by C. E. Murphy
Now that would be an entrance. A disaster for anyone on the other side, but an entrance to remember. She tested the knob, unsurprised to find it locked. There was no keypad, just an old-fashioned lock. Presumably whomever had commissioned the underground facilities assumed it was safe enough that extra electronic security measures were unnecessary. Fine by Alisha: she delved into her backpack again and came out with solid steel lock picks.
There was a certain earthy joy to picking locks. Alisha had never broken herself of the habit of closing her eyes, head tilted to the side as she listened and felt through the cool steel. She rarely remembered to breathe until the tumblers gave their satisfying rattle of clicks. A smile of delight split her face as she tested the door a second time and the knob turned easily.
She opened the door a fraction of an inch, listening. There were no voices within. Satisfied, she pushed it open farther.
White light flooded her eyes. Reichart bellowed, "Look out!" as a shadow flickered through the light. Alisha flung her arms up, crossed at the forearm, and caught the broken leg of a chair in the X. Another flash in the brightness: the shadowed expression of surprise on a man's face as she grabbed the end of the leg and pulled it straight between her hands, turning it into a blockade against the next hit. She stepped forward, bringing her knee up sharply into his groin, and caught the man by the hair as he doubled. One step to the side, and she used her own momentum to crash him into the door she'd just come through. He slithered to the floor and Alisha turned back, the chair leg held as a weapon.
There was no one else in the white-lit room. No hostiles, at least: Reichart, shirtless, was clamped to a chair, a smile of appreciation crooked across his bruised face. "Guard has the keys," he said, which struck Alisha as both ungrateful and entirely appropriate. She turned back to the man she'd disabled, tugging keys off his belt and pushing him into the corner. The overhead light—a bare incandescent bulb, burning with heat—glared hard enough to make her squint as she hurried to unshackle Reichart's wrists, then handed him the keys so he could free his own ankles. Alisha ducked beneath the light to crack the door open a few centimeters, checking the hall.
"Really went all out, didn't they? Did they say, ‘Ve hoff vays of making you tok?'" She heard Reichart's chuckle as he stood, and barely cast him a glance as he grabbed the guard's ankle and dragged him into the chair he'd just vacated. Within seconds the guard was sagging in the chair, locked in place. "I took the vents in. You up to climbing out that way?"
"Do we have another choice?"
"Sure. It just might get us killed."
Reichart chuckled again, the sound more like a groan this time. Alisha cast a more careful look over her shoulder at him, taking in his injuries. His face was swollen, bruised, the sharp angle of his cheekbone more than blurred with mottled purple flesh. There was water in his hair, curls half dry and for once completely untamed, making him look younger. His torso was bruised and burned in places, telltale marks that made Alisha glance around for the electric nodes that had left the burns. Nothing looked broken, not even the delicate bones in his fingers, though the back of his left hand had a deep red burn on it. "You okay?" she asked, more gently than she'd intended to.
She could see pride coming down over him like a cloak, straightening him out of a weary slouch. "I'll make it."
"That's not what I asked." Alisha bent to pull the tacky rubber-soled shoes off her feet, tossing them to Reichart. "It's all I've got that'll provide you with any kind of grip for climbing the vents."
Reichart slid one over his right hand, flexing his fingers inside it. "Not much to it."
"That's the idea. Come on." Alisha slipped out the door, stopping across the hall to make a stirrup of her hands. "Vent's above the pipes."
"You sure they're going to hold me?"
"No," Alisha said, "but this is my rescue. Come on, go."
"You should go first."
"Frank." Alisha set her jaw. "I can't lift you from up there, but you can lift me if need be. Just shut up and go."
He hesitated one moment longer, looking down at her with an inscrutable expression. Then his lip curled and he stepped into the stirrup she'd made. Alisha grunted, pushing through her thighs to give him a boost of several inches. He grabbed the pipes and swung up with an alarming creak that reverberated down the hall. Distant footsteps sounded immediately. "The vent's to your left," Alisha hissed. "Go!"
