Paradigm

by Helen Stringer

  He removed the lock, climbed up a couple of rungs, then turned and stuck it back in place, before continuing the rest of the way to the roof. He kept low and moved quickly over to the vent. Like the lock, it was just lightly held in place. He removed the grate, climbed inside and pulled it into position. Then he turned and listened.

  He’d taken the green pill because it not only seemed to stop him hearing Mutha, but also prevented the great plex from hearing him, and the longer he could stay under the radar the better. The downside, of course, was that he couldn’t hear anything in the vent.

  There was nothing for it but to slide through and hope that he took the right turns, so he began to ease his way along, stopping at every grate he came to and listening for anything that would tell him where he was. After about fifteen minutes of this, he finally heard something, but it wasn’t good.

  It was a faint moan. The kind of noise a body makes without its owner being aware of producing the sound. A small, desolate, totally despairing murmur.

  Sam followed the sound, but the grate over that room was closed tight. There was another a little further along, however, and that one was open—he could see the pattern of light on the inside of the vent.

  He crawled over and found himself looking down into a large office with wooden furniture, leather chairs, and a huge muthascreen. Papers and maps littered the desk and a half-drunk glass of something amber-colored stood near a stack of files. It had to be Bast’s office.

  He listened. Not a sound. Not so much as a breath.

  He tried the grate. It was fastened tight, so he began to loosen the screws from the inside. There was no way of preventing the first one from falling and bouncing onto the carpet below, but he was able to squeeze a hand through and catch the other three, before lifting the grate out and dropping lightly onto a tall credenza and then onto the floor.

  He stopped and listened, then moved quickly around the room, opening cupboards and drawers, anything large enough to conceal the box. Nothing. He sat in Bast’s chair and looked around the room. It had to be here. There was no way she’d keep it in her bedroom, not after he’d snagged the key from there last time.

  He stood up and stepped back. Then looked down. His footfall had sounded different. He got on his knees and pulled the carpet away from under her chair. There it was—another Weldan safe.

  He put his hand on the door. After the practice with the poker machines in Fresno it was almost too easy. A whirr, a click and the door was open. He pulled it back and looked inside. There were various papers, some gold, a tattered map…and the Paradigm Device. He removed the box, locked the safe and returned the carpet and chair to their former positions. But as he stood up he heard a hum.

  He turned slowly toward the muthascreen. It was suddenly active.

  A blue screen with four words in white: Is that you, Sammy?

  Sam moved swiftly across the room, hoisted the box onto the top of the credenza, climbed up into the vent and balanced the grate as best he could. There was no way to screw it back in place, but maybe it would buy him a little time. He began the long journey back the way he had come. All he had to do now was get across town and out. Once he had destroyed the box it wouldn’t matter how many locules were still alive, Mutha would be stuck in hyperspace where it belonged and he could go back to driving around the Wilds and maybe...

  He stopped. Voices. Quite a lot of voices. He recognized a few, but one, quieter than the others, made his heart stand still. It was Alma.

  If he turned to the left, he’d be on his way out, but the voices were to the right. He knew what Alma would say. She’d roll her eyes and tell him to stick with the plan.

  He hesitated, then turned to the right and eased along as slowly as he could, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually he reached a grate. It was open. He peered through. It was Bast’s dining room. Setzen was there, as was Phyllida and the banker’s wife, Tiffany, though Dustin Farmer himself seemed to be absent. He leaned further in. There was Bast, in one of those deceptively feminine flowing gowns she seemed to save for these occasions, and sitting right next to her was Alma.

  “It’s so lovely to have you back, Alma, dear,” cooed Bast. “Do have some wine. I just cannot believe I haven’t invited you to dinner before. You must have so many fascinating stories.”

  Sam rolled onto his back. She didn’t have the razor blades woven into her hair, so she probably wasn’t armed either.

  No, he thought. Please don’t let this be happening.

  He lay there as the appetizer was served, then the soup, followed by steak. The aromas wound their way up and into the vent, as Sam racked his brain. There was a moment when he allowed himself to think that maybe it wasn’t anything, that Bast was genuinely pleased that her assassin had returned and the meal was perfectly innocent.

  But Bast did nothing without purpose.

  “Ah!” she said. “Here’s the fish. I do enjoy the fish course, don’t you? I know it’s supposed to come before the meat, but I prefer it this way.”

  Sam rolled back again and looked down as the fish was placed before the guests. A part of him still hoped that Alma might get the same recipe as everyone else, a simple trout with white wine sauce. But the telltale scattering of herbs told another story.

  “I’m afraid I’m not fond of fish,” said Alma.

  “Oh, but you must try it, my dear. I think you’ll find this quite different.”

  Bast patted her hand, but Alma pulled it away, glaring at the older woman.

  “No.”

  “Is that look supposed to scare me?” said Bast, her voice suddenly cold. “You will eat the fish, and I’ll tell you why…”

  She leaned in and whispered something to her guest. Sam was waiting for the explosion that surely had to come. Alma was more than capable of creating mayhem without a single blade or gun.

  But nothing happened. Instead, she just picked up her fork and ate.

