He remembered hitting the wall and winced.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
The guards laughed. “Whatever, Cardinal,” Art said. “Not sure why you’re the only one denying Clarke’s the hottest thing walking around this place. Hell, the General’s spending a lot of time with her.” He glanced at Simon as they reached the door to the brig. “Whatcha think, Simon? Clarke and the General…?”
“Hell no,” Simon replied. “General Jamison’s an honorable man. He’d never fraternize with his direct reports. Unless, you know, she’s smoking hot.”
They laughed again.
Wesley wondered why people weren’t usually so open around him. He’d been spying for the Voice for months, eavesdropping, joining coworker tables in the cafeteria, and inserting himself into conversations, all with an eye toward learning what everyone observed during their shifts. He’d even started wandering around during working hours, hovering behind coworkers and watching their screens to allow direct observations without needing to extract the information from others. He’d done that one time too many with Sheila Clarke, who’d worked as a civilian Observer before switching roles to work directly with Jamison. Clarke had found his invasions of privacy unnerving, and had begun to demand Wesley’s removal during her work hours… and then she’d demanded he be fired.
That had triggered his inherent hatred of the woman.
He didn’t cull much information from his efforts—beyond the scorn of his coworkers—but he dutifully muttered observations to the Voice throughout the day. He’d often reflect on his behavior as he lay in bed at night, and came to the conclusion that his coworkers thought him insane.
He suspected his assault on Sheila Clarke and his detention in the brig would cement that opinion in their minds.
He knew why he’d done it, but he knew that announcing the presence of a speaker and a microphone implanted in his head wouldn’t be the best idea. It would merely convince everyone of his insanity.
They stopped moving and Wesley, sensing an opportunity, pushed his feet into the ground and jumped, trying to knock the guards off balance and enable his escape. But they reacted quickly, lifting his shoulders farther off the ground, and his latest effort to escape resulted in an impressive display of cycling his legs in the air.
“Graceful, Cardinal,” Art said with a snicker, as they pulled him back to his feet and pushed him along once more. “Almost as graceful as when Clarke sent your ass head over heels into the wall.”
Simon chuckled. “A piece of advice, Cardinal. If you want to bag a girl, tackling her while foaming at the mouth like some rabid dog ain’t the way to get it done.” Simon shrugged. “Moot point, now. You’ll never see her again. Welcome to your home for the foreseeable future.” He sighed dramatically. “And given who you attacked, Jamison’s likely to be pissed off enough to leave you here forever.”
Wesley felt his pulse quicken. He had no right to a trial here, no right to have his case heard or appeal. Jamison’s word was law here. If he “forgot” to have someone release Wesley… then Wesley would stay here until he died.
He deflated while they slammed him against the wall. Art pinned him while Simon opened the brig door, a concoction of metals eight inches thick. He heard the door open as Simon seized him once more and they hauled him into the room. A musty scent hung in the air, and he coughed. The silence here was near absolute. Like a tomb.
Would he leave this place in a box?
“You’re awfully quiet, Cardinal,” Simon said. “Are you practicing for the future, when you’ll have no one to talk to but the voices in your head?”
Wesley snapped his head at Simon. How did he…?
Both men laughed, and Wesley realized he wasn’t among friends.
He’d never been among friends.
The Voice had used him. He’d always known that. But now the finality of it hit him. The provocation at Sheila Clarke leveraged his own anger and hatred as a means of getting him thrown into this room. The Voice had eliminated Wesley by having Wesley incriminate himself.
They slammed him into a heavy wooden chair. Art punched him in the side of the head, and he slumped back. Stars danced before his eyes, and as he waited for the fog to clear he felt ropes rip into his chest and arms as they secured him. He kicked his legs out, but one of the guards elbowed him in the face while the other bound his legs to the chair. He felt the blood dripping from his nose, the metallic tang rolling into his mouth.
He could see dim outlines of his guards, and spat the blood in that direction. He knew he’d connected when he heard a loud shout, words unclear, and he felt a sense of deep satisfaction.
They dug in his pockets and extracted the contents, then tore away the badge worn around his neck. “Sweet dreams, Cardinal, you son of a bitch,” Simon whispered. “I hope Jamison lets you rot in here forever.”
They left him, and Wesley heard the door whisk shut, locking with a deafening clang. The guards had taken his phone and badge, the only two tools he had here to facilitate an escape.
He let the tears come. What did it matter? No one could see him.
And it was unlikely anyone would see him alive ever again.
eighteen
Roddy Light
…largest corporations built smaller city-sized compounds outside the primary plexes housing factories, farms, mines, and office space in order to find the contiguous space for all of their facilities as populations swelled inside the walls…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 2135
Roddy burst through the primary city walls on his motorcycle, revving the engine to accelerate to speeds generally considered unsafe for those seeking to retain life and limb. Behind mirrored sunglasses, his eyes blazed, reflecting the internal fire and turmoil of the morning.
She’d risked the dangerous city streets at night to reach her lover.
