by Hill, Will
The damage report had been correct; the fires that the explosion had caused had been extinguished, as it had claimed. But the smoke that had billowed from them had far from dissipated; it quickly began to burn his nose and throat as he made his way forward. His helmet was in his quarters on Level C, so he pulled his field survival kit from his belt, extracted the air filtration mask and the plastic goggles, and put them on. The goggles did nothing to clear the drifting smoke, but they protected his eyes from the acrid air, and the mask would keep out any toxins that had been let loose in the blast.
Paul Turner walked slowly through the smoke with his Glock drawn. He doubted that whoever was responsible for the explosion would be nearby; he fully expected to find out that the bomb had been detonated either remotely or automatically. He also had no intention of being unprepared if his assumption turned out to be wrong.
The numbers on the doors to his left climbed steadily – 235, 237, 239, 241 – and the smoke thickened as he approached number 261. He walked silently, his breathing shallow, his senses heightened; when the distant thud of boots on concrete became audible behind him, he settled his back against the wall and levelled his Glock in the direction of the sound. Moments later a cluster of ethereal black shapes became visible through the smoke, shapes that seemed to solidify as they neared him, their purple visors lending them a familiar robotic, anonymous appearance. Turner lowered his pistol and stepped into the middle of the corridor to meet them.
“Section C reporting, sir,” said the nearest Operator, his voice flattened by the filters in his helmet.
“Is that you, Bennett?” asked Turner.
“Yes, sir,” replied the Operator.
“Good,” said Turner. “Fall in behind me. Ready One for supernaturals, anyone else I want alive. Anything that moves, anything that shows up hot, I want to know about it immediately. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“Then follow me.”
Less than a minute later Turner began to see the carnage described in the damage report with his own eyes. The corridor had been stained white by the billowing clouds of carbon dioxide released by the fire-suppression system. A blackened piece of wood lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by chunks of plaster and scraps of twisted metal. The debris mounted up as Turner led Section C past rooms 257 and 259, then stopped.
The entrance to room 261 was entirely gone.
The door itself had been blown across the corridor and was lying on the ground beneath a pile of debris; much of its wooden surface was missing, revealing the metal skeleton beneath. The doorway had been destroyed, leaving a ragged hole where there had once been a rectangular frame. Smoke plumed from the room as thin white foam poured out into the corridor.
“Jesus,” said Bennett. “I hope there wasn’t anyone in there.”
The Security Officer turned his head and stared at him. He wanted to reach out and crush the Operator’s throat with his bare hands, as punishment for giving voice to what Turner had already realised: if Kate had been in her room when the bomb went off, there was no chance of finding her alive.
“Bennett, with me,” he said, summoning all that remained of his legendary self-control. “The rest of you, check the remainder of the corridor and double back. Then seal off a ten-metre perimeter and see what you can do about getting rid of this damn smoke.”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the Section C Operators, and led the rest away down the corridor. Bennett stood silently at Turner’s side, facing the remains of the entrance to room 261; he appeared to have concluded that the best course of action was to keep his mouth shut.
Paul Turner took a deep breath. The air in the corridor was slowly beginning to clear, but the dark interior of the room was still thickly clouded with smoke and spent chemicals. He drew his torch from his belt and flicked it on; a bright white beam burst from the bulb.
“Careful,” he said. “Don’t touch anything.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bennett.
Turner nodded, then walked into Kate Randall’s quarters.
The small room had been utterly destroyed.
The wardrobe, desk and bedside table had been blown to splinters and blasted against the walls and ceiling, leaving scratches and gouges across the plaster. The bed was ruined, torn to shreds and scorched by both the explosion and the fire that had burned fiercely until the Halon system had activated. A pitch-black depression in the centre of the floor suggested the likely location of the bomb; of the device itself, there remained nothing that the naked eye could discern.
Attached to the door, Turner thought. I’d bet my life on it. Triggered as it opened, then a second or two delay to make sure she was in the room before it fired.
He looked round the devastated room. The walls were scorched and blackened, as were the floor and ceiling; it was like standing inside an enormous oven. The residue coating the surfaces was thick and lumpy, and impossible to identify. It could be manufactured or biological; Turner could not tell with any degree of certainty whether what he was looking at were the charred remains of Kate Randall.
“There’s no one here, sir,” said Bennett. “We need to seal this for forensics.”
“Wait,” said Turner. He was not ready to leave just yet; if Kate had been in here when the bomb detonated, if she was, in fact, all around him, on the walls and the ceiling, then this would be the last time he was ever close to her. Forensics would analyse the room, then tear it down and send it piece by piece to the labs for chemical and spectral analysis. Whatever was left of Kate would end up in Petri dishes and specimen jars.
“Sir!” shouted a voice from the corridor. It awoke him from his thoughts, and he turned towards the ragged hole where the doorway had stood. Section C had returned and were crouching beside the shattered door of room 261.
“What is it?” he asked, walking towards them.
“There’s someone here, sir,” replied the Operator. “Under the door.”
Paul Turner’s heart stopped in his chest. For a moment, he just stared at the pile of rubble atop the ruined door, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. Then his paralysis broke and he ran forward, sliding to his knees beside his men.