  The guests were silent for a moment, watching the girl.

  Alma coughed a little, then sat back, her eyes glazed.

  “There we go now,” cooed Bast. “That wasn’t so difficult was it? You feel much better now, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I feel better.”

  “Good. Please carry on eating, everyone. Alma and I are going to have a little chat.”

  Phyllida giggled slightly and made eyes at Setzen, but he seemed bored with her and much more interested in the conversation at the other end of the table.

  “You see, my dear, I simply cannot bear betrayal. I’m terribly forgiving about almost everything else, but betrayal is just too much. Isn’t that right, Setzen?”

  “It is, Commander.”

  “Loyalty, on the other hand, receives great rewards.”

  Setzen leered in a way that made Sam’s heart sink. Bast leaned in to Alma and whispered in her ear as if she were a girlfriend with a secret, then leaned back again, and sipped her wine.

  “Now, dear,” she said. “The wonderful thing about our little fishy friends, here, is that you’re still in there. Locked in. So stand up.”

  Alma stood up. Sam’s face felt hot. He pushed the box aside and felt for the gun in his pocket.

  “Setzen, consider this a reward for your faithful service and your efforts in bringing the Bakersfield business to an end. You can do what you want with her. If she’s still alive when you’re finished, hand her over to your men. Off you go, dear.”

  Alma turned and walked down the length of the table to Setzen who slipped a hand around her waist and looked her up and down approvingly.

  “Thank you, Commander,” he said, pulling her onto his lap.

  Alma put her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. Setzen smiled, then grabbed her jaw, turned her face up to his and began kissing her hungrily.

  Sam stopped thinking.

  He kicked the grate out and jumped from the vent to the table. He didn’t hear the screams of the women, or the doors opening as the room filled with Bast’s men. He just
marched down the table, crushing Bast’s fine bone china beneath his boots.

  “Get your hands off her, you fucking bastard pig!”

  Setzen dropped Alma to the floor and went for his gun, but he was too late. Sam’s foot crashed into his jaw and the old soldier crumpled to the floor.

  It was only then that Sam heard Carolyn Bast laughing. He spun around. At least twenty guns were pointing at him. Bast raised her glass.

  “Softly, softly catchee monkey,” she purred. “Welcome back, Sam.”

  Chapter 31

  CAROLYN BAST SANK INTO the chair behind her desk and held up the glass of amber liquid that Sam had noticed next to the files.

  “Freshen this up for me, would you? Oh, and get one for yourself. You look like you need it.”

  Sam held up his shackled hands.

  “Cut him loose, Colby. Then you can go.”

  “But, Commander—” began the burly guard.

  “You know,” said Bast, in a matter-of-fact tone. “For a moment there I thought you were going to question a direct order.”

  Colby leapt forward, unlocked Sam’s cuffs, saluted quickly and left.

  “Sorry about that. All my best troops are in Bakersfield. You’ll find the scotch in the credenza. Second cupboard from the left, but you probably know that.”

  Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and stood his ground.

  “Where is she?”

  “Who? Oh, the tiresome kiwi. In the cages. She’s fine. Well, not fine, obviously, but I haven’t given her to Setzen yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “He needs to be punished for allowing himself to be taken out so easily. And I suspect the young assassin will be more useful undamaged for the moment. Correct?”

  Sam nodded. His head was starting to ache again and the scratching feeling in the back of his brain had begun. He needed another pill, but the box was on Bast’s desk, along with his gun. He was trying not to give anything away, but Bast was too good not to notice. She picked up the box and shook it.

  “You’re looking a little peaky,” she said. “Is it wearing off?”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t play games. My client told me all about your little neural suppressors.” She popped the box open. “Oh, dear! There are only two left. Shame.”

  She spilled them out onto her desk, crushed them with a paperweight and smiled.

  “Drugs are never the best way to deal with a problem.”

  Sam stared at her. There were three. He was sure there had been three. Then he felt it, in his right hand pocket—a small tablet in among the lint and bits of string.

  Bast waved her glass at him and leaned back. He took it from her icy hand and set it on the credenza while he got the bottle out of the cupboard.

  “Glasses are on the—”

  “I know. Ice?”

  “Don’t be a philistine.”

  He poured two drinks and handed one to Bast before sitting in the chair opposite her desk. She raised an eyebrow at the insolence, then smiled slightly and sipped at her drink.

  “So here we are again.”

  Sam didn’t say anything. He knew what she wanted but he couldn’t understand why she was bothering with the game of cat and mouse. She had the locule she’d been after and the box was sitting right there on her desk. Why didn’t she just get it over with?

  “The thing is, Sam, that this little process works ever so much better when the… what shall we call it? Receptor…yes, that’ll do. When the receptor is willing. I’ve been experimenting, you see.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you, now? Well, haven’t you been busy? Anyway, my understanding is that if I open this box, a jack will open just behind your left ear. Shall we try it? It seems so neat. It was a bit messy with the non-locules, but it did work eventually.”

  She removed the key from a fine gold chain around her neck, inserted it in the box and turned. The box didn’t open. She tried again. No good.

  “Are you doing that?”

