“Dam?” asked my phone. It was playing with me. I knew it.
“Yes.”
“As mentioned previously, the dam plans were classified after 9-11 and never made it onto the internet to migrate to Galnet.”
“So you don’t have any?”
“Correct,” said my phone. “No dam plans.”
Across from me, Poly was almost convulsing with laughter. I was close to joining her, but held it together.
“Do you have a map of the corridors, rooms and stairways we’ve already explored?”
“Absolutely,” said my phone. “The whole dam trip.”
I felt like I was dealing with a recalcitrant seven year old. I didn’t have time for this sort of foolishness—it was time to go.
We hadn’t opened the box of Nicósn truffles, so I put it in my backpack tool bag and hoped we wouldn’t end up traveling through a place so warm it would melt them.
“Well then,” I said to Poly. “Are you ready to start searching for Cornell?
“I am,” she replied.
I was about to lead the way through the door Rosalind had taken earlier when my phone’s insistent beeping stopped me.
“What?”
“Poly should go first,” it said.
“Uh huh,” I mumbled. “Whatever.”
My phone waved one of its pseudopods and leaned forward in the closest thing to a bow it could manage.
“After you, ma-dam.”
I couldn’t decide whether to drop it into a can of Cthulhu Cola or laugh.
We set off.
Chapter 36
“Far above Cayuga’s waters, there’s an awful smell…”
— College Filk Song
How many corridors must a man walk down, before you call him a man?
A lot, it seems. My phone said it could probably detect Chit’s phone if we got within a hundred feet of it, so we were wandering through the interior of the dam, trying to pick up some sort of signal.
After an hour I was beginning to understand the pattern of corridors, stairways, inspection shafts and water pipes designed to cool the curing concrete. Long corridors ran along the length of the dam—more of them at the wider bottom than at the narrow top. Large rooms with pipes and valves were at the far ends of most corridors. At intervals, perpendicular corridors intersected and led to either the Lake Mead side or the dam face. Stairwells off the large rooms supplemented the pair of elevators—one on the Nevada side, one on the Arizona side.
I couldn’t figure out where I’d be if I were Cornell. Space was tight. There wasn’t anywhere to put a secret lair or a hidden laboratory.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” said Poly, as we paced along what seemed to be the lowest level of passageways.
“I know.”
We came to a perpendicular intersection and I squeezed Poly’s hand to get her attention.
“Let’s stop, sit for a minute, and think things through.”
“Okay,” said Poly. “The cola’s starting to wear off and I could use a break. Too bad we didn’t put another can in your backpack tool bag.”
I made a noncommittal grunt Poly could interpret as agreement, then we sat cross-legged across from each other on the cold concrete floor. Poly spoke first.
“The dam is named after Herbert Hoover, right?”
“It was originally called Boulder Dam, but was changed to honor president Hoover in nineteen thirty,” said my phone. “This caused quite a bit of controversy because Franklin Roosevelt was in office by nineteen thirty-six when the dam was completed.”
“You’re a regular flood of information,” I snarked.
My phone went quiet. I felt bad for not appreciating its sincere desire to be helpful, but was getting testy after not finding any signs of our quarry. I smiled at my phone apologetically and came back to Poly.
“Were you going somewhere with your question?”
“It’s just that if we’re not finding Cornell in the accessible parts of the dam, maybe we should be looking for something hidden in or near it?”
“Hmmm…” I mused. “I can hear the nineteen thirties radio serial announcer now: ‘From deep in his hidden base below Hoover Dam, Captain Colorado wages an unending struggle for Truth, Justice, and the American Way of Life…’”
I tried to keep going but ended up laughing at my own melodramatic bombast. Poly wasn’t laughing. She looked thoughtful.
“You may have something there,” she said. “Hoover was a mining engineer, I think, and made his national reputation handling the disastrous Mississippi River flood of nineteen twenty-seven.”
“Correct,” said my phone.
I thought it would say more, but it didn’t.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell us more. I’m sorry for making fun of you earlier.”
“Thank you,” it said. “Apology accepted. Hoover didn’t just have a national rep, he was famous internationally for his humanitarian work delivering food to starving people in Europe after World War I.”
“Wouldn’t it make sense for someone like Hoover to have a bunker or storage facility under his dam to store supplies in case some disaster struck the American west?” asked Poly. “From what I’ve read, it would be just like the guy to plan ahead like that.”
“Sounds dubious to me,” I said. “Do you think Hoover had Edison, Marconi, and Tesla down there building secret super-science inventions?”
“Edison was dead by then,” said Poly. “But if you take a look at the people who ran the Six Companies consortium that built the dam, there’s plenty of room for conspiracy theories.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “And how do you know so much about Hoover and how the dam was built?”
“I looked it up on the flight to Vegas—while you were snoring.”
I didn’t remember falling asleep on the plane—and I didn’t think I snored—but I let it pass.