“Are they breathing?” he asked, peering down at the door. Beneath it, through a gap between the frame and a jagged lump of wall plaster, he could see pale human skin.
“There’s a pulse, sir,” confirmed the Operator.
“Let’s get this off them,” said Turner, and gripped the edge of the door with both hands. One of Section C took hold of the other side and the two of them hauled the heavy metal frame up and back, sending it clattering to the floor. A cloud of dust billowed up from where the door had lain; Turner waved it away, almost frantically.
Let it be her. Please let it be her.
The dust dispersed and they crowded in to look.
Lying on the floor, covered in broken plaster and splintered wood, was a tiny girl with blonde hair and pale skin. Her eyes were closed, a thick smear of blood ran down the wall above her head, but her chest was rising and falling steadily.
“Who is she?” asked Turner. He was overcome with disappointment, for which he truly hated himself; he had wanted it to be Kate Randall so badly that the sight of anyone else was terrible. It meant that Kate could still be in her room, smeared across the walls.
It meant she could still be gone.
One of the Operators placed his console against the girl’s forearm and typed a command. The locator chip that was surgically implanted beneath the muscles of every Operator’s forearm was scanned, and a name appeared on the screen.
“Her name is Natalia Lenski,” said the Operator. “She’s Lazarus, sir.”
“Then what the hell was she doing on Level B?”
The Operator shook his head. “No idea, sir.”
29
DROWNING OUT
LINCOLN COUNTY, NEVADA, USA
YESTERDAY
Larissa Kinley stared through the hole in the wall and wondered who she was
going to have to explain it to.
She had hit the gym as soon as the Special Operations Squad returned from Nuevo Laredo. The ride home in the helicopter should have been triumphant, and for most of the squad it clearly was; they were basking in the afterglow of a job well done, joking and laughing among themselves. Tim Albertsson had joined in, although she didn’t believe for a minute that his focus had truly been on his squad mates and what they had achieved; instead, it had been where she now belatedly realised it had for several weeks.
On her.
She had asked for permission to fly home on her own, knowing he would not grant it, but hoping that the question would reinforce what she had told him in the walled garden behind Garcia Rejon’s mansion, after Tim had kissed her.
He kissed me. That’s what happened. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss him back.
Tim had refused her request, as expected, so she had strapped herself into the seat furthest from his and stayed silent the entire way home. She didn’t trust herself to speak, unable to predict with sufficient accuracy the words that might come out of her mouth. Tim had been either astute, or oblivious, and had left her alone. She had still caught him looking at her, though; tiny glances, barely more than flicks of his eyes, but there nonetheless, and obvious once she knew what to look for.
How long has he been looking at me like that? Why didn’t I notice before?
Larissa excused herself the instant the helicopter set down on the tarmac outside the NS9 hangar and made for the safety of her quarters. Once the door was locked behind her, she turned on the screen that hung on the wall opposite her bed, loaded NS9’s secure video link application, and sat with her finger hovering over the button that would send a message to Jamie’s console informing him she was trying to reach him, for almost five minutes. Her mind was racing, thoughts and feelings jumbling and rolling together; and at the very back of her mind a voice, the one she hated, that told her she was ugly and stupid and no good, whispered to her.
Maybe you did notice how Tim looked at you. Maybe you didn’t say anything because you didn’t mind. Maybe you liked him looking at you like that.
She pushed the voice away as far as she was able, and closed the application. Then she pulled off her uniform, threw on a pair of shorts and a vest, and headed for the gym, her feet floating above the ground.
That’s not true, she told herself, as she began to work the heavy bag. She was pulling her punches, but it nonetheless began to swing back and forth rapidly, her knuckles thudding against it with a noise like the crack of a bullwhip. I didn’t know he liked me, I swear I didn’t. I didn’t encourage him. I really didn’t.
But the voice at the back of her mind wouldn’t leave her alone; it dripped poison into her ears as she swung her fists, harder and harder.
Why don’t you talk to Tim about Jamie? You’re so quick to tell everyone else about him, you normally won’t shut up about him. Why is it different with Tim?
The bag swung higher and higher, creaking on the chain that connected it to the ceiling.
Didn’t you notice how he always sits next to you at dinner? Of course you did, you’re a smart girl. You noticed and you liked it, didn’t you?
Puffs of dust began to burst from the seams as her fists pounded the bag; it was now little more than a red blur, hurled backwards and forwards by her supernatural strength.
Why haven’t you mentioned Tim to Jamie? You’ve worked with him almost every day since you’ve been here, but you never thought he was worth telling your boyfriend about? Why didn’t you want them to know about each other?
“Shut up,” whispered Larissa, and felt familiar red heat spill into the corners of her eyes. The heavy bag whipped back and forth, impossibly fast, and she felt the muscles in her shoulders ripple as she increased the power of her swings.
Maybe that’s why you don’t want to go back to Blacklight. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with how they treat you or how they look at you. Maybe that’s why you asked General Allen about transferring Jamie here, because you knew he’d never do it. Maybe that’s what you’re hoping for, that you can stay here with Tim.
