No Going Back

by Mark L. Van Name

  I’d thought the guards were standing in shadows, but as I drew closer I realized they weren’t; they were literally blending into the walls. This one’s loose jacket, tight shirt, and loose pants were all activefiber that was doing its best to blend with the red behind them. The garments lacked only that meandering gold thread of the wallpaper to pull off the camouflage perfectly.

  “Wine, sir?” I said.

  His gaze flicked to me and immediately back to the pedestal. “Your first time.” It wasn’t a question. His hands were empty and hung loose by his side. I couldn’t spot any weapons, but that meant only that his tailoring was good. I also didn’t see any filters in his nose, but then again, he was a little shorter than I was, so my view of his nostrils was limited.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “If you don’t want it to be your only time, you won’t approach any of us again. We’re working, same as you.” He nodded toward the guests. “You serve them.”

  I bowed slightly and said, “Sorry, sir.”

  Over the course of the next half hour, I brought wine to groups all around the main floor. I counted twenty people on this level, plus at least another six who were occasionally visible in three of the boxes one floor up. I couldn’t spot anyone higher. That didn’t necessarily mean no one was there, but these men seemed to want good views of the kids, so I felt reasonably safe assuming all the bidders were on one of these two levels.

  While picking up more wine in the kitchen, I tuned again into the machine frequency. Now that I knew how they sounded, finding the security cameras was much easier.

  “I am getting some amazing footage!” one said. “Even with the soft lighting here, my images could not be better.”

  Lobo had succeeded. Excellent.

  “Your images?” another said. “The only reason they look good to you is that the only part of you older than your processors are your lenses. Now, if you were as state-of-the-art as I am, then you would see what great video really is!”

  I tuned out and ran my tray out to the floor.

  As I approached the first group on my right, a meter-high stage emerged from the wall at the far end of the space. Steps opened on its left side. The man with the cane walked up them and to the center front of the stage.

  “My friends and guests,” he said. His voice came from all around us and rose until it was louder than the hum of the conversations. “Welcome.” He leaned on the cane, smiling and patient, until everyone else stopped talking.

  A server across from me backed to the nearest wall, so I did the same. I noticed all the others had also faded out of view, available should someone want them but no longer between the men and the stage.

  “I hope you have all enjoyed the refreshments and,” he paused and his smile broadened, “are suitably relaxed. We aim to coax great sums from your wallets.”

  The crowd chuckled.

  His smile vanished. “Let us be serious for a moment.” He swiveled his head slowly as he spoke, his eyes moving past the servers as if we were invisible but pausing momentarily on each of the guests. “Each of you—each of us—is a man of age and substance. We share not only those traits but also an appreciation, a taste—” he paused again and lifted his left hand as if it held a diamond, “—a refined taste, that most are incapable of understanding.”

  The guests murmured in agreement.

  “We understand,” the host continued, “more than any others possibly could, how precious youth is, how much love the young require, how much they can benefit from the right love, the right instruction, and the right opportunities—from the right men. We love all our children,” his hand swept slowly from left to right, taking in all the pedestals, “and tonight we gather to bid for the chance to love these ten beautiful boys and girls.” He coughed.

  A server rushed up the steps and offered him a tray with a single glass of water on it.

  He took the glass, sipped from it, and returned it to the tray. He never even glanced at the server.

  “Each of you,” he said, “has now had the chance to see up close how very lovely these children are. Each of them comes from a situation far inferior to what you can provide them. Each needs the love and guidance that only you—we—can give them.”

  Another murmur of assent swept through the small group.

  “We gather here tonight, far from our home worlds, because the people in those worlds are incapable of understanding us and our special love for children. They do not appreciate its depth.” His voice grew louder as he continued. “They do not appreciate how much we love all children. They may elect us or pay us or make us wealthy, but they do not, in the end, fully appreciate us.” He looked once again at all the guests. “They do not appreciate us, because they do not understand us.” He shook his head and, in a softer voice, said, “Nor, I suspect, are they capable of doing so.”

  He motioned to his left.

  A man walked from the wall next to the stage and stopped in front of him.

  “Only a few of us,” the man with the cane said, “are new tonight. I trust that all of us understand how tonight’s proceedings will unfold. My assistant here,” he pointed to the man standing on the ground before him, “will conduct the bidding. We have chosen the four most common youth charities from those that each of you nominated, and we will donate a quarter of the profits from tonight to each of them.” He smiled broadly again. “So, bid generously, as I certainly plan to do, for you will be helping not only the child you will take home to love, but also a far larger group of children!”

  He bowed ever so slightly.

  The guests applauded him loudly as he walked slowly across the stage and down the steps.

  The man in front of the stage approached the nearest pedestal on his left.

  The guests on the ground floor followed him and gathered tightly around him. The half dozen in the boxes leaned over the edges so they could follow the action.

  “We begin,” the auctioneer said, “with this lovely boy, age eight.” He stared at the child within the transparent tube and patted the tube as if reassuring a reluctant son.

  The boy inside sat dully.