“Considering that Hoover ran the FBI for years, maybe there’s something to your idea,” I said.
“Wrong Hoover,” said Poly. “That was J. Edgar.”
“Oops,” said my phone, snickering.
I didn’t need snide comments from my communications hardware—except it was evident from my ignorance that I did.
“Let’s say you’re right and Herbert Hoover did have a secret base built under the dam,” I said. “How do we find it?”
“There’s a lot more room for a secret base if we go down than up,” said Poly.
“Down it is,” I said. “Can I call you Beatrice?”
“Maybe just this once,” she said, “though wouldn’t Virgil be more appropriate?”
Poly unfolded and got to her feet, gracefully. She extended a hand to help me rise with much less grace.
“Yes,” I said, “but I’m not holding hands with anyone named Virgil.”
Poly gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek for luck before taking my hand in hers.
“Are the stairwells our best bet for hidden entrances?” she asked.
“Affirmative,” said my phone. “Sonic scanning should help locate them.”
“Follow me, Mr. Alighieri,” said Poly, “and don’t eat or drink anything after we start our descent.”
“I thought that was advice for entering fairy mounds?”
“It’s smart in current circumstances, too, unless you want to risk ingesting Vonaduzit and having your will be in thrall to my every command.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Jack?” asked Poly.
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”
She punched me on the shoulder, affectionately, and tugged me toward the Nevada-side stairwell, which was marginally closer. We walked down one more flight—I was right about being near the bottom—and we
were side by side in a small chamber with nowhere to go, it seemed, but up. Poly took three big steps forward and pushed on the wall directly opposite the stairs. It acted like a wall and didn’t budge. I tried a different tactic.
“Sonic scan please,” I said.
“Scanning,” said my phone.
I walked around the perimeter of the chamber, aiming my phone at the concrete segments. When I got to the space underneath the stairs, my phone beeped.
“There,” it said, waving a pseudopod toward the inner wall.
Poly came around to join us.
“Where should I push?” I asked.
My phone indicated a two-inch circular depression that I’d taken to be an artifact from a concrete form. I pushed it and an eight foot square section of wall swung up away from us, against the ceiling, revealing a broad, well-lit corridor.
“After you, Beatrice,” I said, giving a half bow and sweeping my hand in the direction we’d be going.
Poly rolled her eyes and led the way. I followed.
The light fixtures above our heads were the same wire-covered cylinders used in the corridors we’d been traveling through, but someone had replaced the old incandescent lights with modern, congruency-powered bulbs. I could see the drab, bilious Army-green painted walls that must date back a hundred years, to before the dam was built. Some wag had stenciled Acme Corporation in foot-high government brown letters on the left hand wall.
Great, I thought. Now I know where Wile E. Coyote gets his gear. At least he orders from a local supplier.
Poly and I continued along the corridor until we saw a side passage to the right labeled “Observation Area.” The main corridor started to slope sharply upward, so we turned right and thought we’d “observe” for a while. I was pleased that we hadn’t run into any guards or other personnel so far, but it wasn’t even six in the morning. With luck, everyone was still asleep.
I could hear running water not far off. Maybe we were close to the pipes that once fed the power generation station?
The observation area proved to be five rows of tiered wooden benches embedded in more of the ubiquitous concrete. They looked over a half-wall and a railing made of thick pipe, painted in drab Army brown. Forty feet below us was an enormous water-filled room, big enough to have its own weather. The main corridor we’d been following bridged the water on a catwalk, angling back down on the far side. There were docks for eight submarines, but only two were present, and they looked worse for wear, leaking oil and who knows what other fluids into their pens. Everything was quiet. Not a sailor was stirring, or even in sight.
This must be the base the Verne Wells & Company Nautilus clones called home. It looked like something out of a James Bond movie, only bigger. A brightly colored, modern-style arrow, like the kind I’d seen in the tunnels at Anthony Zwilniki’s VIGorish Labs, read “Tripods.” It pointed deeper into the complex through an archway at the end of the catwalk.
“Are these the subs that attacked the Drop Marines?” whispered Poly.
I nodded.
“Chit’s phone detected,” said my phone softly. “That way.”
It pointed toward the tripods area.
“Let’s go,” said Poly. “The longer we wait, the higher the odds of somebody showing up.”
“Right,” I said, thinking I was glad we were both wearing our bulletproof Orishen pupa silk shirts.
Some instinct for self-preservation caused me to look up and examine the ceiling of the submarine docking room. I spotted cameras hidden above. Only their slow, back and forth motion gave them away. That explained the lack of guards. They’d only be called if alerted by security personnel watching the video feeds. I pointed and Poly paused.
“Turn around,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I need something out of your backpack.”
“Okay,” I said. “What are you looking for?”
“Didn’t you have a tennis ball you were using to play catch with Spike?”
“Sure,” I said, “it’s in one of the outer pockets. Watch out for drool.”
“Got it,” she said. “Any alcohol?”
