen up. We’re all going over to the other elevator. I want you two little guys to go first. I’ll handle the big fella. Got it?’
Selexin nodded. The other guide just stood there, his arms folded defiantly.
Swain scooped up Selexin and held him up to the hatch. The little man disappeared into the darkness.
Swain poked his head up through the hatch after him and saw Selexin step up onto the roof of the other elevator. A weak haze of yellow light appeared above the other lift. Hawkins must have opened the hatch.
Swain motioned to the other guide. ‘Your turn.’
The guide looked cautiously at Balthazar, then said something in a grunting guttural language.
Balthazar responded with a dismissive wave and grunt.
As a result, the guide reluctantly offered his arms to Swain, who duly lifted him up through the hatch. The guide disappeared into the shaft.
Swain turned back to face Balthazar.
The big man was still sitting slumped in the corner. Slowly, he looked up at Swain.
Whatever he was, Swain thought, he was badly injured. His eyes were red, his hands bloodied and scratched. Some of Reese’s saliva still bubbled on his beard.
Swain spoke gently, ‘I don’t want to kill you. I want to help you.’
Balthazar cocked his head, not understanding.
‘Help,’ Swain held out his hands, palms up—a gesture of aid, not attack.
Balthazar spoke—softly—in his strange guttural tongue.
Swain didn’t understand. He offered his hands again.
‘Help,’ he repeated.
Balthazar frowned at the communication break-down. He reached down for the long dagger Swain had held before, now back in its sheath across his chest.
He pulled it out.
Swain stood dead still—unflinching—staring Ba
lthazar squarely in the eye.
He can’t do that. He can’t.
The bearded man reversed the knife in his hand, and placed the handle in Swain’s palm. Swain felt the warmth of Balthazar’s hand as they both gripped the knife—pointed at Balthazar’s chest.
Balthazar then pulled their hands toward his chest. Swain didn’t know what to do, except allow Balthazar to pull the glistening blade closer, and closer, and closer to his body . . .
And then Balthazar guided their hands sideways, sliding the knife back into its sheath.
As Swain had done before.
He looked up at Swain, his eyes bulging red, and nodded.
And then Balthazar spoke again—slowly, deep-throated—trying to get his mouth around the word Swain had just used.
‘Help.’
The elevator doors rumbled open and Stephen Swain peered out to see the First Floor of the State Library.
Dark and quiet.
Empty.
The first thing Swain noticed about the First Floor was the peculiar way it had been arranged: it was an enormous U-shape, with a wide gaping hole in the centre, so that one could look down onto the Ground Floor atrium.
Clearly, the floorspace of this floor had been sacrificed to provide for a grander, higher ceilinged Ground Floor—in the process, making the First Floor of the State Library little more than a glorified balcony. A mezzanine.
The elevators themselves stood at the south-east corner of the floor, to the right of the curved base of the U-shape. Opposite them—at the open-end of the U—stood the enormous glass doors of the library’s main entrance.
Off to his left, Swain saw a room filled with photo-copiers. A door at the far end of the room had INTERNET FACILITY stamped on it. The rest of the floor was deserted and dark, save for the blue streams of reflected city light that penetrated the enormous glass doors and windows way over at the other end.
Swain pulled Balthazar out of the lift and dragged him over to the hand-railing overlooking the Ground Floor. He was propping the big man up against the railing when the others joined them.
‘What do we do about that?’ Hawkins said, indicating the open elevator behind them. He spoke softly in the darkness.
‘Turn the light off,’ Swain whispered. ‘If you can’t find the switch, just unscrew the fluorescent tube. Apart from that,’ he shrugged, ‘I don’t know, leave it there. As long as it’s here, nobody else can use it.’
As Hawkins headed back toward the elevator, Swain saw Selexin draw up alongside him. The little man was peering cautiously up at the ceiling all around them.
‘What are you doing?’ Swain asked.
Selexin sighed dramatically: ‘Not all the creatures in this universe walk on floors, Mister Swain.’
‘Oh.’
‘I am looking for a contestant known as the Rachnid. It is a trap-laying species—large and spindly, but not particularly athletic—known for lying in wait in elevated caves and hollows for long periods of time, waiting for its prey to step underneath it. It then lowers itself silently to the floor behind its victim, clutches it within its eight limbs, and constricts it to death.’
‘Constricts it to death,’ Swain said, glancing nervously up at the uneven shadow-covered ceiling above him. ‘Nice. Very nice.’
‘Daddy?’ Holly whispered.
‘Yes, honey.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Me too,’ Swain said softly.
Holly touched his left cheek. ‘Are you all right, Daddy?’
Swain looked at her finger. It had blood on it.
He dabbed at his cheek. It felt like a cut, a big one, running down the length of his cheekbone. He looked down at his collar and saw a large red stain on it—a lot of blood had been running down his face.
When had that happened? He hadn’t felt it. And he certainly didn’t remember feeling the sting of being cut. Maybe it was when he was thrown on top of Reese, after bowling her over. Or when Reese was bucking and kicking like a mad horse. Swain frowned. It was a blur. He couldn’t remember.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ he said.
Holly nodded at Balthazar, up against the steel railing. ‘What about him?’