  “He is,” the auctioneer said, “as you can see, as perfect and beautiful an unspoiled flower as, well,” he waved at the other pedestals, “as the other children with us tonight.”

  He dropped his hand and faced the crowd.

  “Who would like to start us?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Jon Moore

  I wanted to gather more information about the guards and their weapons, but I was out of time. I couldn’t risk that a winning bidder might take his prize right away and retire to one of the ships; I needed to stop this affair while all the children were in Privus.

  I wouldn’t lose any of them.

  I wouldn’t.

  The bidding on the first boy ended.

  A short man with a heart-shaped activefiber mask shook hands with the host and with the auctioneer. The rest of the men applauded him. He smiled and waved regally to the crowd, as if he had just won an election.

  I wanted to kill him.

  Instead, I backed toward the hallway to the kitchen.

  The man walked slowly to the guard behind the pedestal. The two spoke briefly, the guard nodding several times.

  The guard approached the pedestal.

  The boy inside it continued to sit, looking straight ahead but showing no reaction to anything.

  The auctioneer moved to the next pedestal on his right.

  I was out of time.

  I reached into my pants pocket and thumbed the remote. If they worked properly, the bladders would activate, the small fans and atomizers in each would force out their payload as a very fine mist, and the air handling system would do the rest. The gas would act quickly and knock out everyone inside for at least four hours. I’d taken a preventative drug ahead of time and would be fine. I’d brought the goggles because the gas irritated the eyes of everyone exposed to it. The nanomachines that laced all my cells wou
ld fix any damage to mine, but I’d lose precious time while they did and be nearly blind during that interval.

  Lobo’s modeling suggested it would take at most two minutes for the gas to start affecting people, and another fifteen to thirty seconds for it to knock out everyone. Those in the upper boxes would go down first. If we’d been able to secure information about Privus’s climate control systems, I’d have bet my life on Lobo’s simulation, but we hadn’t; there had not been enough time.

  I eased around the edge of the room toward the door through which the guests had entered. If any people tried to leave, I had to stop them until the gas took effect—or get out myself and regroup if it didn’t. No way could I take all of them without killing a lot of them, maybe all of them, or dying myself. The nanomachines could heal most injuries, but I had no idea if they could handle a shot to my brain, and I didn’t want to risk my life finding out. Lobo should be able to detect from the security cameras that people were falling, so he would be on his way, but it would take him at least two or three minutes to get here. Once he was here, I could rely on him to trank or at least keep busy any guards outside the building, but until then, I had to contain the situation on my own.

  I also had to unmask all the guests, so the security cameras would capture their faces clearly. The guests in the upper boxes would fall first, so I could deal with them without the others noticing me—as long as everyone down here stayed inside.

  I focused on slowing my breathing and watching everyone anywhere near the exit.

  The pedestal from the first auction was making its way around the room, the guard guiding it with his hand. Fortunately, these things were built for show, not speed; it was rolling so slowly the guard had to take baby steps to stay beside it.

  No one else moved toward the door.

  Lobo should now be able to reach the ships outside before anyone could escape, so at worst the winning bidder and the guard would have to contend with him outside. I lifted my tray and walked toward the kitchen. When I reached the entrance to the service hallway upstairs, I pushed through that door, ditched the tray and glasses, and ran up to the first level of boxes.

  My eyes itched the moment I opened the door on that level, so I retreated behind it, closed my eyes, and put on the goggles. I’d mistimed my approach. I waited for about ten seconds, frustrated at the error, until my eyes stopped hurting and I could see clearly.

  I burst through the stairwell door and turned left. A guard was crumpled on the floor outside the first box, his left leg twisted under him awkwardly. I stepped over him. The guests inside were unconscious, two in their chairs, and one with his head leaning on the front railing. I pulled back the leaner so no one below would notice him. I tilted their chairs back so each one’s face would be clearly visible to the security cameras. I tore off their masks.

  Seconds ticked away. I needed to finish up here and get down to the main level.

  I moved to the next booth.

  Empty.

  Two guards lay on the floor outside the booth after it. One was out, but one was still conscious, choking and rubbing his eyes. Either he was resistant to the gas, or he’d brought sinus filters. I pulled the pill strips from my pocket, peeled off a black one, and ran to the struggling guard.

  “Let me help you,” I said.

  He coughed. “Gas.”

  “I know,” I said. “This works.” I put the pill in his hand.

  He shoved it in his mouth and swallowed.

  A few seconds later, he stopped moving.

  He’d be out a little longer than the others.

  The two guests in the box were already unconscious. They had fallen and were facedown on the floor. I rolled them over and took off their masks. Good enough.

  The next two boxes on this level were empty.

  As I raced to the last box, I glanced over the railing. A few people were coughing.

  One guard lay on the ground outside that box. One guest was inside. The guest must have been standing when the gas hit him, because he had fallen backward, his legs crossed awkwardly under him. He was still breathing, so I ripped off his mask and left him there.

  I hadn’t seen anyone in any higher boxes, and I needed to get downstairs, so I ran along the hall to the service door, through it, and down to the main floor.