"Alisha—"
"Go!"
The echoes of his quick scramble and the soft clang of the vent cover closing sounded like the walls of Jericho falling, to Alisha's ears. She crouched, ready to make her own leap for the pipes, even as she listened with all her being for the booted feet, running on concrete. Raised voices called out warnings in Chinese. At least two, possibly more. Alisha's face crumpled in concentration as she tried to count individual footfalls and pick out voices. Three. She swore voicelessly and bolted down the hall.
Toward the guards.
She met them at the nearest corner, her body coiled in preparation. The first of them skidded around the corner and she lashed out, a closed fist smashing into his larynx. He dropped with the horrifying silence of someone whose breath has been taken, clutching at his throat.
His compatriots nearly trampled him. Alisha dove between their feet, snatching for the downed guard's club, his gun—anything that might be a weapon, all the while cursing herself for leaving the broken chair leg behind in the interrogation room.
The awful clarity of combat training fell over her, slowing down everyone's actions until each play of muscle became visible. Her hearing ratcheted up, until the swiff of a gun leaving its holster sounded as loud as a freight train barreling down on her. There was no time to disarm: she was too low, too off balance, facing the wrong direction.
Alisha planted her hands on either side of the downed guard's head, stopping her own forward motion, and lashed back with a powerful donkey kick, aiming low. She could feel the floor's solidness adding to her own strength, as if the building's weight passed through her and into the kick, pure kinetic energy flowing as easily as a stream. She felt cartilage give as the kick connected with his knee, heard his scream as if it came through water: audible but distant. A gunshot fired, bullet going wild. Alisha thought if she turned her head she might see the bullet's flight. Instead she heard it, a slow whine that ripped the air apart without its path being visible before it clanged noisily against a wall, the pang of metal against metal.
A boot connected with her ribs, lifting her into the air and slamming her back against the wall. The final guard's hands crashed into the wall above her head: she hadn't been lifted as high as he'd expected. There was no breath left in her body, the boot having claimed it all, but she pulled strength from somewhere and thrust her arm out, heel of her hand leading. It connected solidly, just above the man's solar plexus. She felt bone snap, even thought she heard it, and looked up to see an expression of breathless horror bloom over the guard's face.
She had two guns in her waistband and the third in her left hand before he hit the floor. She crouched beside him, yanking his radio from his belt, and stopped long enough to knock the other two radios away from the others before she was running again, every motion so fueled by adrenaline and awareness she felt like a machine, honed to combat perfection.
Dry amusement rasped through her at the idea, too distant from her immediate needs to break through into laughter. The drones she was trying so hard to destroy were only a literal mechanization of what she felt now. God forbid the artificial intelligences that supported the drones' abilities should be able to learn to feel emotion. Humans who enjoyed destruction were dangerous enough. A drone that could take pleasure in a job well done would destroy the world.
Not a thought for here and now. She had almost no idea where she was, trusting instinct to guide her through the unknown halls beneath the production facility. Her feet burned with the cold roughness of concrete beneath them, dull warnings of pain warming her heels: she wou
ld pay for the shoeless run later.
Later. That was all that mattered. She spun around another corner, startling a young man with such sleepy eyes that Alisha felt a spark of guilt as she clobbered him with the butt of the gun she carried. He dropped without a sound or change of expression, and Alisha yanked open the door he'd guarded.
Stairs led up. Alisha shuddered with relief that her internal guidance system had brought her there, and bounded up the stairs, three at a time. These steps were metal grate, cutting into her feet with the weight and pressure of her run. Yeah, she'd have hell to pay later, but for now she breathed through it, absorbing the pain, as if welcoming it would spread it through her whole body and make it bearable.
She banged the door at the top open, whipping her pistol out to the right and smashing another startled guard in the nose. He howled, doubling over, and she brought her elbow down on the soft spot at the base of the skull. He went down, a surge of remorseless relief firing fresh adrenaline through Alisha's system.
