by Mark Anthony
Jack kept moving, and Travis followed, but they had gone no more than ten steps before a pair of guards—two men—spotted them and approached. The crescent moons on their uniforms glowed in the dimness.
“Who is this man?” one of the guards said to Jace.
“One of today's sufferers,” Jace said matter-of-factly.
The other guard eyed Travis. “Where's his clearance badge?”
Jack licked her lips. “He's a last-minute addition. There wasn't time to laminate a badge for him. That's why I've escorted him here myself.”
The second guard's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the first one's face was hard, implacable. His hand rested on the grip of the pistol at his hip. “No guest is allowed backstage without a badge, Ms. Windom. You should be aware of that policy.”
Jace drew a breath. Travis wondered what she was going to say. Before he could find out, a woman holding a clipboard rushed up to them.
“What's going on here?” Her hair was slipping out of the tight bun it had been drawn into. “It's five minutes to airtime. The backstage area has to be cleared of all nonessential personnel.”
Jace was faster than the other guards. “This man is another sufferer.”
The woman's eyes lit up. “Thank goodness. Why didn't you say so? The little kid with the seizures is out. His parents decided to take him to the hospital instead, so we're one short.” She grabbed Travis's arm and started pulling him along.
“Wait a minute,” the guard with the flat eyes said. “He doesn't have a badge.”
The woman glared back at the guards. “Badge? All I care is that he has an affliction.”
She led Travis away. The two guards started to follow, but Jace stepped in front of them. She glanced at Travis and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“So what are you suffering from?”
Travis turned his head to stare at the woman. What she was talking about?
She let out a groan. “Please, don't let it be idiocy.” She stopped in front of the bank of chairs, then spoke slowly. “What is your affliction? What do you want Mr. Carson to cure?”
Travis looked at the people in the chairs: crippled, thin, hunched over in pain. Finally, he understood.
The woman was looking at him expectantly. What did he say? I can do magic—magic that kills people. Cure me of that.
Instead he said, “I'm dyslexic.”
She frowned, then gave a resigned sigh. “Well, I suppose that's something. You're sure you don't have epilepsy?”
“Sorry. Just the dyslexia.”
“Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers.” She pointed to the last empty chair. “Sit right here. The show will begin with a medley of hope sung by the choir. While they're singing, Mr. Carson will come out and talk to each of you to get your story. You're to answer his questions as quickly as possible, and don't even think about asking for an autograph. When the healing segment begins, I'll come back to lead you and the other sufferers onstage, where Mr. Carson will cure you.”
“Just like that?” Travis said.
The woman gave him a tight smile. “Just like that.” She scribbled something on her clipboard, then hurried away.
“He can do miracles, you know.”
Travis looked at the woman next to him. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and shadows gathered in the hollows of her cheeks.
“What?” Travis said.
The woman smiled. Her neck was so thin he could see her larynx moving as she spoke. “Sage Carson. I've seen him do it on TV. He's cured all sorts of afflictions with just a touch. I'm sure he'll cure you, too.”
Travis didn't want to ask the question, but he found himself speaking all the same. “And what about you?”
“The doctors say I need chemotherapy, but I've seen what chemo does. They have to kill you just to try to save you. I'd rather put myself in God's hands.” She cast her eyes upward. “I know he'll take away the cancer. My daughters need me.”
Anger blossomed in Travis's chest. How many people had died because of lies like that? A tumor couldn't just be waved away with a wish and a prayer. However, radiation could shrink it, could stop it from growing back. The trick was finding a dose that would kill the cancer without killing the patient.
The woman's eyes were shut now; she was humming a hymn under her breath. Travis looked down at his hands. Could he find a way to remove Eldh's affliction without killing the whole world in the process? He didn't know, but he wasn't going to just sit here and pray that somehow everything would work out.
From the other side of the curtain, a roar of applause sounded, then a triumphant chorus of voices burst into song. Travis looked up. The choir had gone onstage; the show had begun. A guard stood at either end of the curtain, but neither of them was Jace. Panic gripped him. Had she set him up? Had she led him here so they could capture him?
“Hello, there, son. Tell me what ails you.”
Hope surged in Travis. The voice was smoother—a bell rather than a rasp—but it carried the same rich cadence, the same promise of power and redemption.
He turned in the chair, and hope became ash in his heart. The preacher standing above him was clad, not in dusty black, but in tailored white. His shoe black hair was shellacked into a perfect wave, and a thick layer of makeup lent his face an inhuman smoothness.
“Speak up, son.” Sage Carson's smile broadened, sending cracks through his makeup. “The show's begun, and there are other sufferers to whom I need to speak.”
The other people in the chairs gazed at Travis, some with less-than-friendly expressions.
Travis looked up into Carson's eyes. “I think you already know what my affliction is.”
Carson's smile vanished. Confusion clouded the preacher's gaze—followed by understanding. Before he could speak, Travis stood, clamped a hand on his arm, and steered him away from the row of chairs.
“Hey!” one of the sufferers called out after them. “They told us no autographs.”
