by Ben Farthing
"See that you do. Remember what happened to Wells."
"What happened to Wells?" asked Everard.
The manager noticed Everard. "You should leave. You're interrupting our billable hours."
"Who are you billing?"
"I've already called security."
"If they're taking longer than normal, it's because I broke one's arm and, to be honest, the other guy got it even worse."
The big man furled his brow. It took an odd mix of confidence and submission to succeed in the corporate world; Everard imagined those two characteristics were battling fiercely inside his head. Did he throw Everard out himself and risk wasting precious, billable time? Or did he get back to work, safe to ignore Everard under the banner of it's not my job?
"Go bother someone else," he decided. "Leave my team alone."
He walked back to his office. Taylor typed furiously.
If everyone was going to work that hard to ignore him, he could be a little more bold. He picked a wall and started opening doors. Some were locked, which Everard figured must be offices. A few were unlocked, although the men inside didn't even look up from the computers or phone calls. Through one door was an unsurprisingly empty break room, complete with leather couch, high-end espresso machine, and glass door fridge full of designer bottled water. Everard decided he was thirsty and helped himself.
He got halfway down the wall when he found the staircase. Weird that it wasn't in the corner, or next to the elevators, but the architects of the Periphery seemed to enjoy tweaking things just a little. Maybe they had their reasons.
It had the same tile steps and steel railings as any building's back stairwell. Everard went inside and let the door slam behind him. It echoed downward. He peered down the middle, to the floor sixty stories below. He was pretty sure most buildings had solid landings every few floors. Apparently, Inc wasn't too concerned about accidents. Maybe that's what happened to Wells.
Everard jogged up the final flight of stairs.
He came to a steel door. It's lack of elegance made it clear this wasn't the most common entrance for this top floor. Everard tried the handle, but it was locked. He checked the hinges to see that it opened towards him. Shooting the handle might just bar the lock in place.
Stepping back, Everard fired three times, once at each hinge. The force punched them through the steel of the door and frame, and the door hung loosely.
Everard shoved it over and walked through.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The door crashed to the floor, revealing a small room with cinderblock walls and a heavy wooden door.
Bowman sat at a desk using a tablet. He jumped back from the fallen door, a lighter and hundred dollar bill appearing in his hands.
Everard aimed the pistol at his face, not five feet away. "Drop it."
Recognition flashed across Bowman's face. "Everard Harrison. You're the lunatic from the Black Sheep."
"And I ruined your tie, I get it," said Everard. "Now drop your lighter. Your buddies downstairs didn't think I could hurt them with this. Are you going to make the same mistake?"
Bowman set both the lighter and the tablet down on the table.
"Good," said Everard. "Now-"
Bowman jerked his arms, and a barrage of colorful pool balls popped into existence, blasted into Everard, knocked him on his ass. One cracked against his forehead, triggering an instant headache.
"Just because my security didn't tell me who was coming, doesn't mean they didn't tell me someone was coming," said Bowman. "What kind of operation do you take us for?"
Everard frantically looked around for the pistol. He spotted it under the mangled door, and dove for it.
Bowman knocked him backwards with a wave of invisible force. This time Everard's shoulder took the brunt of the impact. "I told you to walk away. I told you what would happen to your little secret if you didn't."
Everard jerked open the backpack to pull out Bermuda's gift, what he'd called the "Mariner's Box." It was a silver cube, each side with nine squares, each square depicting a different ship. Everard pulled the windup key from his pocket and stuck it into a hole in the corner.
Bowman sent another wave, weaker now, but still strong enough to knock the cube out of his hand. Everard reached for it. Bowman stepped on his hand.
"I'll make sure everyone knows who you are. The IRS, the Social Security Administration, they're all our clients."
Bowman didn't know about Liz. The relief was palpable, even with Everard's throbbing head.
Bowman put his weight on Everard's hand. His bones ground together and against the marble floor.