  Sam nodded slowly. It was taking all of his concentration to hold the elements of the small casket in place without touching it. He expected Bast to be angry, but a broad smile spread across her face.

  “How wonderful!” she said. “I can see that you and I are going to have such fun once the download is complete.”

  “No,” said Sam.

  Before Bast could reply a series of almost imperceptible moans slithered into the dead air from the room next door. She stood up and smiled again. Sam was getting really tired of the smile. Every cell in his body wanted to wipe it from her face.

  “Let me show you something,” she said.

  He followed her to a carved mahogany door on the right-hand wall opposite the credenza. She turned the handle and opened the door wide.

  Sam thought he was going to be sick.

  It was a man, his wrists shackled to the ceiling and his feet to the floor, every muscle stretched beyond endurance. He had clearly been beaten repeatedly, his face was little more than ground meat, and his body showed an angry lattice of welts and burns, with raw areas where his skin seemed to have been peeled away. Everything was the color of blood and there was a large pool of gore on the floor, slowly drying. And he was still alive.

  “Who…?” mumbled Sam, barely able to form the words.

  “You’ve met,” said Bast. “Though I have to admit he has changed a bit. My pet banker, Dustin Farmer.”

  Sam stared at her, horrified.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “I should have left it to the boys down in interrogation, but it’s good exercise and the screaming helps me concentrate.”

  “How long…?”

  “About two weeks. The real skill is in not letting them die, you see. That would be too easy.”

  “But…why…?”

  “I don’t tolerate failure,” she snapped. “He tried to set me up. So now I own his bank and he is…jello.”

  She closed the door, handed Sam her empty glass and sashayed back to the desk, all smiles again.

  “Now, obviously, I’m not going to do anything like that to you. You’re far too valuable and my client would never approve. But your friends are another matter entirely.”

  “Friends?” said Sam. “Is Nathan here too?”

  “Yes. I seem to be becoming quite the den mother, don’t I?” She sipped her scotch and leaned back. “He wanted to make a deal. Sell me the box. I gather you didn’t tell him much about me.”

  “No.”

  “Pity. He might have done a better job. I would have bought the box and sent him on his way, but I wanted the car too and he stuck his heels in about that.”

  “Why did you want the GTO?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sam, think!”

  Of course. Bait. Just leave it in the parking lot and make sure that word went out that it was there. Sam felt like an idiot. He also knew he had to do something, anything, to stop her. But he only had one weapon and once that was gone he might never be truly alone again.

  He turned to the credenza and poured her another drink, favoring his left side and retrieving the pill from his pocket with his right hand. He crumbled it into the drink and hoped that Vincent had been telling the truth about their effect on ordinary people…and that one would be enough.

  He walked back to the desk, handed Bast the glass and sat down. He picked up his own glass and swirled the contents. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t risk her reading anything on his face.

  “So,” she said, taking a swig. “Are you ready to play ball?”

  Sam adopted his best grim capitulation expression and nodded.

  Bast stood up, inserted the key into the box and then stopped. She looked up at him, but her eyes were clearly having difficulty focusing.

  “What have you done?”

  Sam didn’t say anything. She staggered back into her chair.

  “I’ll…kill…you…for…this…”

  “Maybe
,” said Sam, jumping to his feet and picking up the box. “But not today.”

  She made an effort to reach for her gun, but Sam grabbed it away. She was still conscious but no longer capable of speech or movement. He took the key from around her neck and waited a few more moments until he was sure she was out, then he strode to the door, took up position just to the side of it and flung it wide.

  Colby immediately stepped inside, just like the good soldier Sam was sure he was. It took the old trooper a full five seconds to realize that his boss was out cold and the prisoner had a gun to his head.

  “Cages,” he said.

  “I can’t. She’ll kill me.”

  “She’ll do a lot worse than that if the guy in that room is any indication, so I strongly suggest you take me to the cages and then get as far away from here as you can. Deal?”

  Colby hesitated for a moment, and Sam was surprised to see something other than the usual grim determination of the soldier in his face. It was a face that was old before its time, one that had seen much that its owner didn’t want to remember yet was unable to forget. But his eyes were still a young man’s eyes, hopeful of better things, and the creases around his mouth betrayed a man who smiled easily. He turned to Sam and nodded once.

  “Deal.”

  Sam closed the door and stepped back.

  “Okay,” he said. “You can start by emptying everything you’re carrying and handing the rounds to me. Slowly.”

  “Oh, c’mon, kid.”

  “I’m going to have to play your prisoner. I’d be really disappointed if you shot me in the back. Hand ‘em over.”

  Colby emptied his weapons and passed the rounds and cartridges to Sam, who stashed them in his pockets.

  “Right,” he said. “Now I’m putting this gun away, but if you try anything funny I want you to know you’ll be the first one I shoot.”

  “You’d be dead before it cleared your pocket.”

  Sam stared at him. He was right, of course.

  “Well, then…”

  “Look, kid,” said Colby. “I’m not going to give you up, okay? Bast is seriously psycho and I reckon the longer I stick around the more likely I’ll end up in her cross-hairs. She’s offed three of my buddies just this week, playing around with that box.”