“Nearly there,” the guard said to her, and Ekaterina jumped. She hadn’t expected him to speak. She was very glad she didn’t have her hand behind her at that moment.
She nodded. She wasn’t going to get a chance to escape into a familiar part of town.
Ahead, the street widened into something approximating a boulevard. The area there was extremely well lit, so well lit that some of the light backwashed into this darker section of town, illuminating the faces of the cops in the front seat.
This was her only chance.
She opened the false side of her purse, grabbed the laser pistol, and flicked it on. It grew warm in her hand. She hoped that this aircar was the model she remembered, because she wasn’t going to get another chance.
She turned in her seat restraints, shoved the muzzle of the pistol into the opening, and fired. The shot blew a hole through the back, but that wasn’t where the damage occurred. The tiny circuitry, attached by even smaller filaments, absorbed the laser’s energy, sending it throughout the system. The shot illuminated the back half of the car, the circuitry clear through the synthetic paneling.
The car groaned softly, as if it were in pain. The guard lunged for Ekaterina, his hand closing on her arm. She couldn’t pull the pistol out of the hole.
It hadn’t worked. She was trapped here, and now her captors knew that she was no troubled tourist. She was a criminal, and they would do everything they could to give her back to the Rev.
* * *
Flint grabbed the back of the pilot’s chair in frustration. The cockpit seemed small and close, but he knew that was just being caused by his mood.
DeRicci wasn’t answering her link. She had to be driving. The only time she blocked her personal communications system this completely was when she was driving an aircar. She always said she couldn’t concentrate on all the maneuvers if anyone distracted her.
He glanced at the image of the Rev prison ship, which he’d left on the viewscreen after his scan through the logs. It looked sleek and menacing, portending trouble ahead.
He leaned forward and turned off the image. The interior of the cockpit hummed. Some equipment was still on, even though it shouldn’t have been—yet another sign of an inexperienced landing. Before he left, he would have the computer run a systems check, shutting down anything that wasn’t necessary.
He was a bit surprised HazMat hadn’t done that, but then they touched as little as they could when a ship landed in Terminal Five. They didn’t want to destroy evidence.
Neither did he. He tried DeRicci’s personal link one more time, and discovered that it was still blocked. So he linked with the precinct system, setting it to send an alert to DeRicci’s links the moment she entered any government building.
He would continue to try to contact her, but if she forgot to turn off the block (something she did fairly often), the precinct system would override it.
He hoped that would be enough, even though he was worried that it wasn’t.
* * *
DeRicci had never heard a car moan before. Light flared behind her, and the guard behind her cried out. They were in the darkest part of the Proscenium Arches, the new shopping and entertainment complex that the city’s manager had deemed essential for Armstrong’s health—the complex that violated half a dozen of Armstrong’s city ordinances, including the one about blocking the dome. There were no other cars around.
Light surged toward her. She had blocked her personal links like she always did when she drove, so she couldn’t send an instant emergency alert. Instead, she reached beneath the car’s guidance system, sending a message to Street Traffic Control, as the light hit.
Energy radiated up through the systems, burning her fingers. She cried out in pain, and pulled her fingers back when the car froze.
Her own momentum carried her forward, thrusting her against the restraints. She thought for a moment that the restraints wouldn’t hold, and then she realized that the car was flipping, turning upside down.
DeRicci felt the restraints twist even as she continued to go forward; then the restraints forced her to move with the car, sideways, upside down, and then all the way down, landing with a thump on the passenger side.
The air smelled of sweat and panic and burned plastic; around her, people were crying out—men were crying out. The only woman’s voice she heard was her own.
The car groaned again, only this time the groan came from the synthetic exterior settling in an unusual position. DeRicci remained suspended in the driver’s seat, the restraints keeping her in place.
She had never been in an accident before. Aircar accidents happened mostly to police vehicles because the police were the only ones who used manual controls, but all she had ever done was come to the scene much later, examine evidence, look at the Street Traffic records to see if someone was at fault.
Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. It must have taken her a full minute to remember that she had someone in custody.
She reached for the dash to set the car rightside up, but the controls had been destroyed. Below her—on the passenger side—the guard moaned and brought a hand to his head. The back seat was hidden by the darkness.
“Everyone all right?” she asked.
No one answered.
* * *
Ekaterina was trapped in her restraints. Her hand, laser pistol clutched in her fist, was stuck behind her. The guard had torn her shirt and broken the skin on her other arm. It ached, but fortunately he wasn’t touching her any longer.
He was curled in a ball against his door, unconscious or dead. He had taken his restraints off as he lunged for her—bad mistake, since the car upended at that same moment.
Ekaterina struggled in silence. DeRicci seemed to be the only other person awake in the car, and she was just getting her bearings. She wouldn’t act if she thought everyone else was unconscious.
But it was hard for Ekaterina to keep her own breathing silent. With her sore and bleeding arm, she reached for the release on the restraints, finding it, and opening it.
The restraints hissed as they rolled back, and she nearly tumbled into the unconscious guard.