There was no time for subtlety or staying to the shadows. Alisha sprinted across the factory floor, not daring to look back at her own bloody footprints following her. Voices lifted, a security alarm finally going off. Time had shifted until it was meaningless. It felt like hours since she'd begun her escape, and the jangling alarm seemed to be terribly slow on the uptake. She vaulted an assembly line tread, then threw herself toward the floor. Bullets spattered over her head and as she rolled she fired, bright sparks smashing off the new equipment as none of the volleys, neither hers nor theirs, hit.
She couldn't allow them to encircle her. Alisha popped to her feet, firing again, but this time taking the necessary instant to aim. Curses filled the air along with the sound of bullets, and for a moment everything was clear. She put on a burst of speed, launching herself over another piece of equipment. She could see the stairs and the door she'd entered through now, the ones that led back to the teddy bear factory. A matter of yards, her life as a series of countdowns again.
Heat blazed against her arm, making her fingers spasm so she lost the gun she held. Not a deadly hit, just a shockingly painful sting. Alisha drew a second pistol, right-handed, and shot wildly over her shoulder, providing herself with what cover she could as she lengthened her stride and ran. No one was dead yet. One minute more and it would be over.
She hit the metal grate stairs running so fast she missed a step and stumbled, clawing her way back to upright. She could feel the sharp points of the metal grating puncturing through the calluses on her feet and muscle cramping around the injuries. Genuine horrors might await her at the head of those steps, but she kept returning to the image of Greg Parker's face as the worst of them. Alisha set her teeth together and surged forward, bursting into a dark silence so complete that for a moment she was bewildered at the calm that surrounded her. A brittle laugh of confusion escaped her, pain suddenly bright and hot in her feet. She broke into a hobbling run again, trying to breathe away the stabbing agony as her own weight bore down on fresh wounds. She would need medical care soon. Running through city streets would certainly infect the punctures in her soles.
Alisha limped to a fire alarm, weariness sweeping over her, and yanked it with everything she had left. Shrieking bells rang so loudly it jolted her into wakefulness again, making her aware that she'd better escape while she still could. She breathed deeply again, digging deep for her last vestiges of strength, and lurched through the tractor bay doors into a staggering run. She made it several blocks before she paused, exhaustion wracking her as she fumbled in her backpack for the C4 detonator.
The bud in her ear chirruped, melodic and at odds with her harsh breathing. "Cardinal," Greg's voice said, "do not proceed. Repeat, do not proceed. Return home. The mission is aborted."
Alisha swayed, slinging her backpack on again. "Roger that," she said, voice torn with tiredness. "Mission aborted. Cardinal returning to the nest." She no longer had any idea what was going on above her security clearance, and just then, didn't care. She would figure it out later. For the moment, not having to blow up a building was enough.
An eruption loud as Judgment Day exploded behind her, knocking her off her feet and into the dirty street. Alisha rolled on her back, staring in shock as plumes of fire leaped into the air, smoke billowing in thick stinking waves from the remains of the building she'd just been ordered not to destroy.
Chapter 18
There was beauty in destruction. The warehouse district lit to golden tones that spoke of sunset, not death; fire cast sparks into the sky, dancing like stars. Heat rolled through the streets, breaking comfortably around her, wrapping her in warmth and safety. It made her feel as if she were floating, disassociated from gravity's call. Perfect solidarity with the universe, nothing wanting, nothing given. There seemed to be no sound associated with the booms she could feel in her breastbone, so deep that the beat of her heart was altered, and unconsciousness claimed her so peacefully she didn't know it until she woke on the ground, acrid smoke burning her lungs.
Its bitter taste made her cough a word. A name. Reichart. There was almost nothing to her own voice, little more than the shape of the word and a hard click. Reichart couldn't have gotten out. She'd only taken moments to escape herself, and she hadn't been forced to climb up awkward ventilation shafts to get away.
The heat and the sting of smoke made her vision blur with tears. That was all: the heat and the smoke, nothing more. There was nothing inside her, just a cool empty place waiting to be filled.
Brandon. Greg.