‘Actually, I was just about to check,’ Swain said, getting up onto his knees, hovering over Balthazar. ‘Could you hold this for me?’ he offered Holly the heavy police flashlight.
Holly flicked on the torch and held it over Swain’s shoulder, pointed at Balthazar’s face.
The big man winced at the light. Swain leaned forward, ‘No, no, don’t shut your eyes,’ he said gently. He held Balthazar’s left eye open. It was heavily blood-shot, reacting badly to Reese’s saliva.
‘Could you bring the light in a bit closer . . .’
Holly stepped forward and as the light came nearer, Swain saw Balthazar’s pupil dilate.
Swain leaned back. That wasn’t right . . .
His eyes swept over Balthazar’s body. Everything about him suggested that he was human—limbs, fingers, facial features. He even had brown eyes.
The eyes, Swain thought.
It was the eyes that were wrong. Their reaction to the light.
Human pupils contract when hit by direct light. They dilate—or widen—in darkness or poor light, so as to allow as much light as possible onto the retina. These eyes, however, dilated in the face of brighter light.
They were not human eyes.
Swain turned to Selexin. ‘He looks human, and he acts human. But he’s not human at all, is he?’
Selexin nodded, impressed. ‘No, he is not. Almost, though—in fact, as close as he can be. But no, Balthazar is definitely not human.’
‘Then what is he?’
‘I told you before, Balthazar is a Crisean. An excellent blade-handler.’
‘But why does he look human?’ Swain asked. ‘The chances of some alien from another world evolving to look exactly like man would have to be a million to one.’
‘A billion to one,’ Selexin corrected him. ‘And please, try not to use the term “alien” too liberally. Such a harsh word. And besides, in your current situation, aliens do form the standing majority.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Selexin went on, ‘You are correct. Balthazar is not human, nor is his form. Balthazar, and for that matter one other contestant named Bellos, is amorphic. Able to alter his form.’
‘Alter his form?’
‘Yes. Alter his exterior shape. Just as your chameleon can change its skin colour to blend in with its surroundings, so too can Balthazar and Bellos do the same, only they do not alter their colour: they alter their entire external shape. And it makes sense. One makes one’s self human when competing in a human labyrinth, because any doors or handles or potential weapons will all be made for the human form.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Swain said, turning back to attend to Balthazar.
Hawkins came back from the elevator.
‘It took a bit of doing,’ he said, ‘but I finally got the tube out of its—’
Swain held Balthazar’s other eye open, peering at it under the light of the flashlight.
‘Out of its . . . what?’ he said, not turning around.
Hawkins didn’t reply.
Swain looked up . ‘What is it—’ he cut himself off .
Hawkins was staring out over the railing, at the Ground Floor atrium down below. Swain swivelled around, following Hawkins’ gaze down into the atrium.
‘Oh my God,’ he said slowly. And then quickly he turned to Holly, reaching for the flashlight. ‘Quick, turn it off.’
The flashlight went out. Blue moonlight covered them again and Stephen Swain peered out over the railing.
The man was just standing there. Tall and black. Two tapering horns rising high above his head. The soft moonlight glinted off the lustrous gold metal attached to his chest.
He was standing next to a glass display case down in the atrium. Just standing there, staring intently into one of the aisles in front of him, at something o
ut of Swain’s view.
Swain felt a chill.
He’s not staring, he thought. He’s stalking.
Selexin came up beside him.
‘Bellos,’ he whispered, not taking his eyes off the horned man in the atrium below. There was a sense of awe in his voice, a reverence that was unmistakable. ‘The Malonian contestant. Malonians are the most lethal huntsmen in the galaxy. Trophy collectors. They have won more Presidia than any other species. Why, they even conduct a six-way internal hunt to determine who among them will compete in the Presidian.’
Swain watched as he listened. The horned man—Bellos—was a magnificent specimen of a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, built like a house, and, except for his golden chest, completely dressed in black. An imposing figure.
‘Remember. Amorphic,’ Selexin said. ‘It makes sense to adopt the human form. Makes better sense to adopt a highly developed human form.’
Swain was about to reply when he heard Hawkins whisper behind him, ‘Oh Christ, where’s Parker?’
Swain frowned. Hawkins had said something about that before. Parker was his partner. Stationed in here for the night with him. Maybe she was still here, somewhere inside . . .
‘Salve, moriturum es!’
The voice boomed throughout the atrium. Swain jumped, a wave of ice-cold blood shooting through his veins.
He’s seen us!
‘Greetings, fellow competitor. Before you stands Bellos . . .’
Swain’s mind was racing. Where could they go? They’d have a good head start. They were still one whole floor above him.
‘. . . Great-grandson of Trome, the winner of the Fifth Presidian. And like his great-grandfather and two Malonians before him, Bellos shall emerge from this battle alone, conquered by none and not undone by the Karanadon. Who be’st thou, my worthy and yet unfortunate opponent?’
Swain swallowed. He took a deep breath and was about to stand up and reply when he heard another noise—a strange clicking-hissing noise.
Coming from below.
From somewhere else in the atrium.
Swain dropped like a stone, out of sight. Bellos hadn’t seen them.
He was challenging someone else.
And then, slowly, another contestant came into view. From the left. A dark, skeletal shadow creeping slowly among the bookcases.
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