by Will Hill
Let it be her. Please let it be her.
The dust dispersed, and they crowded in to look.
Lying on the floor, covered in broken plaster and splintered wood, was a tiny girl with blonde hair and pale skin. Her eyes were closed, a thick smear of blood ran down the wall above her head, but her chest was rising and falling steadily.
“Who is she?” asked Turner. He was overcome with disappointment, for which he truly hated himself; he had wanted it to be Kate Randall so badly that the sight of anyone else was terrible. It meant that Kate could still be in her room, smeared across the walls.
It meant she could still be gone.
One of the operators placed his console against the girl’s forearm and typed a command. The locator chip that was surgically implanted beneath the muscles of every operator’s forearm was scanned, and a name appeared on the screen.
“Her name is Natalia Lenski,” said the operator. “She’s Lazarus, sir.”
“Then what the hell was she doing on Level B?”
The operator shook his head. “No idea, sir.”
29
DROWNING OUT
Lincoln County, Nevada, USA
Yesterday
Larissa Kinley stared through the hole in the wall and wondered who she was going to have to explain it to.
She had hit the gym as soon as the special operations squad returned from Nuevo Laredo. The ride home in the helicopter should have been triumphant, and for most of the squad it clearly was; they were basking in the afterglow of a job well done, joking and laughing among themselves. Tim Albertsson had joined in, although she didn’t believe for a minute that his focus had truly been on his squad mates and what they had achieved. Instead, it had been where she now belatedly realized it had for several weeks.
On her.
She had asked for permission to fly home on her own, knowing he would not grant it, but hoping that the question would reinforce what she had told him in the walled garden behind Garcia Rejon’s mansion, after he had kissed her.
He kissed me. That’s what happened. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him back.
Tim had refused her request, as expected, so she had strapped herself into the seat furthest from his and stayed silent the entire way home. She didn’t trust herself to speak, unable to predict with sufficient accuracy the words that might come out of her mouth. Tim had been either astute or oblivious, and had left her alone. She had still caught him looking at her, though—tiny glances, barely more than flicks of his eyes, but there nonetheless, and obvious once she knew what to look for.
How long has he been looking at me like that? Why didn’t I notice before?
Larissa excused herself the instant the helicopter set down on the tarmac outside the NS9 hangar and made for the safety of her quarters. Once the door was locked behind her, she turned on the screen that hung on the wall opposite her bed, loaded NS9’s secure video link application, and sat with her finger hovering over the button that would send a message to Jamie’s console informing him she was trying to reach him, for almost five minutes. Her mind was racing, thoughts and feelings jumbling and rolling together, and at the very back of her mind a voice, the one she hated, which told her she was ugly and stupid and no good, whispered to her.
Maybe you did notice how Tim looked at you. Maybe you didn’t say anything because you didn’t mind. Maybe you liked him looking at you like that.
She pushed the voice away as far as she was able, and closed the application. Then she pulled off her uniform, threw on a pair of shorts and a vest, and headed for the gym, her feet floating above the ground.
That’s not true, she told herself, as she began to work the heavy bag. She was pulling her punches, but it nonetheless began to swing back and forth rapidly, her knuckles thudding against it with a noise like the crack of a bullwhip. I didn’t know he liked me, I swear I didn’t. I didn’t encourage him. I really didn’t.
But the voice at the back of her mind wouldn’t leave her alone. It dripped poison into her ears as she swung her fists, harder and harder.
Why don’t you talk to Tim about Jamie? You’re so quick to tell everyone else about him, you normally won’t shut up about him. Why is it different with Tim?
The bag swung higher and higher, creaking on the chain that connected it to the ceiling.
Didn’t you notice how he always sits next to you at dinner? Of course you did, you’re a smart girl. You noticed and you liked it, didn’t you?
Puffs of dust began to burst from the seams as her fists pounded the bag. It was now little more than a red blur, hurled backward and forward by her supernatural strength.
Why haven’t you mentioned Tim to Jamie? You’ve worked with him almost every day since you’ve been here, but you never thought he was worth telling your boyfriend about? Why didn’t you want them to know about each other?
“Shut up,” whispered Larissa, and felt familiar red heat spill into the corners of her eyes. The heavy bag whipped back and forth, impossibly fast, and she felt the muscles in her shoulders ripple as she increased the power of her swings.
Maybe that’s why you don’t want to go back to Blacklight. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with how they treat you or how they look at you. Maybe that’s why you asked General Allen about transferring Jamie here, because you knew he’d never do it. Maybe that’s what you’re hoping for, that you can stay here with Tim.
“SHUT UP!” she screamed, a guttural roar that seemed to rise from the pit of her stomach and erupt from her mouth. Her eyes blazed under the fluorescent lights of the gym, and she felt her fangs burst into place, cutting her lower lip. She swung her fist with every shred of power she possessed, crashing it into the side of the heavy bag with the force of a wrecking ball. The chain snapped, and the bag itself rocketed across the gym, crunching a hole in the opposite wall before bursting in a great cloud of sand.