He tried what he'd seen Bill Bill and Mr. President do, focusing on the idea of Bowman's balance, that he could stand up straight. No.
Nothing happened. That same heavy, mental mist sunk down around his mind, kept his will locked down tight.
"How are you still alive? How has someone stupid enough to attack us in our own building not been killed already?"
Everard couldn't figure out this whole rebellist thing, but he'd still spent every day of the last ten years carrying lumber and swinging a hammer. He swung around to kick Bowman's legs out from under him.
The older man fell backwards, reaching back to catch himself. His wrist cracked as he caught the edge of the fallen door. He gritted his teeth, looking more pissed off than in pain.
Everard leapt to his feet, stomped on Bowman's chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him. As Bowman gasped for air, Everard snatched up the box, wound the key seven times, and dropped it. Then he grabbed the flintlock from under the door and made for the stairs.
If Bermuda was right, he had about seven minutes to get out.
A weak wave of force hit him in the back, but didn't even make him stumble.
Right before Everard stepped into the stairwell, the door shot back into its frame, almost taking off his head. The slam echoed down the stairs. A deadbolt appeared and latched shut, steel cracking as the bolt punctured the frame. A second deadbolt appeared on the opposite side. The door twisted a bit with the intrusion. Then, one after another as if fired from a nail gun, deadbolts burst into being all around the edges of the door, even breaking apart the marble tile on the floor to stab deep into the flooring.
"A little overkill," said Everard, turning around.
The CEO stood in the wooden doorway, which was now open. He tucked a lighter into his inner jacket pocket. "Everard. What a pleasant surprise."
Despite having twenty years on Bowman—he had to be over sixty, while Bowman looked around forty—the CEO was the more imposing man, although Everard couldn't pinpoint why. His slicked back white hair and slightly chubby face and body seemed harmless enough. Pasty skin and a soft grimace made Everard want to tell the old man everything would be all right. But maybe that was the power of a good suit; it could make anyone look in charge.
"I see you received our invitation from this morning," said the CEO. "The Lynch Mobbers are a nasty bunch, but they certainly get the job done."
"The hell they do," said Everard. "I'm still alive. The Burgesses slaughtered them."
"I wanted to say hello," said the CEO. "I've marked the deal as successful."
Bowman stood, breathing carefully.
Everard glanced briefly at the Mariner's Box. It wasn't brief enough.
"Bowman," said the CEO, "hand me that trinket."
He took the box from his lackey. "I don't understand the Burgesses' obsession with history. Although, I do appreciate that tinker's flair for morbid creativity. What's this do, I wonder?"
Everard estimated whether he could bring the flintlock up and fire before either of these suits could stop him. If the old man could launch a two hundred pound steel door and then make deadbolts appear out of nowhere, probably not. He figured the only way out of this was patience and cunning, the first of which was not his strong suite.
Holding the cube up to eye level, the CEO inspected each engraving. "Oh, a nautical theme! Have you ever go
ne sailing, Everard? A thrilling pursuit. I used to race skiffs, back when I was a bit more flexible."
Somehow, his tone contained mourning and a rosy nostalgia, although Everard couldn't figure out how it could be both.
If Everard couldn't use the pistol, then he wanted both hands free. He moved to tuck it into the back of his pants. The CEO paused from inspecting the cube to raise his eyebrows. Bowman stepped between them. Everard let the gun hang between his thumb and forefinger.
"I'm putting it away," he said. He stuck it into his belt at the small of his back, wishing flintlocks had safeties.
"We're not letting you walk around armed," said Bowman.
"I've responded to your invitation," said Everard, feigning offense. "You're not going to treat me like an enemy, are you?"
"Of course not," said the CEO. "Don't draw it, and I won't dissolve your joints. But I do insist you tell me what this little treasure does. Wait, let me guess. It's forged from a cannonball fired from the sinking Bon Homme Richard of Captain John Paul Jones, the tinker's explosive way of declaring he has not yet begun to fight. Am I correct?"