That empty place twisted and filled with bile, horror cramping her belly as she rolled, barely able to hold her head up as she heaved a few bitter mouthfuls. Her forearms lay against the ground, stomach stretched long on the littered streets. She couldn't remember having fallen, nor could she bear to hold the weight of her head up. New tears gritted through her eyelashes, catching on her cheeks with an infuriating tickle. Alisha slapped her hand against them, sagging with her own weight. More than her own weight: it felt as if the fire pressed down on her shoulders, trying to pin her to the earth.
She didn't need to look to know the fire had faces. Brandon's face, Greg's face. Reichart's, and even Cristina's. All the dead, weighing her down. Joining them might be a blessing. It had to hurt less than the pain in her lungs that wouldn't let her draw breath. That kept thick tears etching their way down her cheeks. It would be so much easier to lie down and die, instead of losing anyone else.
Alisha shoved to her hands and knees, swaying in the fire-lit darkness. Easier. Not acceptable. Just easier. Her head dangled between her arms, gaze unfocused on the ground beneath her as she worked her toes under her feet. Curled her lip and pushed into downward dog, struggling to stabilize herself.
There. She could breathe now, a long shuddering breath that loosened, but didn't unbind, the knots caught in her lungs. Pain, purely physical and therefore welcome, shot up through her toes, the cuts on her feet shrieking as she put weight on them. Alisha gritted her teeth and walked her hands in, bent double. It took her breath again, but gave her the ability to bend her knees, to push herself upright through the thighs. Agony lanced through the soles of her feet all the way to her stomach, threatening to force another coughing mouthful of bile from her.
She had a detonator. She was dressed for infiltration. She could not afford to be found in the warehouse district, a thing growing more likely with every passing second. She could see a timer in her mind's eye, red numbers flipping by, counting the seconds from the explosion. A subconscious fail-safe, like counting the hourly bells ringing at a church. Most people did it, finding themselves at the count of six without having consciously begun at one. Alisha's clock was more refined than that, out of training and need, but the principle was the same.
Less than a minute had passed since the explosions. A few more seconds and her world would be irrevocably changed for a full minute. And then it would be two, then ten, and then minutes would turn to hours and months and years, going on
without regard for the frailties of human life. Without care for emotional trauma, time inexorably healing wounds, as it was meant to do.
At sixty seconds, Alisha took a step away from her shattered life, and crumpled as her damaged foot refused to take her weight.
Strong and certain arms caught her around the waist as she fell, then scooped her up. "Let's get out of here," Frank Reichart murmured. "This one's my rescue."
#
A different sort of silence reigned, Alisha's ears no longer refusing to hear explosions in the midst of chaos. There was expectation in this silence, put off by efficient action. Reichart knelt at her feet, an ankle grasped firmly in his hand as he poured hydrogen peroxide over the cuts on her sole. Calluses from yoga had protected her from some damage, but not nearly enough, and Alisha twitched violently at the hiss and bubble of disinfectant burning the injuries. Reichart only tightened his grasp and lifted her foot, taking tweezers to bits of debris still lodged in the cuts. Alisha ground her teeth and clenched her fingers in the mattress, staring at Reichart so hard she thought he might light on fire from it.
He'd carried her a dozen blocks, neither of them speaking, Alisha too hurt and confused, Reichart too intent on his burden and finding a rickshaw. He slid her rubber-soled shoes back over her feet once they were in it, and spoke awkward, tourist-level Mandarin to the driver. The boy barely even looked at them, only sped them through the streets, ringing his bicycle bell noisily when late-night traffic threatened their right-of-way. Reichart paid him, waited until he'd driven off, and carried Alisha another four blocks back the way they'd come, leaving behind a decent street for an inexpensive, hovel of a hotel hidden in the shadows of a red light district. Alisha kept her face hidden against his shoulder. Let the few viewers think she was drunk; better that than being recognized as a terrorist. He'd gone back out again for the peroxide and bandages, still without saying a word.
Silences, Alisha thought, were his best communication.