Paradigm

by Helen Stringer

  “That’s weird,” said Sam. “I don’t remember hearing alarms.”

  “You wouldn’t. Deth is on the other side of the city. Let’s switch cameras.”

  The picture changed to a shot of an alley, dark and narrow. The old man staggered about half way down, then hunkered behind some boxes and discarded crates, his chest heaving with exertion.

  Sam knew what was going to happen next and he didn’t want to watch. But there was something almost hypnotic about it, like re-reading a book and hoping that this time the hero won’t die at the end, even while knowing that he will. Sam felt his heart pounding. He wanted to help. To run to the alley, find the old man and get him out of there before the armed men arrived.

  But the ending didn’t change, and they did find him, barreling around the corner as the old monk scrambled to his feet. The shots were rapid, but the absence of sound made everything seem slow, so Sam saw each bullet as it hammered into the old man’s chest, sending him staggering backwards, the blood spattering and soaking his grimy robes.

  Yet he didn’t fall. He just turned and ran.

  “And here’s where you come in,” said the mayor, switching to yet another camera.

  Sam watched as the camera focused on him, spinning around and catching the old man as he fell. The mayor zoomed in closer as Sam and the old monk talked. Had the conversation really been that long? Then Sam picked up the box.

  The mayor returned the screen to real time and looked at Sam.

  “You know the rest, of course.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Now, that does not look like two strangers, does it?”

  “I didn’t know him. He needed help.”

  “Then why didn’t you get him some? Why did you leave him to die and take the box?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “And then there’s the response to the theft,” continued the mayor. “Dozens of mercenaries dispatched into my streets, all armed to the teeth and terrorizing my citizens, and all for this—a small box. Now why do you think she did that?”

  “Maybe it’s an antique,” said Sam. “Or maybe it’s got her jewelry in it.”

  “Now you’re just being obtuse,” said the mayor. “I really hate it when people are obtuse. There is obviously something in this box that is very valuable indeed.”

  “So open it.”

  “It’s locked.”

  Sam sat down again and waited. Surely the man had to get to the point soon.

  “Fortunately, there is a key.” The mayor paused for effect. “Though not so fortunate for you. He was wearing it, you know. The old man. Around his neck. You should’ve searched him.”

  “I was being shot at.”

  “If you say so. I think it shows a lack of quick-thinking, but that’s just me. I expect more from people.”

  “I’m an underachiever.”

  “I doubt that,” said the mayor.

  “Could we get to the part where you give me the ultimatum?”

  The mayor smiled briefly.

  “That Bast woman’s been making my life a misery since she got here six months ago, stealing my best men, bribing city officials, undermining my authority.”

  “So why don’t you tell her to leave?”

  “You’re being obtuse again. I need leverage. Right now I have nothing, but whatever is inside this box could change that.”

  “Then why don’t you just force it open?”

  “I tried. Then Danvers tried shooting the lock. Not a scratch. It looks like wood, but it’s not. It’s some kind of alloy and the only thing that will open it is the key.”

  Sam waited. The mayor leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers together like a spider on a mirror, peering at Sam through narrowed eyes. Sam had been looked at like a that a lot. It usually meant that the adult in question was trying to figure him out. He responded the way he always did—with a surly stare. After a few moments the mayor reached down, slid open a drawer in his desk, and pushed a gun across the table.

  Whatever Sam had been expecting, it wasn’t that. The mayor smiled.

  “You are to go to the Bast woman’s offices, retrieve the key and bring it back here.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  “Maybe I’ll refuse.”

  “That’s certainly your prerogative. However, I feel I must remind you that running from the police is a crime punishable by death.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” said Sam, trying to look cool and unconcerned but doubting that he was entirely convincing. “Seems kinda over the top.”

  “I am a great proponent of law and order,” said the mayor. “Law and order begins with respect of the laws and the upholders of those laws.”

  “But we didn’t know…”

  “Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”

  “Maybe I should take my chances in court. A jury might—”

  “If we don’t let the hoi polloi vote, do you really think we’d risk their opinions in a court of law? You will be brought before the Century City Tribunal. The trial will be brief. You and your friend will be hanged in the plaza by this time tomorrow.”

  Sam stared at him.

  “I’m surprised you bother with trials at all.”

  The mayor smiled again. “It’s as well to maintain a façade of separation between the executive and judicial. It makes people more cooperative. Now, are you going to do the job?”

  “I’ll need my friend’s help.”

  “No. I know a slippery customer when I see one. Your friend stays here. Think of him as collateral.”

  “But…what if she keeps it in a safe?”

  “I’m certain she does.”

  “How am I supposed to—”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you. You’ll almost certainly die in the attempt.”

  “Then what’s the point?”

  “The point,” said the mayor, a note of irritation creeping into his voice, “is that you might get away with it. Besides, I think it only right that I risk some criminal transient before endangering any of my own people. That’s good leadership.”

  “Good leadership?”