“SHUT UP!” she screamed, a guttural roar that seemed to rise from the pit of her stomach and erupt from her mouth. Her eyes blazed under the fluorescent lights of the gym, and she felt her fangs burst into place, cutting her lower lip. She swung her fist with every shred of power she possessed, crashing it into the side of the heavy bag with the force of a wrecking ball. The chain snapped and the bag itself rocketed across the gym, crunching a hole in the opposite wall before bursting in a great cloud of sand.
Instantly, the rage left her. She stared at the hole, embarrassment rising quickly through her as a memory surfaced from her old life, the life before she needed to drink blood to survive; her fourteen-year-old self hurling a glass against the wall of her bedroom, a disproportionate response to some long-forgotten parental slight. Her mother had said nothing, just stared at her with an expression of such deep disappointment that Larissa had burst into tears, screaming for her mum to get out of her room, to leave her alone, before hurling herself on to her bed and covering her head with a pillow, unable to meet her mother’s gaze. She felt similar shame now, although there was one major difference between what was happening now and what had happened when she was fourteen.
I haven’t done anything wrong, she thought, fiercely. I love Jamie and I’d never betray him, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell him everything. I’m allowed a life of my own. Friends of my own. And to hell with anyone who thinks differently.
Larissa felt the heat in her eyes ebb away and breathed out heavily. She was coated in a light film of sweat and was suddenly exhausted; her bones felt heavy, her skin thin and brittle. As she made her way towards the showers, she realised that there was something she had to do: she needed to talk to Tim. She felt no obligation to tell Jamie what had happened, but she was going to have to talk to her colleague, for one simple reason: she had seen in his eyes, as clear as day, that there would come a time when he would try to kiss her again. She wanted to avoid that situation for the same reason that she avoided all other dangerous situations: because you could never be absolutely sure what might happen in the heat of the moment.
Because, despite all the best intentions in the world, sometimes bad things happened.
30
PRELIMINARY CONCLUSIONS
Paul Turner tapped rapidly on the touch screen of his console. He was standing in the centre of the Level B corridor, his outer appearance betraying not the slightest hint of the turmoil inside.
Come on. Come on. Come on.
The screen glowed as the console returned the results.
CARPENTER, JAMIE (LIEUTENANT)/NS303, 67-J – B171
BROWNING, MATTHEW (LIEUTENANT)/NS303, 83-C – B173
As the door was being lifted, Turner had felt panic threaten to overwhelm him; the thought of losing Kate Randall, the girl upon whom he had come to rely far more than he hoped she knew, who represented one of the few remaining links to his late son, was unimaginable.
The sight of Natalia Lenski, injured but clearly still alive, had wiped the rising panic away and returned his icy, analytical brain to something resembling its normal mode of operation; emotion had receded, replaced by problems that needed solving, situations that required handling. The most pressing of these was the need to update Cal Holmwood on the situation, but that was not what the Security Officer had turned his attention to.
Kate Randall was missing. That was his priority.
He was already sure that the bomb had been detonated by the door to her quarters being opened, which meant that it was extremely unlikely she was dead; the door had been blown outwards, crashing into the Lenski girl who had obviously been standing in front of it at the time. Even if Kate had been standing beside her as the explosion tore through the small room, there was very little chance that she had been obliterated so completely that no visible remains had been left behind.
No, the Lazarus gir
l went into the quarters on her own and triggered the bomb. The bomb that was meant for Kate.
Exactly why Natalia Lenski had been entering Kate’s room was a question for another time. Right now, there was a far more pressing one that needed answering.
Where the hell is she?
Her chip wasn’t showing up on the grid, which meant that, assuming he was right about her not being dead, she had to be somewhere on Level B, where the explosion had knocked out the monitoring equipment. The level was almost entirely residential and normally home to more than seventy Operators, although in the aftermath of the attack on the Loop, it housed fewer than forty. But of those that remained, two were Kate’s best friends in all of Blacklight, the two teenage boys whose room numbers he had just asked his console for.
171 and 173. That’s right. They live next door to each other.
Turner strode down the corridor, holding back the urge to run; it would not do for the Section C Operators to see how unsettled he really was. Identical doors passed by on both sides, until he found himself standing outside the one marked 173. He pressed his card against the black panel on the wall, and heard the locks disengage. At the last second, when it was far too late to do anything about it, he suddenly wondered whether the bomber might have also booby-trapped the quarters of Kate’s friends, and marvelled at such an unthinkably junior error. But the door merely swung open, revealing not a ball of expanding fire, but a small room that seemed to be almost full of files and folders. The bed was the only surface not covered in teetering mountains of paper, and it was empty. Turner hauled the door shut and moved on to room 171.
Jamie Carpenter’s room.
He overrode the door lock, this time taking the precaution of moving three quick steps away along the wall. The door swung open and a familiar voice shouted through the opening.
“Who’s out there? Show yourself.”
Turner suppressed a tiny smile, and stepped out in front of the open doorway. Jamie was standing in the middle of his quarters, his legs shoulder-width, his MP5 resting easily against his shoulder.