“There’s a small plastic bottle I use for cleaning parts in a zippered compartment near the top.”
“Got it,” said Poly. “Is your Swiss Army knife still in your left front pocket?”
I felt her fingers exploring before I had a chance to reply.
“Hey there,” I said, “careful with those wandering hands.”
“I’m always careful,” said Poly, who was re-zipping my backpack tool bag.
I turned around to watch her cut a slit in the side of the tennis ball and pour in some alcohol. Then she ripped the pocket off her server’s white dress shirt and fed it into the slit, with an inch or two still outside, making one of the world’s most unusual examples of a Molotov cocktail.
“Now all I need is a spark,” she said.
My phone extended a pair of electrodes from its upper surface and a crack of current ran between them. Poly held the shirt pocket fuse up to the electrodes.
“Do it again.”
My phone sparked and the fabric caught. Poly hurled the tennis ball across two empty docks so it landed in the oil slick surrounding the closer of the two submarines. Billowing black smoke rose quickly, blocking the surveillance cameras.
“Hurry,” said Poly, as we both ran back toward the main corridor.
“I know, I know,” I said, “the cameras won’t be able to see us but the guards coming any second to put out the fire will.”
“Less talk, more speed.”
“Yes, dear.”
We made respectable times in our dash across the catwalk. Not Tigrammath-level times, but not bad for humans. We rushed through the archway at the far side and Poly spotted an ancient wooden receptionist’s desk on the right that looked like it might have dated back to the Spanish American War. We both dove under it just in time. A dozen sailors and maintenance types, carrying high capacity fire extinguishers and looking none too alert, rushed through the archway and into the submarine docking area. A klaxon was sounding and a woman’s voice was echoing over the public address system, repeating the phrase “All personnel, please report to the sub bay immediately.”
“This is supposed to help us find Cornell more easily how?” I whispered to Poly.
“Shush,” said my partner. “Listen.”
My phone knew enough not to say anything under the circumstances, but began waving six or seven pseudopods frantically. I heard footsteps near our hiding place and saw feet wearing polished black wingtips through the narrow gap at the bottom of the desk.
“What the hell is going on here?” asked Cornell’s familiar and annoying voice.
I almost smacked my head when I straightened up under the desk, but caught myself before I betrayed our location. Poly squeezed my hand. The look in her eyes said, “I told you we’d find him.”
Cornell didn’t get a reply to his question. It was obvious that most of the people at the base were busy fighting the burning oil. Little of the smoke was coming through the archway into this area, thank goodness.
I started to relax, at least as much as one could when hiding under a desk in a hostile paramilitary base. Then I saw my phone crawling out and tying Cornell’s shoelaces together—like that had worked so well when it had done the same to Rosalind. I could only shake my head. Its mission complete, my phone scuttled back under the desk and flashed a thumb’s up image on its screen. I was pleased with my phone’s initiative, but not so much with its judgment.
Poly tensed her muscles, preparing for action. I heard Cornell begin to move, then felt the rush of air associated with someone falling.
My partner jumped out, circumnavigated the desk with near-Tigrammath speed, and caught Cornell on his way
down. I followed her and saw what happened next.
While Cornell was disoriented, she pulled a test tube filled with an effervescent amber liquid from her jacket, removed the rubber stopper with her thumb, and poured it down Cornell’s throat. Then she helped him to his feet.
“Fix your shoe laces and take us to your office,” she ordered.
“Certainly,” said Cornell.
He corrected my phone’s mischief and started to walk away from the submarine area.
I followed Poly and her willing thrall a few yards to an office door. A half-sheet of paper with Cornell’s name laser printed on it was taped at eye level, making it look decidedly temporary.
“In here,” he said.
“Where did you get the Vonaduzit?” I asked Poly, sotto voce.
“It was one of the vials to be poured into the champagne, I think,” she replied, “but the woman I took this outfit from must have stashed it for her own purposes.”
“Lucky you,” I said.
“Lucky us,” said Poly.
One of the challenges of hiring less than ethical people is that you have to put up with a certain amount of “shrinkage,” I suppose. It made me glad Poly and I had made much better hires for Xenotech Support Corporation. I decided I wasn’t going to ask Poly why she hadn’t told me about having the drug sooner.
Cornell’s office wasn’t large. I shut the door behind us and Poly had Cornell sit on the desk—this one a steel-framed unit that looked like World War II surplus. Poly and I stood opposite him and spent a few brain cycles formulating questions.
“Who is The General?” asked Poly.
“I don’t know,” Cornell replied.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” I grumbled.
“I mean I don’t know,” said Cornell. “No one does. He’s a very private person.”
“Evidently,” I said.
Poly gave me a look that said “Pipe down and let me handle this.” I nodded. Given the way I felt about Cornell, I was confident she’d be a lot better at handling the interrogation.
Xenotech What Happens: A Novel of the Galactic Free Trade Association (Xenotech Support Book 3) Page 29