The fury he felt would undoubtedly level the city if transmuted to an explosive. He wasn’t certain how he’d kill the man at this point, wondering only what he’d do with her when next he saw her. He couldn’t fathom hurting her for the pain and shame she’d leveled upon him, but death need not hurt. Could he kill her? He had the ability, but did he possess the will?
He had time to decide. The mission, according to Mr. Silver, would last several days. He felt the pressure of the phone strapped near his leg. He’d be watching the spynet for certain now. He wondered if she could possibly resist a tryst in their bed while her husband toiled away.
He accelerated the engine, barely noticing the sunlight and the wind blasting his face.
He reached the Diasteel Compound moments later and joined the line of vehicles working through the security checkpoint.
The Compound was the city Oswald Silver officially controlled, a massive complex of buildings and walls and security housing all Diasteel Western offices, factories, and other facilities required to operate the vast business interests of the tycoon. It was often joked that in the morning, the entire population of the cityplex left the walls for Diasteel, and returned home en masse in the evening. More than one social commentator suggested Oswald Silver construct sufficient apartments inside the Compound to house his working population. Others noted that doing so would destroy Silver’s ground car business.
He felt the self-doubt creep in as he approached the front of the line. Deirdre was cheating on him; of that there could be no doubt. He’d wondered the day before, wondered if he’d overreacted to her lack of affection, hadn’t considered the fatigue and burden her current project placed on her. Now he doubted his ability to read people, a skill he’d considered his best for years. How had he missed her sudden shift?
Or had she never been faithful in all the years he’d known her?
He accelerated too quickly toward the gate and slammed on the brakes near the checkpoint station.
The kid inside the booth glared at him, trying to look stern, but mostly just adding flame to Roddy’s fire. “Sir, in the future, approach the gate
at a more moderate speed, please.” His tone was bored, expressing a self-importance no doubt drilled into him by his superiors. He was the gatekeeper into the Diasteel Compound, after all. The business of the whole world depended upon him.
Roddy pulled off his sunglasses and let the intensity of his eyes turn the kid into jelly. Most people quavered when Roddy glared. The eyes told of a man able to kill all comers without a thought or bead of sweat.
The kid recovered with moderate speed. “I… I… need to see your… your ID. Sir.” He swallowed.
Roddy smiled. “Sure, kid.” He fumbled through his bag and produced his Diasteel security badge. “Knock yourself out.” He flipped it through the open window.
The kid missed, ducking inside the booth to retrieve the badge. If he’d not required the badge to get to his final destination inside the compound, Roddy would have tested running the barrier gate while the kid wasn’t looking. Probably not worth it. Yet.
The kid’s head reappeared, and he made a show of comparing the photo on the badge to the intense face of the man before him. “Um… yes… everything seems to be in… order. Right. Um. Yes. You’re cleared to proceed, sir. Have… a good day. Sir.”
He jabbed the button inside the booth and the barrier lifted, giving Roddy access to the Compound.
“Thanks, kid!” Roddy said, forcing a false cheeriness into his tone. “You have a great day as well.”
The kid smiled faintly and offered a weak wave.
He twisted the handle and the motorcycle shot forward into the Compound, wondering if the kid was Deirdre’s secret lover.
He laughed for the first time in hours.
He parked near the exit and then began the fifteen-minute walk to the entrance of the primary office tower. Unofficially, the tower was “the tallest building in the world,” the summit masked by an eternal cloudbank surrounding the topmost floors. Roddy knew better. Machines produced the artificial cloud cover, and masked only a few additional floors. Oswald’s ego hid what facts couldn’t. In reality, a half dozen buildings in the cityplex were taller than Silver’s World’s Tallest tower.
And that type of ego led to children who thought cheating on faithful spouses was acceptable.
He passed a half dozen heavily armed soldiers on his journey from parked bike to office tower, nodding politely at each. Silver controlled the third largest army in the world, if you pretended he didn’t control the armies of the Western Alliance. Roddy knew the troops were there entirely for show, reminding any visitors from other corporations, Alliance government officials, and cityplex bureaucrats that he was in charge here.
He kept his eyes on the giant office tower. On the fortieth floor he’d find Oswald Silver, ready to tell him where they’d travel on this journey. On the seventh floor, he’d find Deirdre and her breathtaking beauty and, perhaps, the man who’d sampled that beauty on at least one occasion.
His badge wouldn’t give him access to the seventh floor, though. He considered hacking the elevator control system or breaking in via the staircase, but opted for the simplest course of action instead. He crossed the tiled floor of the office tower lobby, altering course slightly to avoid collisions with others making similar journeys. He passed a group of schoolchildren on tour, gaping at the immense interior of the structure, listening as the guide told them to study well so that they could work here someday.
Roddy almost laughed.
He entered one of the elevators, swiped his badge, and punched the button for the thirty-eighth floor.
The other occupants chatted with each other as the car rose and dropped them off at their destinations. Badge readers just past the open doors ensured no one “tailgated” to a floor they weren’t permitted to visit. Roddy listened to the chatter with a detached calm, trying to glean any hint of a threat to Oswald Silver in the unofficial discussions of his employees. He found nothing of concern.