“Who’s that? Ms. Palmer?” The detective didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she started struggling with her own restraints.
There was no handle on the door. Ekaterina had forgotten that. She wasted precious seconds scrambling for the conventional way out before she remembered she had burned a hole through the back of the vehicle.
The hole wasn’t person-sized, but she didn’t care. She shoved her injured arm through, clearing a path for herself, then followed. Hot, jagged plastic scraped her face, cut into her sides. Behind her, she could hear DeRicci telling her not to move.
DeRicci couldn’t have gotten to her own pistol yet, right? And even if she had, it wouldn’t matter. The plastic divider was still up and all of the controls were dead. The only way to get it down would be by force.
Cool air touched Ekaterina’s face and she sucked it in, grateful for its freshness. Then she remembered where she was. There was no fresh air in Armstrong Dome, no breeze. If she thought the air was cool and fresh, that was only a comparison to the air inside the car, which was hot and foul. She hoped there was nothing toxic mixed into that stench. Even though she wanted to escape, she really didn’t want to hurt anyone.
She braced her hands—one of them still holding the laser pistol—on the outside of the car and pushed herself out, but her hips got stuck. She hadn’t quite made the hole wide enough.
“Am I the only one awake here?” DeRicci’s voice sounded muffled and far away. She was apparently still trapped in the driver’s seat.
Ekaterina was badly jammed. No amount of pushing seemed to get her loose. Sweat ran off her forehead. Or was it blood? She wasn’t sure.
All she knew was that she needed more leverage, and she couldn’t get it while her fingers were wrapped around the pistol. She kicked, and her feet found the plastic barrier. She wedged them back,
and then shoved with all her might.
Her hips squinched forward a centimeter.
She shoved again, and this time she broke free, her torso falling forward and slamming into the back of the car.
The sound echoed in the arch formed by the strange buildings. Even her breathing sounded amplified.
She squeezed the rest of the way out and fell onto the pavement, its smooth synthetic surface amazingly hard. The car was shaking as DeRicci struggled to free herself.
Ekaterina got to her feet. She was dizzy. The smell, the accident—something had affected her sense of balance. But she still had her purse (how had she gotten that out? She didn’t recall pulling it with her) and her pistol.
She clung to both as she looked around. Darkness and tall buildings with bridgelike overhangs behind her. Light and a wide street, filled with people, ahead of her. On either side, more darkness, with even deeper shadows. The shadows could be doorways or windows or another street.
Or people.
She didn’t know. But she had gotten another chance. All she had to do was pick a direction, and pray that it was the right one.
Fifteen
The lawyer’s office was on the other side of Armstrong from Jamal’s hotel. The lawyer had offered to come to Jamal, but Jamal had refused. He couldn’t judge a man by his clothes; he needed to see the man’s daily surroundings. Not that they would tell him everything, but they would help.
Even though it was just past dark, the lawyer’s offices were bustling. Associates curled over their desks, researching various cases. Wall screens showed real-time video from off-Moon trials. The sound was off on all of them; if someone wanted to listen, he had to use his link.
Still it made for a sense of chaos, of information being absorbed at lightspeed, and it made the offices of Laskie, Needahl, and Cardiff seem like the most important place in the universe.
A secretary—a real person, a sign of importance and comfort—found a room for Dylani and Ennis to wait in while Jamal met with the attorney. Dylani wanted to join Jamal, believing that she had more experience with the legal system than he did.
But she was wrong. He knew twenty times more about legalities than she ever would.
He wished she hadn’t come along, but she wouldn’t wait in the hotel room. She was afraid to be alone, although she wouldn’t admit it. Jamal also had the sense that she was worried that someone would come for Ennis while he was gone. By coming with Jamal, she made sure that Ennis was hard to find.
At least Jamal had managed to talk her out of going into the attorney’s office. Ennis’s fussiness helped, as did her desire to keep her son in her arms ever since he’d been returned.
The secretary led Jamal to an office at the end of a long hallway. The office door looked like it was made of real wood, and the carpet seemed to be woven from natural Earth fibers. Incense burned nearby—a spicy, unidentifiable scent that made Jamal want to sneeze.
The secretary knocked once, then opened the door, announcing Jamal as if he were a courtier about to visit an ancient king. He went inside, almost expecting trumpets to herald his arrival.
The office was bigger than his entire house. The right and left walls were glassed in, artificial sunlight pouring down on flourishing green plants. Other plants tumbled off tables and hung from the ceiling, giving the air a freshness it didn’t deserve, especially after the incense in the hallway.
The greenery was so startling that it took Jamal a moment to find and focus on the desk. It seemed to be growing out of the floor. The carpet, which had come in from the hallway, covered the sides of the desk. Papers sat on top of it, their very presence a ludicrous display of wealth.
Jamal had expected this lawyer, whom he had chosen based on the limited resources available to him at the hotel, to have humble offices, maybe even a cubicle in a bigger firm. Certainly he hadn’t expected this.
