Paradigm

by Helen Stringer

  He stopped and leaned against the wall, finally able to drop the pretence and seriously consider his situation. He pulled Phyllida’s keys out of his pocket and looked at them. There were six, but he was willing to bet that none of them would open Nathan’s cell. Still, it looked like she probably had access to every other door in the place, which was good, because once he had the box and released Nathan they would need to get out of the city and back to the GTO as quickly as possible. The only safe route out would be the same way the police had brought them in: a tunnel under City Hall that led to a small underground lot where the cop cars were kept.

  He sighed and gazed at the strip of sky overhead. Why on earth had he agreed to come to this godforsaken hole, anyway? The next time Nathan had an idea, no matter how sensible it might sound at the time, he would head in the absolute opposite direction. Nothing—no amount of money or barter—was worth this kind of aggravation. And as for the Paradigm Device, he wished he’d never heard of the wretched thing.

  He stood up, stretched a little, resumed the slightly manic face that had convinced Setzen that he was under Carolyn Bast’s control, and strode out of the alley and past the last few blocks to City Hall.

  The old building looked even more dilapidated in the stark morning light. The wide, gently curving steps were crumbling away and the once-stately columns that supported the perfectly angled pediment were peeling and worn. Still, appearances could be deceptive and even though his headquarters looked like it had seen better days, Sam knew that the mayor himself was pretty sharp. He decided against the front door and walked around to the back entrance, which was also bristling with cameras. He kept going and discovered that the far side closely abutted what appeared to be an office building. The space between was narrow and there was only one camera. He crept along the alley and discovered a single door, set in a niche. A perfect blind spot.

  He took out the keys and tried each in the lock until one fit, then carefully turned the handle and pushed. It opened into what seemed to be some kind of service corridor, with grubby beige walls and a worn tile floor. There were ladders and boxes stacked against one wall and dusty spider-webs in the corners near the ceiling. Sam made his way to the nearest door, opened it and found himself back in the formal hallways of the ground floor, with their fading wallpaper and musty curtains.

  The hallway was empty so he stepped out and closed the service door gently behind him, hoping against hope that the mayor and all his lackeys were late risers. Carolyn Bast had mentioned that she had operatives inside City Hall but hadn’t bothered to tell him who they were, which was really annoying and meant he’d have to treat everyone as an enemy.

  He made his way along first one hall then another, straining to hear if anyone was coming while looking for something, anything, that would reveal where he was in relation to the mayor’s office. Finally, he saw a painting he recognized, and realized that his goal was just around the corner. He sped up, turned the corner…and walked right into the mayor’s assistant, Joyce.

  “Sorry!” he blurted, instinctively. “Are you alright?”

  She was so old and stick-thin, he was surprised he hadn’t knocked her off her feet. Then he remembered he was supposed to be thinking of nothing but the box and tried to regroup without much effect.

  “I mean…um…”

  “Quiet!” hissed Joyce, glancing around. “You’re late. Follow me.”

  Sam’s mouth dropped open. The mayor’s secretary was a spy? Carolyn Bast was good.

  “I said, follow me!”

  She marched toward the great double doors. Sam followed, fumbling for the keys.

  “Put those away!” she barked, throwing the doors wide and standing aside to let him in. “Make it snappy. There’s a private entrance behind the desk. Take that when you leave.”

  “What about the mayor?”

  “You leave him to me. His tramp wife only got home about half an hour ago so they’re having their morning fight. Now, move!”

  She closed the doors and Sam ran to the far side of the desk. There was no obvious sign of the box, but there was a locked cupboard that looked like it was just about the right size. He looked around, found a letter-opener in the shape of a dagger and prized the cupboard open.

  There it was. Still wrapped in the monk’s ragged cotton cloth. Sam took it out and turned to leave, then stopped, turned back to the desk and forced the left-hand drawer open. It was still there. Cold and black and deadly. The gun.

  He hadn’t touched one since that town outside of El Paso City. That was three years ago, and he still had nightmares, but this was an emergency and he suspected it would take more than charm and a smile to get Nathan out of that cell.

  Sam took a deep breath, grabbed the gun and put it in his pocket, silently promising himself that he’d only use it in an emergency. Then he slipped out of the private door and walked quickly along several grubby corridors to the stairs that led down to the jail. He paused at the top and listened. Silence. He glanced back, adjusted the box under his arm, and ran down the four flights as quickly and quietly as he could.

  He needn’t have worried, there was no one in the guard room.

  “Man,” he muttered. “What kind of jail is this?”

  The answer swiftly became clear—it was the empty kind. The cell he had shared with Nathan was vacant. Sam stared at it. How could that be? Had the mayor gone ahead and hanged him anyway? He ran from cell to cell, but all were empty. There wasn’t a single prisoner. Sam felt a gut-wrenching panic. Had it been more than forty-eight hours? Maybe the mayor had heard that Sam had failed to get the key. Maybe someone had seen him when Carolyn Bast caught him…or maybe…maybe the mayor had seen it himself. Yes, that made sense. But why not wait? Sam couldn’t imagine how terrified Nathan must have been. Maybe it was quick. He’d read that it could be quick. If the drop was high, and the hangman knew what he was doing, the neck would just snap and it would be over.