  “Yes. If you’re going to send people to certain death they’ll be much more inclined if they think you’ve exhausted all other options.”

  “You don’t have any conscience at all, do you?” said Sam, feeling a weird combination of revulsion and awe.

  “I want my city back.”

  “So…just supposing I do get the key, you’ll let us go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both of us?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I…if I fail, you’ll release Nathan?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. But your option here is probable death or certain death.”

  Sam racked his brain for an alternative scenario. He knew he couldn’t really let the mayor have the key to the box, but trying to steal it would buy them some time, at least.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll do it.”

  The mayor nodded and hit another button on his desk.

  “Joyce?”

  “Yes, Mr. Mayor?”

  “The young man is to be released. He’s coming out now. Let Chief Danvers know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later the huge doors opened and the mayor gestured for Sam to go.

  “Can I speak to my friend first?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Sam sighed and started to walk toward the door.

  “Wait,” the mayor stood up and picked up the gun. “You’re forgetting something.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t believe in them.”

  “Pity,” said the mayor. “They most certainly believe in you. Oh, and I should have mentioned—you’ve got forty-eight hours or your friend swings.”

  Sam nodded and walked out of the office past the skinny secretary, the police guards on the door
and the glowering Chief Danvers. He strode down the faded corridors and out of the grand main entrance into the open air. Then he stopped and looked up at the jaundiced sky and the gleaming city spires.

  For the first time in his life he had no idea what he was going to do. There was no plan, there was no car, and there was no way to succeed. The smart thing to do would be to take it on the lam out of the city, retrieve the GTO and disappear into the Wilds.

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let the mayor get hold of the key of the Paradigm Device, and he couldn’t abandon Nathan to some miserable lonely death. He deserved more than that.

  He took a deep breath and started to walk toward the central plaza. He’d think of something. When the time came, he’d think of something.

  Chapter 10

  SAM STRODE THROUGH THE CITY, past the entrance to the parking lot and the grimy façade of the Entropy Inn and down the first of a warren of narrow alleys leading toward the great central plaza.

  He had the same feeling he’d had right after his dad died and he’d found himself truly alone for the first time, adrift in a place that he barely knew and surrounded by people who had no interest in the survival of one skinny kid. He glanced up at the narrow strip of sky above the alley. Back then he’d survived by just hunkering down and getting on. Being careful, but not allowing himself to be scared. “Keep your eyes on your objective.” That’s what Elkanah had said. Reach that, then regroup and head for the next one. There was no point in fearing something that may or may not happen. Just focus.

  If the plaza had seemed crowded the last time he was here, now it positively heaved with humanity. The sidewalk cafes and restaurants were crowded with patrons drinking to the end of another day while the square itself throbbed with the footsteps and conversations of hundreds of city dwellers as they made their way homeward. Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and pushed his way through the crowd toward a large screen set into a wall and surrounded by layers of torn posters announcing meetings, concerts, plays and visiting fairs. A sign above it read, “Century City Directory.”

  The whole thing was voice activated and Sam was tempted to just walk away and do it the old way by asking someone, but in a place as comprehensively wired as Century City, the effect would probably be the same.

  He hesitated for a second then leaned forward and whispered, “DETH, Inc.”

  The screen went blank, then cooed, “I’m sorry, we have no listing for that name.”

  Sam shuddered a little at the voice, then said the full company name, “Devastation Engineering and Tactical Havoc, Inc.”

  This time the screen immediately responded with a grid map of the city showing his current location and the relative position of the sleek grey headquarters of DETH, Inc.

  He examined the map, then turned and followed the recommended route across the plaza and down a wide thoroughfare that led to an even wider street of shining office buildings, banks, and investment houses: Century City’s impressive financial district. He peered into the windows as he passed by and guessed that these were the businesses of the top families, the ones that got to vote and sit in judgment on the rest, while making sure that no one joined their exclusive club.

  After a few minutes, the banking hub gave way to a sleek shopping district and then a gently curving avenue of palatial homes, faced in cream stone and with curtained windows like sleeping eyes. Sam wondered what the inhabitants were like—those first families who worked in the shiny buildings and lived in the beige homes. Were they satisfied with their lives of plenty, or did they feel the occasional twinge of guilt at the sight of the gloomy apartments that served as homes for the majority of Century City’s inhabitants? Sam reckoned it was probably the former—he’d never met any rich people who gave a tinker’s toss about the less fortunate. But for all their wealth, the first families were still holed up in a fortress, relying on walls and the appearance of strength to keep them safe. It was all too claustrophobic, too inward-looking and Sam couldn’t wait to get out.

  By the time he emerged from his reverie, the roads had become narrower and the buildings more industrial. He glanced back, wondering whether he’d made a wrong turn somewhere, when he rounded a corner, stopped, and stepped back into the shadows. The building was bigger than he’d expected: a low, sprawling edifice of gunmetal grey accented by shining steel and gleaming black marble. Dark windows gazed across the paved approach toward the street and the slate megalith with the company’s name etched in sharp relief. There were four sets of glass double doors at the entrance, but Sam ignored them and made his way to the rear of the building.