He wasn't. "Something like that," said Everard.
Holding the box to his ear, the CEO exclaimed, "and it's ticking! His ingenuity is really something. When you head back to the House of Burgesses, I'll have you deliver a job offer to Bermuda. What do you say?"
Maybe it was the CEO's dual emotions freaking him out, but Everard didn't know what to say. They were going to let him leave? The CEO thought he was holding a ticking bomb, and he was excited about it? They knew Bermuda's name but didn't know how much he despised Inc?
"Sir," said Bowman, "we should really put that in a safe."
"You're right, I wasn't thinking. Some flesh is more expendable than others. Let me show you my office, Everard."
The CEO walked through the doorway. Bowman motioned for Everard to go ahead of him, which he did.
Everard had once read a GQ article while waiting in the dentist's office about the difference between fashion and style. The argument went that fashion was whatever was popular at the time, while style was timeless.
The CEO's office had style. The floors and walls were polished cherry wood, with ornate baseboards and wainscoting that Everard was pretty sure were patterned after one of his own designs. A marble hearth framed a six foot fireplace. The desk was a darker mahogany, lined with gold trim.
"Fancy," said Everard.
"Absolutely," said the CEO. "Although, I prefer the word elegant. Do you know how much this cost me?"
Oddly enough, Everard's career prepared him to answer that question. "Around four hundred K for materials. That again for labor, if you went with the highest bidder."
"Ha! This wood cost me three million, and I paid the finest carpenter in the country a million and a half."
Everard crouched to feel the floor. "This is cherry?"
"The finest."
"And the walls, too?"
"Of course."
"You overpaid."
"It's fantastic, isn't it?" The CEO went to the desk where he typed a number into a keypad.
A square of flooring rose up, revealing a safe, which he opened and used to store the Mariner's Box.
Bowman stepped directly behind Everard to growl into his ear. "Your little bomb won't do anything in there."
"If you're trying to intimidate me," said Everard, "either burn another bill, or spend a few months in the gym."
The CEO laughed, or maybe moaned. Everard couldn't decide how he'd describe it. Fearful mirth, maybe.
"It's tough to motivate ourselves to care for our physical bodies," said the CEO. "The flesh is an odd thing. We spend our entire existence chasing after what it craves, all while watching it fall apart. My philosophy is that the flesh is meant to be chewed up, savored, and spit out."
"My mom had that embroidered on a pillow," said Everard.
"Now you're mocking me," said the CEO. He tapped on the keypad and the safe disappeared back under the floor.
"A little," said Everard. How much time was left? Six minutes?
"It's rude to treat your host like that."
"What's the harm in a playful jab?" asked Everard. "If you don't mind, there are a few things I wanted to talk to you about."
That took the CEO off guard. "I would have said the same thing."
"You go first," said Everard, making himself comfortable on the leather couch. He motioned for the CEO to sit on the armchair, just to watch Bowman fume. It worked.
The CEO obliged, his grin revealing both amusement and disdain. "Despite your disregard for courtesy, which I've accepted is the norm for rebellists, we'd like to offer you a position at Inc."
Everard kept a straight face. "Entry level?"
"Of course not. We'd start you out at senior management."
"What would my duties be?" Everard checked his watch. Five minutes. Still enough time to get down to the next floor, which would probably be enough to survive.
"You'd work directly with me, somewhat like Bowman's position."
"Would I get one of those lighters?"
"That can be arranged, although I don't imagine you'll need it once you master your bent."
"Let's discuss compensation," said Everard.
"We don't work on traditional salary structures here."
"Here's an offer," said Everard, "I'll consider taking this position if you answer a few questions for me."
"Maybe. Let's hear the questions."
"I've got a bet with Bermuda—are the booms trying to push people away or pull people in?"
The CEO sat up straight, thrilled and furious. "Right to the heart of the matter! You should trust your own experience. You experienced their effect firsthand, didn't you?"
"They're pushing people away."