  He paced up and down. The gun was in his hand now and he wanted to use it. He wanted someone to pay. All they’d done was run away! You don’t kill people for stuff like that!

  He looked at the gun, then at the cell. It wasn’t going to help. Nothing would help.

  He shoved the gun back in his pocket and headed up the stairs again. The only thing he could do now was make sure no one got their hands on the box. He had to get it as far away from civilization as he could, and that meant only one thing—back to the Wilds.

  The old building was beginning to wake up for another day of wheeling and dealing, scheming and plotting. There was the sound of pans clanking in a distant kitchen, and men barking orders as doors slammed on upper floors. Footsteps scurried along corridors and the walls creaked, shifting and stretching as the feeble sun warmed the ancient timbers.

  Sam darted through the passages, avoiding any area that seemed well-traveled. He hadn’t been paying too much attention when they’d been hauled up and into the cells, but he knew the garage had to be on the lower floors. A police car was his best chance of getting away quickly before the mayor realized the box was gone or Carolyn Bast twigged that he wasn’t coming back.

  He skidded around a corner and froze as a door in front of him suddenly opened and disgorged Phyllida Longford, still wearing her party clothes, but with a face like thunder.

  “You think you know it all, but you don’t know anything!” she screamed at the door. “You’re a fucking idiot! Poxy cowardly—”

  The invective died on her lips as she turned and saw Sam.

  “What are—”

  “I have to go,” said Sam, adopting the slightly manic look that had worked so well on Setzen.

  She hesitated, then walked over to him and stared into his eyes.

  “Bullshit.”

  “I have to—”

  “Drop the act,” she muttered. “You’re no more under the influence of those fish than I am.”

  Sam looked at her for a moment while he weighed his options, then shrugged.

&nb
sp; “No,” he said. “I’m not. On the other hand, I have a gun.”

  “Then I suggest you take it out. This needs to look convincing.”

  “What?”

  Phyllida stepped closer and spoke in an urgent whisper.

  “The whole point of giving you my keys was so that I could be with the tub of lard that calls itself my husband when you stole the box. Now the box has gone and he’s got video of us talking right here in his precious city hall, so you’d better take me hostage pronto.”

  “But what about the audio?”

  “Deactivated. The old coot doesn’t want to risk anyone getting hold of the data and hearing his nefarious little plans. So, come on, get the gun out.”

  Sam pulled the gun out slowly and looked at it, cold and grey in his hand.

  “I’m not taking the box back to Carolyn Bast.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Where were you headed?”

  “Uh…The garage. I was going to get a cruiser then go pick up my car.”

  “Fine. Follow me, keep the gun up and try to look threatening.”

  She turned and strode off down the corridor with Sam staggering behind, trying to do the threatening thing with one hand while attempting to hold on to the box with the other. It was heavier than it looked, and just that bit too big to easily fit under his arm.

  “Keys.”

  Phyllida stopped in front of a large door and held out her hand. Sam nearly crashed into her.

  “Keys!” she repeated, as if they had done this a thousand times and he just couldn’t retain the plan.

  Sam sighed, put the gun back in one pocket, retrieved the keys from another and handed them to her. She took them and glared at him until he got the gun out again.

  “This isn’t going to look even remotely convincing,” he muttered.

  “That’s my problem.”

  She unlocked the door and led the way along another passage, down two flights of stairs and out into the garage.

  The room seemed bigger than he remembered it, although the last time he was here he was mostly concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other while various irritated cops shoved him and Nathan toward the cells. It was a cavernous space, with a low ceiling and metal shelves on either side that held a collection of old parts, tires, rims, broken transmissions, canisters of various sizes, worn cardboard boxes and tools.

  In the center were three ranks of police cars, only about half of which looked like they were running. The newest vehicles had an air of style and speed about them, but Sam knew they would have been the first to go. The computer chips that were ubiquitous in most pre-collapse vehicles rendered them almost impossible to repair and had forced people to return to older cars and trucks or give up on mobility entirely.

  “D’you know which ones work?” he asked.

  “Do I look like a mechanic?”

  Sam glowered at her, put the gun back in his pocket and walked through the rows of cars to the main exit. It made sense that the cars nearer the ramp would be the ones that still functioned. He made a mental note of the numbers and returned to the entrance. There was a box next to the door with numbers scrawled above the hooks that held the keys. Sam located the ones for the three cars nearest the exit.

  “Right,” he said, removing them and glancing at Phyllida. “Thanks for your help.”

  He turned to go, but a slender hand pulled him back.

  “Hey, where d’you think you’re going? Hit me.”

  “What? No.”

  “This has to look convincing. Hit me.”

  “I’m not going to hit you, okay?”

  “Wuss,” she hissed. “Tie me up, then.”

  Sam rolled his eyes and looked around for something to use. There was a coil of greasy-looking rope on one of the shelves. He got it, put the box down and pointed toward a broken swivel-chair.