  Something clattered in the kitchen. I checked inside it. The air handling system must have been particularly strong there, perhaps to keep the cooking odors away from the rest of Privus, because only two people remained standing, and they were barely conscious. The staff and guards weren’t my targets, but I also couldn’t spare the time to help them, so I went back to the main open area.

  The pedestal with the first child was three meters from the exit door, holding its position, waiting for guidance from the guard who had fallen next to it.

  People were dropping all over the floor. I counted half a dozen of the guests, including the host, who were still standing but clearly unconscious. Their chins lolled onto their chests, but their exoskeletons refused to let them drop.

  A pair of guards stood near the host. Each was rubbing his eyes with one hand and holding a small gun with the other.

  I circled around the edge of the area until I was behind them. I walked quietly up to the first, the coughing of the two men all the cover I needed. I grabbed his wrist with one hand and the gun with another, and wrested the gun free. He punched at me with the hand he’d been using to rub his eyes, but he was already drugged enough that he might have been moving in slow motion. I avoided the punch, stepped behind him, wove my right arm around his neck, and clinched the choke. He went out fast.

  As I lowered him to the ground, the other guard said, “What’s happening?”

  I coughed.

  I crammed a black pill deep into the mouth of the guard I’d choked. Even if he didn’t swallow it, the dose from it dissolving would be enough to keep him out as long as I needed.

  The other guard waved his gun. “Joachim, where are you?”

  I had no time for this. I circled to his other side and punched him in the kidneys. He dropped the gun and doubled over. I stepped in front of him and wrapped his neck in a choke. He clawed at my arm, but only for a few seconds, and then he was out. I stuck a black pill in his mouth and pushed him onto the floor.

  I stood and looked around.

  No one moved. Most of the people were on the floor, though the six with exoskeletons still stood.

  Time to remove their masks.

  I stepped in front of the host, whose head hung loosely on his chest. His hand still held his cane, as if the two were welded together. I hadn’t noticed his exoskeleton before; his tailoring perfectly covered it. I pulled off his mask. I stepped back a couple of meters to see if the image of his face was clear enough for the cameras to be able to get a good shot of it or if I’d need to stretch him on the ground.

  He lifted his cane.

  I heard the cracking sound at the same time the pain sizzled through my left thigh, and I fell.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jon Moore

  I broke my fall with my arms and immediately pushed myself into a seated position. I grabbed my thigh to put pressure on the wound. Pain screamed along my nerves until I focused and instructed the nanomachines to block it. I felt the back of my thigh and found an exit wound; whatever he’d shot at me had gone all the way through my leg.

  “An old trick,” the host said, “but sometimes the old ways are still good. People forget that.” He glanced at the cane. “Too bad it’s only one shot, or I’d finish you now. As it is, I’ll have to get one of my guards’ guns.” With his free hand he tapped the side of his nose. “Sinus filters, partly for safety and partly to remove the garbage in the air on backward planets like this one. Plus, I’ve taken the antidotes to about every attack substance known.” He pointed the cane at me. “You don’t get to be as old or as wealthy as I am without thinking of everything you can control.” He considered my wound for a few seconds. “You’d be wise to kee
p that in mind.”

  I kept my hand over it because the nanomachines were already patching it. I couldn’t afford for him to see that.

  “Or maybe you’ll just bleed out,” he said. He smiled. “I can live with that.” Moving more quickly than I would have imagined possible—his exoskeleton clearly extended to his whole torso—he bent, grabbed the nearer gun, and righted himself again.

  He blinked a few times. “The machines take care of the moving; the low blood pressure’s the problem.” He smiled again. “Still, it’s the best solution available.” He pointed the gun at me. “How long will they be out?”

  I needed to buy time for the nanomachines but not encourage him to shoot me. I shrugged. “Half an hour, maybe an hour.”

  He nodded. “What exactly did you hope to accomplish, and where’s the rest of your team?”

  “I’m here to return these children to their families. The others are on the way.”

  He shook his head. “The fact that I’m old doesn’t make me stupid. Either you’re a terrible planner, or you would not have allowed only half an hour to carry ten children out of here safely. Something doesn’t add up.” He pointed the gun at me. “Try again.”

  The wound under my hands was closed. I tried to flex my thigh but couldn’t quite; the nanomachines were still working on the interior of my leg. I kept my voice low and shaky as I said, “I only just learned about them. It was the best plan we could come up with on such short notice.”

  He shook his head again and shot me in the other leg.

  The nanomachines were blocking the pain, so I screamed for effect when I saw the blood blossom. I grabbed that leg with both hands. A wet trough ran along the top of the leg.

  “You had enough time to obtain gas to use on us,” the host said. “Therefore, you could have purchased gas that would knock us out for far longer. Care to try again?”

  I nodded and paused as if gathering strength to talk. I flexed my left thigh; this time, it felt reasonably solid. I should be able to move shortly. “They’ll be out for about four hours.”

  He smiled and nodded. “And the rest of your team?”