  He recognized the layout from the video of the monk’s escape, but it seemed much bigger and more exposed in daylight. The cameras that certainly covered every inch of every possible approach would have an unimpeded view of anyone attempting anything even remotely nefarious.

  “So how did the monk get inside?” he muttered.

  He watched as a group of about eight men and women marched up to a door. They were all pretty big and exuded the hard discipline of military experience, but their clothes were a ragtag mix of combat gear and street clothes. The one in front placed his hand on a pad and leaned forward. A green light flashed briefly before the door slid open and the troops marched in.

  Great, thought Sam. Retinal scan. How am I supposed to get past that?

  He watched as the last of the men entered and the door slid shut. Then it dawned on him: only the first man was scanned, the rest just strolled right in.

  He hesitated for a moment, then removed his watch and shoved it into a pocket. The vest would have to go too. He took off his coat, removed the vest, folded it as small as he could, stowed it in another pocket and put the coat back on. Was that enough? He retraced his steps until he found a grubby shop window in a nearby alley. Nope. He really didn’t look military. He tried standing taller. Better. The hair was a problem, though. He spat into his hands and slicked the shaggy mop back.

  Right. More raw recruit than seasoned vet, but it should pass muster.

  He returned to DETH and waited until another column of mercenaries marched into sight. There were about ten this time, led by a scarred, heavy-set man and all equally grim-faced and battle-worn. Sam fell in behind the last man and marched toward the door, hoping that he looked more confident than he actually felt.

  The detachment crossed the broad square and stopped. Sam kept his eyes forward like the rest, his heart pounding in his chest, scarcely able to believe that this might actually work. But just as before, the door slid open and everyone marched inside.

  Sam guessed that the man leading them was some sort of officer, but he doubted he’d last too long in the job, not once Carolyn Bast discovered that no attempt was being made to count off the troops as they entered, or even to monitor what they did once they were inside—and all this the day after a major theft! He stomped through the door with everyone else, then eased away into a nearby recess in the wall and waited until the corridor was empty.

  Now came the hard part: finding Bast’s room. He was pretty sure the key would be there, rather than some central storage area or company safe. After all, Bast might not know what the Paradigm Device was but she would certainly know that it was valuable, and having lost it she wouldn’t be taking any chances with the key.

  Sam stepped out into the corridor and strode down it in what he hoped was a purposeful manner, keeping his head forward as if he’d been stationed there for years and was thoroughly bored with the place, which wouldn’t take long considering the totally uninspired interior décor. The chief theme was battleship grey, punctuated by the occasional dark grey accent, and plain black numbers stenciled on the doors. The general effect was of a barracks rather than an office building, so he guessed that finding a listing of personnel and their corresponding room numbers tacked up on a convenient notice board was probably not tremendously likely. He also guessed that this Bast woman was probably one of those sanctimonious types who pride themselves o
n living like their men, so she wouldn’t have some easily identifiable palatial quarters, just a simple room like everyone else. On the other hand, it was a corporation, and his dad had always said that if there was one thing corporations loved, it was handing out rule books.

  He put his ear to one of the doors and eased it open. It was empty. He slipped inside and had a look around. There was a bed, a small dresser, some clothes neatly pressed and hung on a rack in a narrow alcove, and a shelf holding a couple of manuals and a binder.

  Sam slid the binder out and opened it. The first page read “Devastation Engineering and Tactical Havoc, Inc.” and below that, “Employee Manual.” Surely not…

  He turned to the contents and scanned down the list. A grin slowly spread across his face.

  Yes! A directory!

  He turned to the relevant page. The executive staff were listed first, and first among those: “Carolyn Bast, Chairman and CEO – Executive Suite A, Room 115.”

  Sam slid the binder back into place on the shelf and carefully made his way back out into the corridor. The executive suite bit was probably her office, but the sleeping quarters seemed to follow standard numbering. Of course, there was a possibility she kept it in her office, but he may as well start here. He’d been in Room 108, so Bast’s quarters should be nearby. He made his way down the corridor, turned a corner…and found himself confronted with two of DETH’s employees, deep in conversation. His stomach lurched, but there was nothing for it but to try and brazen it out. He marched past them, offering a small salute to the one who seemed most senior. Neither one even glanced at him.

  Room 115 was at the far end of the next corridor. He tried the doorknob. Unlocked.

  He slipped inside. It was dark. He waited until his eyes got used to the light and then examined the room carefully from where he stood. There were plenty of ways of securing a room, and a lock on the door was only the most obvious. For someone in Carolyn Bast’s position the unlocked door was an ostentatious way of letting her men know she was afraid of nothing, but there was no way she’d got to be a general in the regular army by being an idiot. He looked around for light beams or wave barriers, but as he stood just inside the door, hardly daring to breathe, he realized there was nothing.