  “Sit over there.”

  “Isn’t there anything else? That rope’s dirty.”

  “No, there isn’t, and I don’t care. I’m supposed to be a desperate man tying up a hostage. So sit.”

  Phyllida sighed and stomped over to the chair.

  “Why are you doing this, anyway?” asked Sam as he bound her hands to the back of the chair. “I thought you worked for Bast?”

  “I work for me,” said Phyllida. “I’m not first families. Things go wrong, I ain’t got no rich daddy to go crying back to. I was born in the outlands. Everything I’ve got I worked for.”

  “Including the mayor?”

  “Especially the mayor. If that’s not work, I’d like to know what is. That’s too tight!”

  “Sorry.” Sam loosened the knot.

  “People look at women like me and they see a gold-digger, which is true. But they also see stupid, which isn’t. The way things look now, Bast is going to get tired of pretending Longford’s in charge and just take over the whole city, in which case it would be best for me if she sees me as an ally. On the other hand, things can change on a dime, so I need to keep all my options open.”

  Sam stood up.

  “Seems smart. Should I gag you?”

  “You are not putting some filthy rag in my mouth!”

  “I don’t see how you could stop me,” he grinned. “How do I open the gate?”

  “Keys. Smallest one should work.”

  “Right,” he picked up her keys and the box. “Well, like I said, thanks. And good luck.”

  “You too, kid.”

  Sam made his way over to the gate and inserted Phyllida’s key. There was a pause, then a rasp and the groaning of metal-on-metal as it slowly slid back into a pocket in the wall. He ran to the nearest car, found the right key and turned the ignition. The engine coughed and gasped a couple of times, but eventually fired up.

  “Yes!”

  He threw it into gear and drove out into the yellow daylight, speeding through the streets as fast as he could get the old rust-bucket to go.

  He opened the window. It felt good to be free, to see the sky unfettered by skyscrapers, and to feel the wind in his face. But the feeling wasn’t quite the same as it had been before. This time there was a dark hole deep inside him, full of sorrow and guilt.

  The last time he’d done this drive, Nathan had been with him. In the months they’d traveled together, they had argued and disagreed more than they’d got along, but Sam couldn’t bear the thought of his friend alone in that cell. He tried to imagine what it had been like for him, and wondered what was worse—facing death alone or believing that you’d been abandoned by the one person who was supposed to look out for you.

  He shook his head sharply as he took the turn up the hill, as if that simple act could drive the blackness out of his mind. It didn’t, but he soon had something else to think about as the temperature gauge in the old police car suddenly began to climb.

  “Great,” he thought. “That’s all I need.”

  He pulled over once and let it cool a little, but as soon as he set off again the needle soared into the red. It limped along for a while, before he let it coast to the side of the road and started to walk. He reckoned he was more than two thirds of the way up the road to the old observatory, but soon regretted the decision to leave the car. The sunlight that had made the day so inviting when he’d finally left Century City, beat down on the hillside like a laser, burning the cracked asphalt, which bounced the heat back up in smoldering waves. Sam took off his coat and vest, but it didn’t do much good. By the time the top of the remaining observatory dome came into view, his face was dripping with sweat and the twin burdens of box and wool had taken on the proportions of some Sisyphean boulder.

  Still, if he could see the dome it meant he was almost there. He put his head down and slogged up the last hundred yards. There it was! The glint of red—the old GTO.

  And then he froze. The driver’s door was ajar and the hood was open. Someone was messing with his car!

  He dropped the box and rummaged through the pockets of the coat as he ran.

  “Get away from
the car!” he yelled, stopping a few feet away and pointing the gun.

  The would-be thief made some sort of muffled response. Sam took another step forward.

  “I said, get away from the fucking car! I’ve got a gun and I will use it!”

  “Sam?” The voice was still muffled by the hood, but it sounded familiar…and surprised.

  “I said—”

  “I heard you, you moron! It’s me!”

  Sam felt the grin spread across his face as the owner of the voice stepped out from in front of the car.

  It was Nathan.

  Chapter 14

  “WHAT ARE YOU…? I thought you were dead!”

  “Yeah, well, I heard you were…y’know…off your head or something.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Me too.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Sam wondered how on earth Nathan had managed to get out of the cell in City Hall, then out of Century City, through the outlands and back up the hill to the observatory without apparently breaking a sweat, but there were more pressing concerns.

  “We’d better get out of here.”

  “Right.” Nathan slammed the hood and threw the keys to Sam. “You drive.”

  “Where’d you get—”

  “They were under the car. You must’ve dropped ‘em when you got that kicking.”

  Sam threw his coat and the box into the back of the car and settled in behind the wheel. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling that old car smell—the heady mix of oil, gas and whatever was rotting on the floor behind the passenger seat.

  “What are you doing?”

  He opened his eyes and grinned at Nathan, then inserted the cigar lighter, closed his eyes and turned the key. There had been a few moments in the last few days when he’d thought he’d never hear that sound again—the throaty animal roar of the old engine as it started up and settled into its noisy idle. He put it into gear and eased it away from the observatory and down the hill.