Instantly, the rage left her. She stared at the hole, embarrassment rising quickly through her as a memory surfaced from her old life, the life before she needed to drink blood to survive: her fourteen-year-old self hurling a glass against the wall of her bedroom, a disproportionate response to some long-forgotten parental slight. Her mother had said nothing, just stared at her with an expression of such deep disappointment that Larissa had burst into tears, screaming for her mom to get out of her room, to leave her alone, before hurling herself onto her bed and covering her head with a pillow, unable to meet her mother’s gaze. She felt similar shame now, although there was one major difference between what was happening now and what had happened when she was fourteen.
I haven’t done anything wrong, she thought, fiercely. I love Jamie, and I’d never betray him, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell him everything. I’m allowed a life of my own. Friends of my own. And to hell with anyone who thinks differently.
Larissa felt the heat in her eyes ebb away, and she breathed out heavily. She was coated in a light film of sweat and was suddenly exhausted; her bones felt heavy, her skin thin and brittle. As she made her way toward the showers, she realized that there was something she had to do: She needed to talk to Tim. She felt no obligation to tell Jamie what had happened, but she was going to have to talk to her colleague, for one simple reason: She had seen in his eyes, as clear as day, that there would come a time when he would try to kiss her again. She wanted to avoid that situation for the same reason that she avoided all other dangerous situations: because you could never be absolutely sure what might happen in the heat of the moment.
Because, despite all the best intentions in the world, sometimes bad things happened.
30
PRELIMINARY CONCLUSIONS
Paul Turner tapped rapidly on the touch screen of his console. He was standing in the center of the Level B corridor, his outer appearance betraying not the slightest hint of the turmoil inside.
Come
on. Come on. Come on.
The screen glowed as the console returned the results.
CARPENTER, JAMIE (LIEUTENANT)/NS303,67-J—B171
BROWNING. MATTHEW (LIEUTENANT)/NS303,83-C—B173
As the door was being lifted, Turner had felt panic threaten to overwhelm him. The thought of losing Kate Randall, the girl upon whom he had come to rely far more than he hoped she knew, who represented one of the few remaining links to his late son, was unimaginable.
The sight of Natalia Lenski, injured but clearly still alive, had wiped the rising panic away and returned his icy, analytical brain to something resembling its normal mode of operation. Emotion had receded and been replaced by problems that needed solving, situations that required handling. The most pressing of these was the need to update Cal Holmwood on the situation, but that was not what the security officer had turned his attention to.
Kate Randall was missing. That was his priority.
He was already sure that the bomb had been detonated by the door to her quarters being opened, which meant that it was extremely unlikely she was dead; the door had been blown outwards, crashing into the Lenski girl, who had obviously been standing in front of it at the time. Even if Kate had been standing beside her as the explosion tore through the small room, there was very little chance that she had been obliterated so completely that no visible remains had been left behind.
No, the Lazarus girl went into the quarters on her own and triggered the bomb. The bomb that was meant for Kate.
Exactly why Natalia Lenski had been entering Kate’s room was a question for another time. Right now, there was a far more pressing one that needed answering.
Where the hell is she?
Her chip wasn’t showing up on the grid, which meant that, assuming he was right about her not being dead, she had to be somewhere on Level B, where the explosion had knocked out the monitoring equipment. The level was almost entirely residential and normally home to more than seventy operators, although in the aftermath of the attack on the Loop, it housed fewer than forty. But of those that remained, two were Kate’s best friends in all of Blacklight, the two teenage boys whose room numbers Turner had just asked his console for.
171 and 173. That’s right. They live next door to each other.
Turner strode down the corridor, holding back the urge to run; it would not do for the Section C operators to see how unsettled he really was. Identical doors passed by on both sides, until he found himself standing outside the one marked 173. He pressed his card against the black panel on the wall and heard the locks disengage. At the last second, when it was far too late to do anything about it, he suddenly wondered whether the bomber might have also booby-trapped the quarters of Kate’s friends, and marveled at such an unthinkably junior error. But the door merely swung open, revealing not a ball of expanding fire, but a small room that seemed to be almost full of files and folders. The bed was the only surface not covered in teetering mountains of paper, and it was empty. Turner hauled the door shut and moved on to room 171.
Jamie Carpenter’s room.
He overrode the door lock, this time taking the precaution of moving three quick steps away along the wall. The door swung open, and a familiar voice shouted through the opening.
“Who’s out there? Show yourself.”
Turner suppressed a tiny smile, and stepped out in front of the open doorway. Jamie was standing in the middle of his quarters, his legs shoulder-width apart, his MP5 resting easily against his shoulder.
The teenage boy who came here is gone, he thought. For better or worse, he’s gone.
“Lower your weapon, Lieutenant Carpenter,” he said, his voice level. Jamie did so as Turner stepped into the small room, instantly realizing that Kate Randall wasn’t there.
“What’s going on, sir?” asked Jamie.
“Nothing you need to worry about, Lieutenant,” replied Turner. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Randall. Do you know where she is?”