Travis turned his back to them. He could feel Carson trembling under his grip. The preacher's eyes were fearful, alive. He was no ironheart.
“So you recognize me,” Travis said. “I figured you would. They seem to like to show my picture to everyone.”
Carson swallowed. “Is this the end, then? Are you here to kill me?”
His words stunned Travis. What had Duratek told the preacher about him? More lies, he supposed.
“I'm not going to kill you,” Travis said. “If you don't believe me, call out to your guards. Go ahead—I won't stop you. They'll take me away, and you can go on with the show.”
The preacher shook his head. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to listen to what I have to say.”
“Why?”
“Because something is happening here. Something terrible, and I don't think you know what it is.”
All at once Carson's trembling ceased, and he grinned. Shocked, Travis let go of his arm.
“I know more than you think, Mr. Wilder.” The preacher smoothed away the wrinkles Travis had left on the sleeve of his suit coat. “I know what the Angels of Light really are. I know what they do to the men and women I send to them. And I know they come from the world you've been to, the world Duratek seeks to claim for its own.”
Travis recoiled; he had made a terrible mistake. He had allowed himself to think they were using Carson, taking advantage of his blind faith to mislead him, that if he knew the truth about what was happening to his followers, he would help Travis. Only the preacher knew exactly what they were doing.
“You're one of them,” Travis croaked. “Duratek.”
A new emotion seeped through the thick layer of pancake on Carson's face: anger. “You're wrong. They need me, that's all. I give them things they cannot get for themselves.”
Travis fought for understanding. “What things?”
However, Carson only shook his head, his eyes distant.
They were running out of time. Travis tried a different tactic.
“Why? Why are you giving them whatever it is they need from you?”
“For this, Mr. Wilder. I wanted a great house of worship for my flock.” He looked up, his expression sorrowful, fond. “I love it so much, my Steel Cathedral. It's everything I've ever dreamed of.” He lowered his gaze. “And when I am no longer of use to them, they'll take it all away and dispose of me.”
Travis's mind raced. He didn't understand everything Carson was saying, but there was something strange about Carson—a sadness, a resignation. And a power. Why hadn't he called the guards? It was as if he was the one who was afflicted, the one who needed to be cured. And maybe Travis was the one person who could cure him.
“There's a way out,” Travis said, trying not to rush the words. He had to make every one of them count. “There's a way to stop Duratek. All you have to do is switch on the big screen onstage.”
Carson held a hand to his temple. “I don't understand.”
The voices of the choir rose into a final crescendo. Time was almost up.
“The big-screen television,” Travis said, his words urgent now. “I can't get to the panel that controls it—the guards will never let me near it. All you have to do is turn it on and watch it. Then you'll understand everything. Duratek will be finished for good. They'll—”
The woman with the clipboard hurried over. “Thirty seconds, Mr. Carson. Have you talked to all the sufferers?”
Carson was silent for a moment, then he looked at her. “The healing segment is canceled for today.”
The woman's eyes turned into circles of shock. “But Mr. Carson, it's in the script.”
“Not anymore. It's been replaced with another segment.” He glanced at Travis. “It's a surprise for my congregation, and all my viewers at home. Now run along, Karen.”
The woman looked as if she wanted to protest, then she clamped her jaw, gripped her clipboard, and scurried away.
“You'll be looking for the gate, I imagine,” the preacher said to Travis. “Keep going down until you can go no farther. You'll find it there. But it will be protected.”
Travis searched for words to speak but found none. Was Carson really going to help him?
The preacher cocked his head. It was as if he was listening to something. Then a shudder passed through him, and he looked at Travis.
“Perhaps it would have been better if you had come here to kill me after all, Mr. Wilder.” His hand crept up to his chest, and his eyes seemed to peer into some other space. “But the end will come soon, and perhaps this will be enough. Perhaps it will make amends for what I've done.”
Travis didn't know what these words meant. Was Carson seeking salvation? Or merely death?
The preacher started toward the curtain.
Travis held out a hand. “Can I trust you?”
Carson hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were unreadable in the dimness. “I don't know, Mr. Wilder,” he said. “I honestly don't know.”
The preacher stepped beyond the curtain, and the thunder of applause shook the air.
52.
Travis raced down the stairwell, hurling himself around the corner at each landing, every flight taking him deeper beneath the Steel Cathedral. He pulled the radio out of his pocket and mashed the button with his thumb.
“Deirdre, are you there?”
It was Anders's gravelly voice that crackled through the static a second later. “We're here, mate, though it looks like we're in a bit of a pickle. The show's started, thanks to the production lads here cooperating so nicely, but we still can't get the video up on the big screen, and I think security is starting to get suspicious something's going on in here.”
Travis threw himself around another landing. “Just hang in there. You'll be able to play the video in a minute. Sage Carson is going to activate the panel.”
“Say again, Travis? There was too much interference. It sounded like you said Carson is going to activate the screen.”
“That is what I said.”