"Then again, that tinker is one of the smartest men I know. He's worth listening to."
"They're luring someone." Everard paused. "It's both."
"A fantastic little invention. The Perforated Woman is as brilliant as Bermuda, in her own way." The CEO noticed Everard checking his watch. "Somewhere to be?"
"He's waiting for his bomb go off," said Bowman.
"I'd forgotten about that! I'm afraid you won't even hear it inside that safe. Now, I'm anxious to hear your thoughts on our offer."
"A few more questions."
The CEO gritted his teeth inside a genuine smile. "I'm afraid not. We can't discuss sensitive internal matters until you're fully on board."
"So the booms are an internal matter? You're saying Inc is behind them?"
"Very little happens in this city that we aren't aware of."
"That's not an answer. I'll only consider your offer if you give me a real answer."
"How about I show you what your duties would be?"
That caught Everard's curiosity. Although in another three minutes, he needed to start sprinting out of here. "That sounds intriguing."
"Excellent," smiled the CEO. He stood from his chair, limber as a man thirty years younger.
Everard followed, again with Bowman taking position behind them. The CEO placed his palm on a mirror that hung on the wall. A line of green light scanned his handprint, and the wall slid open.
Based on movies he'd seen, Everard expected there to either be some sort of dark secret passage, or a sterile looking lab with tables and shelves lined with bottled chemicals. Instead, it looked like the same contractor had built this other room. The only thing different was the lack of furniture, and the addition of opaque glass doors in the cherry walls. The far wall had only a gold elevator, directly in the middle, with a single button pointing up.
The CEO's leather shoes tapped on polished wood as he led the way across the room.
"Aren't we on the top floor?" Everard was getting tired of spatial reality not meaning anything.
The dark glass doors became transparent when viewed from directly in front. Behind the first four were fine suits, like some kind of luxury clothier display window. E
verard stepped closer to get a better look at one. There had to be something that made these different, if they were up here behind glass. But there was nothing he could tell. Charcoal gray, pinstripes, cuffed pants, and a three-button jacket.
He wanted to try it on. Not that he'd worn a suit since going to a funeral with a set of foster parents when he was thirteen, but this one would look good on him. Looked like it would fit him perfectly.
"Let's not waste time," said the CEO, to which Bowman smirked.
How much time until he needed to run? He doubted he'd got enough info to satisfy Bermuda, but the Mariner's Box would still do its job, and leave Inc - and the rest of the Periphery - with a lasting impression.
He probably had another three minutes. Enough time to keep the CEO talking.
"Aren't you supposed to be telling me about this potential job opening?" asked Everard.
"Showing you," corrected the CEO. "If you'll step into the elevator with me, it'll become clear."
"Do you want to try that again with a more ominous voice?" asked Everard. "It almost sounded like a good idea."
Everard passed the next glass door and froze. Inside was a man wearing only boxer briefs and a t-shirt, arms down and slightly back, standing stiff in the center of the tiny room. He opened his eyes, the only part of his body he seemed capable of moving, and stared straight at Everard.
"The hell?" said Everard.
The CEO pressed the button, then turned to face Everard as the doors dinged open, revealing a typical elevator.
"I hate rebellists." The CEO's voice now contained both spite and terror. "What gives you the right to eschew your superiors? It's selfishness, plain and simple. If everyone lived like you, the world would descend into chaos."
Everard's first thought was this man was a captive battery, although his prison lacked the setup he'd seen in the Hall of Burgesses.
"On the other hand," continued the CEO, "your bent is just so interesting. I'm dying to try it out."
Time to run.
Everard shoulder-checked Bowman to the floor, then booked it back towards the CEO's office. Something heavy wrapped around his ankles and he fell. In a single motion, he rolled to his back and drew the flintlock, but the chain appearing around his legs sped up and wrapped around his entire body up to his neck. His hand and the pistol were pressed to his chest. The chain continued to materialize, layers and layers around him, until he felt like the prey of a giant spider.