He reached the thirty-eighth floor and badged in. The floor was empty, save for a single elevator car. Roddy punched the button and rode to the fortieth floor, the private domain of Oswald Silver. He hated the indirect approach but admitted it made for an effective defensive layout. Few ever exited the elevators on the thirty-eighth floor, and they could monitor everyone for potential threats while newcomers to the layout of the upper floors tried to deduce Oswald’s location.
Audrey, Oswald’s personal assistant and receptionist, glanced up. “Mr. Light. Mr. Silver is occupied at the moment and will be with you shortly.”
Roddy stared at her. Silver never had visitors, though Roddy suspected that Audrey spent time in that room from time to time. Why would Oswald summon him, only to bring the exceptionally rare visitor to his office and make Roddy wait, especially if he was eager to get the trip underway? He wanted to yell at Audrey about the insanity of it all, but realized she was hardly at fault for his inconvenience.
Instead, he shrugged and headed to the reception area to the right of Audrey’s desk.
He rested his head against the back of a comfortable chair as he looked around. The space above Audrey’s desk extended up for four floors without interruption, with the space behind the reception area and above Oswald’s office blocked from sight. Roddy considered it an unnecessary precaution; few who reached the fortieth floor would lack knowledge of the secret hidden on the floors above.
Three minutes later, Audrey called to him. “You can go in now, Mr. Light.”
Roddy frowned. He’d not seen anyone leave. Was there a secret door to Oswald’s office? Or was Oswald planning to have Roddy interact with the current visitor?
He stood, threw his travel bag back over his shoulder, and walked past the reception desk to Silver’s office. As he’d been announced and invited, he didn’t bother knocking before entering.
“Light!” Oswald snapped. “It’s about time you got here. Sit down. We have a trip to plan. And there will be a third person joining us.”
Roddy moved toward Oswald’s desk until the second chair spun around and the occupant faced him. He froze, his eyes widened, and he dropped his bag in shock.
“Hello, Roddy,” Deirdre said.
nineteen
Sheila Clarke
…the oldest myths and legends told to schoolchildren are described as from the Golden Age, or in even earlier times… scholars suggest this is impossible to prove, arguing that the originator of each myth claimed source material to add additional allure to the tale…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 2,219
Sheila entered Jamison’s office, a prickling sensation covering her skin. Might the intruder or intruders still be in the room?
She glanced at the General. “What did they do when they broke in?”
Jamison hesitated. “They borrowed something. Something important.”
She waited a moment before prompting him. “What did they borrow?”
In response, he moved to his desk and opened the top right hand drawer, which she recalled held the badge granting access to the subfloor bunker and storage tank.
She gasped. “They stole your badge?”
“Borrowed it.” Jamison removed the false drawer bottom and pointed at the badge. “It’s still here.”
“But… how do you know it was taken and returned?”
“I store it in a very specific way for just this reason,” Jamison said. “The same side facing up, the edges aligned in a very specific manner. It’s not in the correct position.”
“Perhaps the intruder slammed the door and altered the position?”
He shook his head. “I considered that. Without getting into too much detail, no amount of drawer slamming could explain the positioning of the badge.”
She nodded. The intruder had left the card upside down. They’d been clever enough to swipe the General’s code—and know it existed—but sloppy enough to miss the detail about the badge placement. And they’d be someone on payroll, with access to the Bunker. There was only one person she could picture behaving in such a manner.
Jamison looked her in the eye. “I need to ask you a very uncomfortable question, Sheila.”
She felt her breath catch in her throat. He couldn’t possibly think—?
“I’ve showed the hidden portion of the drawer to only one person, Sheila. Only one person knows about the space that badge unlocks. I don’t want to ask this question, but logic dictates that I do so.”
“It wasn’t me, General.” She couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice, even though she appreciated the logic. The insinuation that she might be a suspect in the break-in, after the accusations from Stephen earlier, left her questioning if she could trust anyone.
“I believe you, Sheila.” There was no sense of irony or malice in his tone. “Logic would suggest that the thief must know of the badge and what access the badge provides. There are only two people, to my direct knowledge, who are aware of those facts. Both are in this room.” He paused. “In order to be thorough, you ought to question me.”
In spite of the situation, she laughed. The tension in his face evaporated slightly.
“I urged you here, Sheila, because the circumstances we’ve witnessed over the past twenty-four hours allow me to reach only one conclusion, and the theft of my badge suggests we’re in more trouble than I feared.” He paused. “I need a second opinion.”
She nodded.
He began to pace. “It goes without saying, but what I’m about to reveal is beyond confidential, beyond top secret. There are only a handful of people alive today who know what I’ll tell you.”
She felt her pulse quicken as adrenaline coursed through her. Something about the word “alive” made her shiver.
“You have likely heard myths about the nature of the Time Capsule and the idea that the Time Capsule on display at the Alliance capital is a redacted copy of the original.”
She nodded.
“The rumor is true.”
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