It seemed insanity to believe Carson would help them; if that video aired, it would be the end of Duratek as well as the preacher's funding. The doors of his precious cathedral would close forever. Then again, if Travis's hunch was right, there wasn't going to be a cathedral at all soon. Besides, Travis couldn't shake the feeling that Carson was really going to do it.
The end will come soon enough. . . .
Sometimes even a wicked man wanted absolution when his time drew near.
“Travis, what's going on?” It was Deirdre's voice buzzing from the radio now. “What do you mean Carson is going to activate the panel?”
“Just trust me on this one.” He pounded down another flight of steps. “I don't have time to explain.”
There was a pause, then Deirdre's voice came again, a sharp edge to her words now. “Where are you, Travis? What are you doing?”
“You'll know when I do it. Just air that video as soon as you can, and when it's done, pull the fire alarms. You've got to evacuate everybody from the cathedral as fast as you can.”
Before Deirdre could reply, he switched off the radio and shoved it back in his pocket. He hit one last landing and skidded to a halt. This was the level with the laboratory where he had found Jay and Marty. There was a door to his left; that was the one he and Jace had used to enter the stairwell. Another door was closed before him. Through a small glass window he could see more stairs going down. The light on the card reader next to the door glowed red.
Travis laid his left hand on the card reader, and his right hand slipped into his pocket and opened the box. There was no use fearing the wraithlings now; they were already coming for him.
“Urath,” he said. A rushing noise filled his head, and the light on the card reader changed from red to green. Travis hunched his shoulders, waiting for an alarm to sound, but none did. With a push, the door opened; he started through.
“Hold it right there.”
Travis went stiff, then turned around. The sound of magic had deafened him for a moment; he hadn't heard the door behind him open. A guard stood in the doorway; the gun in his hands was leveled at Travis's chest.
“Don't move,” he said.
Travis knew he could speak Dur to yank the gun out of the guard's hands, but then what? The man's eyes were stern but not dead. Travis couldn't be sure—not after Marty—but he didn't think this man was one of them. The rune of iron wouldn't stop him.
Then speak Krond, Travis, Jack's voice said in his mind. Fire will do the trick.
No, he had made a vow. An ironheart was one thing; it was already dead. But Travis would not speak runes against a living man, even one who pointed a gun at him. He clamped the iron box shut in his pocket.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor behind the guard. More were coming.
You must speak the rune, Travis. Reaching the gate is more important than one man's life. And he serves the enemy.
“Take your hand out of your pocket,” the guard said. “Do it slowly.”
Travis's fingertips brushed the box; all he had to do was open it again, to speak the word. Krond.
The man tightened his grip on the gun. “I said take your hand out of your pocket.”
Now, Travis. Do it!
Travis opened his mouth to speak.
A gunshot ripped apart the air.
The guard cried out, and the gun clattered to the floor. He fell back through the door, sprawling to the tiles, and clutched his knee, moaning. Blood oozed from between his fingers.
Travis looked up. A figure darted down the stairs, a gun in her small hands. Jace.
“Go, Travis,” she said as she reached him.
Shouts rang out now along with footsteps. The wounded guard groped for his gun, but Jace kicked it away.
Travis stared at Jace. “More guards are coming. You can't stop them all.”
She slammed a new magazine into her pistol. “Maybe not, but I can hold them off for a while. Those stairs will take you down to the primary research a
rea. The gate is there.”
“Oh, Jace . . .”
She looked up at him, her brown eyes solemn. “They were the ones who took Maximilian away from us, Travis. You've got to stop them. Please.”
Pain welled up in his chest. He ached to tell her how sorry he was, and how proud Max would have been of her, but words fled him. All he could do was nod.
Her mouth curved in a wavering smile. “Good-bye, Travis.”
She turned and stood in the doorway, gun before her. Travis launched himself down the staircase. The door closed above him with a boom. Or was it the sound of gunfire? The noise was drowned out by the pounding of his own feet against the metal steps. Jace had sacrificed herself to give him a chance; he wasn't going to waste it.
Travis rounded another corner, then skidded down the last few steps and came to another door. It wasn't locked from this side. He pushed through and found himself at one end of a long corridor.
The corridor was dark, the gloom interrupted only by a small circle of light every ten feet. If this was the main laboratory facility beneath the cathedral, it should have been filled with people. Instead it was empty. He held his breath, but all he heard was the thrum of his own pulse.
Travis started down the corridor, moving between the pools of light. He passed openings that led to rooms and hallways, but this corridor was wider than the others; instinct told him he'd find what he was looking for at the end of it.
Something glowed silver-blue in the dimness ahead. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as if the corridor ended in a larger space. He heard the soft whir of machines. Travis quickened his pace.
A fist shot out of the darkness, punching him in the right kidney. Hard.
The air whooshed out of Travis in an exhalation of pain. He tumbled to the floor and rolled into one of the pools of light. There was a clatter as something hard skittered away from him.
A boot kicked into the circle of light. Travis rolled away, and instead of his skull the boot contacted his right shoulder. There was a crunching noise, and more pain. Travis looked up, but he couldn't see his attacker in the shadows.