Jamie frowned. “Kate?” he asked. “Isn’t she in ISAT?”
“If she was in ISAT, I wouldn’t be asking you if you knew where she was.”
“I don’t know where she is,” said Jamie, his eyes narrowing. “Have you run her chip?”
“Of course I have,” replied Turner. “Stay here until you are told otherwise, Lieutenant Carpenter.” He turned and headed for the door.
“Hey!” shouted Jamie.
Turner stopped and faced him. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Why don’t you know where Kate is?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Turner. “Just stay here. We’ll be lifting the lockdown as soon as we can.”
“Don’t give me that,” said Jamie, fiercely. “I heard an explosion that sounded like it was on this level. So if something’s happened to Kate, you’d better tell me right now or—”
“Or what, Lieutenant Carpenter?” interrupted the security officer. “What exactly do you intend to do about it?”
Jamie stared at him, and Turner felt the usual mixture of admiration and irritation that filled him whenever he looked at Julian Carpenter’s son. Then the teenager’s face softened.
“Is Kate okay, sir?” he asked. “Just tell me. Did something happen to her?”
Jamie’s face was suddenly so full of obviously genuine concern that Turner felt his heart go out to him.
“I don’t know, Jamie,” he replied. “Someone put a bomb in her quarters, but I don’t think she was there when it went off. Her chip isn’t showing up, but the blast knocked out the monitoring systems on this level, so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I’m working on the assumption that she’s somewhere else.”
Jamie’s eyes had widened as Turner spoke. “A bomb?” he asked. “In Kate’s room?”
Turner nodded.
“Was anyone hurt?” asked Jamie.
“A girl from the Lazarus Project.”
“What was she doing in Kate’s room?”
“I don’t know, Jamie. She could have been planting the bomb for all I know. It detonated about nine minutes ago, so I don’t have the answer to every single question just yet.”
“So Kate has to be on this level?”
“That’s the most likely explanation.”
“Have you checked next door? In Matt’s room?”
“Yes. She’s not there.”
Jamie stared for a long moment, seemingly at nothing. For some reason, it was a moment that Paul Turner felt compelled to let him finish, even though he knew he should be on his way up to Cal Holmwood’s quarters by now.
Then Jamie broke into a small, sad smile. “I know where she is,” he said.
“Where?” asked Turner. “Tell me.”
The young operator shook his head. “I’ll show you.”
* * *
The two men walked along Level B in silence, until Jamie stopped outside one of the hundred or more identical doors that lined the corridor. Turner read the number printed on the flat surface.
059
It felt familiar, and Paul Turner frowned as he stared at it. He had seen it before, that combination of three numbers, but couldn’t remember where, or why the feeling that it was important was rising through him. Then understanding hit him like a punch to the stomach.
This was Shaun’s room. Fifty-nine. This was my son’s room.
Without a word, Turner reached out and ran his card across the black plastic panel. His stomach churned, he could feel blood pounding through the veins in his head, but he forced his hand not to tremble. The locks released, and the door slid open. Jamie didn’t give any indication of movement, so he stepped forward and pushed the door wide, his heart full of a swirling mixture of longing and dread. It swung back against the wall of the small room, and Paul Turner found himself looking at Kate Randall, who was sitting on the edge of the bed that had once been Shau
n’s.
It had been stripped down to the mattress, and the rest of the room was similarly bare; the bedside table and desk were clear, the wardrobe was empty, the walls had been given a fresh coat of whitewash. Once the Security Division had completed the mandatory examination that followed the death of any operator, Shaun’s possessions had been handed to the security officer in a single cardboard box. He had taken them home to his wife, placed them on the kitchen table, and let her see them; he had been unable to speak, to soften the blow for her in any way.
“Paul?” said Kate. “Jamie? What are you doing here? What’s going on? I heard something that sounded like an explosion.”
For a second or two, Turner just stared at her. Then he strode forward, pulled her to her feet, and enveloped her in a crushing bear hug. Kate laughed involuntarily, although her face wore an expression of confusion. “Hey,” she said. “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“There was a bomb, Kate,” said Jamie, softly. He was still standing in the doorway, watching the embrace taking place before him with a mixture of happiness and unease. “Someone planted a bomb in your room.”
“What?” asked Kate, her eyes flying wide. “Let go of me, Paul, for God’s sake. What happened?”
Turner released her, with obvious reluctance, and stepped back. “Jamie’s telling the truth,” he said. “An explosive device was placed in your quarters. It detonated when the door was opened.”
“Was anyone hurt?” asked Kate.
“A girl from the Lazarus Project,” said Turner. “Her name is—”
“Natalia Lenski,” said Kate, distantly. “Oh Jesus. Is she okay?”
“She’s going to be fine,” Turner said, and smiled as relief flooded Kate’s face. “She was still outside when it blew. The door shielded her from most of the blast.”
“What was she doing going into your room?” asked Jamie. “I didn’t think you knew anyone in Lazarus apart from Matt.”