A man emerged from the greenery, carrying a plant mister. He was tall and slender, his skin a cross between a whitish gold and burnished bronze—the sort of color that would appeal to anyone. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, and his features had a hawklike precision that suggested he was older than he appeared.
“Mr. Kanawa,” the man said in a rich baritone. “I’m Hakan Needahl.”
He set the mister on a pile of papers—a carelessness that made Jamal wince—and came forward, hand extended.
Jamal shook his hand, then gave Needahl a cautious smile. “I’m afraid I’ve already wasted your time, Mr. Needahl. I clearly don’t have the funds to hire you.”
Needahl’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed just a little. The piercing intelligence in them seemed heightened by the movement. “I have been practicing law for sixty-five years, Mr. Kanawa. When I was young and hungry, I took any case I could. Then I took only the cases that would enrich my bank account. Now that I have all the money I need and some that I don’t, I take cases that challenge my mind.”
“That’s all well and good, sir, but I can barely afford to be in Armstrong.” Which was, in its way, yet another lie. He couldn’t afford to be in Armstrong at all.
“The consultation is free, Mr. Kanawa.” Needahl extended his hand toward the amazing desk. “Have a seat. Let’s see if I can help you.”
Jamal didn’t see a chair, but he went forward anyway. As he approached, a chair rose out of the carpet. The chair seemed comfortable, even though it too was covered in the same fibers as the carpet. He couldn’t see the mechanism that brought the chair up, but he knew the trigger had to be somewhere.
He touched the back of the chair gingerly, surprised at how soft the fibers were, then sat down. Needahl walked around the desk and sat on a more conventional chair, one that appeared to be made of a leather-like synthetic.
“Tell me your situation,” he said, folding his hands over the only bare spot on the desktop.
Jamal’s throat constricted. He hadn’t talked to anyone about himself or his problems in years. “Do I have to hire you to keep anything I say here confidential?”
“Sharp question.” Needahl smiled in appreciation. “No, you don’t have to hire me. This consultation follows the same rules of lawyer-client privilege that you would have if you did hire me. Your failure to hire me would not negate that. I will never be able to divulge what you tell me here.”
Needahl’s record, or at least his public one, stressed that he never betrayed a client. Other lawyers had, and those betrayals were part of their public record. On the Moon, such betrayals, if they were shown to be for the proper reason, did not result in disbarment or even a reprimand from the Moon Base Bar Association.
Jamal had chosen Needahl for this one factor alone. Nothing else mattered quite as much. Jamal couldn’t have Needahl place his own personal ethics ahead of Jamal’s interests.
“Not even if you decide that my present behavior negatively impacts someone else’s future?”
“You mean, what would I do if I discover that you’re going to sabotage a military transport?” Needahl was using the famous example, the one MBBA had based its initial rulings on.
“Yes,” Jamal said.
“I would not betray you, even then.”
“At the cost of hundreds of lives?” Jamal asked.
“Yes,” Needahl said. “At the cost of hundreds of lives.”
He spoke so calmly, as if those hypothetical lives would never mean anything to him, and as if his decision wouldn’t bother him at all.
Jamal’s throat tightened farther. He had to trust someone. It was his only chance—and he had to do it based on very little information.
“I will sign an agreement to this effect, if that is what you need,” Needahl said. “And believe me, the agreement will serve you in good stead. Should I violate, you may come after me for a hefty portion of my assets.”
Jamal found himself staring at the paper in front of him.
“Of course,” Needahl said, “I will also protect myself by making certain that any leak of the information you give me does not
come from you.”
“Of course,” Jamal murmured. Then he took a deep breath and nodded. “All right. Let’s draw up the document—Earth standard should probably do.”
Needahl’s eyes widened, this time the movement obvious. “You have legal experience.”
“I have a lot of experience,” Jamal said. “That’s why I need your help.”
* * *
DeRicci had heard the tearing plastic, felt the pressure from Palmer’s feet as they pushed on the back of the seat. And then the pressure left. The woman had gotten out.
DeRicci still couldn’t unfasten her restraints, and she was getting dizzy from hanging upside down. The windows were closed, and the air felt close. All of the damn aircar’s controls were connected to its main and secondary systems. She couldn’t do anything with the systems down.
The guard beside her moaned again, but didn’t seem to be conscious. Neither did the other guard in the back. DeRicci had to do this alone.
Her fingers found her own laser pistol. She pulled it from its harness, then braced herself between the back of her seat and the dash. Once she was wedged, she had enough leverage. She grabbed the pistol by its muzzle and slammed its grip into the driver’s window.
She cracked the plastic. She slammed it again, then again, finally breaking a hole in it. Using the pistol like a trowel, she made the hole wider.
Cool air flowed inside the car. She hadn’t realized how hot it was in there, but she was bathed in sweat. She managed to loosen the restraints without falling, and she twisted herself through them, popping herself through the hole in the window.
The street was empty. Up ahead, she could see the lights outside of the Proscenium Arches. It was full dark in here, and the street lights hadn’t turned on yet. She found that odd, but not unusual. Sometimes the city rotated power outages at night to maintain reserves.
The Disappeared Page 16