by Todd McAulty
I needed to move fast. Intercepting Hayduk and Sergei here was a lucky break, but I couldn’t count on that luck to last. I thought briefly about changing into the suit here in the bathroom, but the sudden sound of a flushing toilet behind me spurred me to action. I yanked open the door and started walking.
I needed someplace private to change, and there were soldiers everywhere. Most of them looked off-duty, clustered in small packs and probably headed to the mess hall or the barracks. Mostly they ignored me, but I got a few curious glances as I stalked down the hall. I needed to escape all this attention—and soon.
On my left, the elevator doors were closing. It looked empty. On impulse, I stepped inside.
The elevator waited. None of the floors on the wall pad was lit.
Screw it, I thought. Zircon Border had said the AGRT didn’t have eyes in the elevators. I hit the button for the forty-fifth floor, right in the middle of the abandoned floors, and pulled the combat suit out of the bag. I started to change.
The suit is single piece, like a wet suit, and it’s very heavy. Last time I’d pulled it on it took almost five minutes. I had to do it much faster now. I kicked off my shoes, sending one thumping across the floor to hit the elevator door, and jammed my left leg into the suit, pants and all.
That didn’t work. The suit was too tight, and my pant leg bunched up around my knee uncomfortably. I swore in frustration, then threw the suit to the floor and tore off my pants.
The elevator silently displayed our progress upwards. The sixth floor. The eighth. The eleventh. If it slowed down now, there’d be just enough time to stuff the suit in the bag and stand smiling innocently as the doors opened, wearing only my underwear. I’d done worse.
The elevator didn’t slow. I picked up the suit again. This was the first time I’d put the suit on in bright light. I could see the inside surface was dotted with a rich mesh of electrical contacts, and there were thick clusters of circuitry spaced at odd intervals up and down the arms and legs. It all looked dark, unpowered, incapable of monitoring my vital signs, playing soothing Muzak, or doing anything else helpful. I jammed my left leg in, pulling the suit up to my crotch, stretching the fabric until it was tight against my skin.
The fifteenth floor. The eighteenth.
Next was my right leg. Hopping on one leg, I lost my balance and almost toppled over before straightening myself by leaning against the wall. The suit was fighting me; it clung to my left leg like a horny dog. I couldn’t pull it past my thighs. I tried, but it stubbornly refused to budge.
The twentieth floor. The twenty-first.
I made an effort to slow down, keep my movements even. I shifted my weight to my left leg, freeing my right to flex a little, and ignoring the sudden stab of pain from my wounded hip. At the same time I gave the suit a firm yank, and it slid up to my waist. The top half, attached at the back, hung formless against the back of my legs.
I heard a soft ding, and the elevator began to slow.
I had just enough time to pull my shirttails out, letting them fall over the top few inches of the suit. Then the door slid open on the twenty-third floor.
Standing before me were two Venezuelan soldiers, both carrying automatic rifles. I stared at them.
They entered the elevator, openly regarding my legs. One of them punched a floor. The second, his hand casually at the shoulder strap of his rifle, leaned over to peer at the top half of my suit, hanging down between my legs.
The first said something in Spanish. The second gave me a wide grin. “You are going swimming?” he asked.
“Scuba diving,” I said, my mouth suddenly very dry. “Great weather for it.”
The second translated for his companion. Both of them laughed. They couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old.
The elevator dinged again. The doors opened.
“Good luck!” said the second soldier, as he followed the first out of the elevator. “Look out for sharks, ha?”
The doors slid closed.
We were on the twenty-fourth floor. They had ridden the elevator up one floor. “The crack troops of Venezuela,” I muttered, shaking my head.
I struggled into the rest of the suit. I didn’t waste time pulling off my shirt; the suit went on easily enough over it even though it had probably been designed for someone an inch or two shorter than me. The fabric felt tight at the shoulders and crotch. The snaps that sealed the suit in the front were a complex affair, and I was still fighting them when the door opened onto the dark hallway of the forty-fifth floor.
I stepped out into the deserted hallway. It stretched out into darkness to my left and right. I’d never been to this part of the hotel before—probably nobody had for some time. It wasn’t part of the block of rooms scheduled to be reopened for the refugees. It would make a perfect place to change.
The only light was from the elevator behind me, and from glowing exit signs at the distant ends of the corridor. I took the suit gloves and mask out of the bag, picked up my pants, and stuffed them into it. I hid the bag in the shadows a dozen feet down the hall to my left, in the recessed alcove sheltering the door to 4516.
As I straightened, something stirred on the carpet, less than fifty feet down the hallway.
I froze, my hand still reaching toward the bag. It was impossible to make out what it was, but I thought I saw the faint gleam of metal. I heard two soft clicks, like claws on stone. Whatever it was, it was small, not much bigger than Croaker. And it was starting to move.
Behind me the elevator doors were closing. I made my decision, abandoning the bag and dashing for the elevator.
As I slipped inside I heard a sudden scraping behind me, the sounds of frantic motion, and a deep, scary hum. I retreated until I felt the far wall of the elevator against my back, and stayed there until the doors were firmly closed.
The elevator was motionless for several seconds before I realized that I hadn’t selected a floor. I took three quick steps and punched 3, before the doors could open again. The elevator began to drop.
What was that thing? Did the Venezuelans keep robotic sentries on abandoned floors to scare off squatters? Crazy. And more importantly, what the hell was going to happen to my dress pants? How was I supposed to return to the ballroom without them?
The elevator was dropping fast. Pushing aside my wardrobe anxieties, I pulled the mask on. It completely covered my face, and the visor shielded my eyes nicely. It was stuffy and smelled like plastic, but fit okay. Everything looked green through the thin film of the visor, though, and I was worried about my peripheral vision. There were four snaps that fixed it firmly to the suit, but I only had time for two. Then I pulled on the gloves.
I realized I was missing the boots. I cursed extravagantly for a moment. They must have been jammed in the back of Sergei’s desk, or maybe under his chair. Either way, it was too late to retrieve them now.
I felt like an idiot, standing there in a top-of-the-line American combat suit and sock feet. After a moment I sighed, and reached for my dress shoes. At least they were nearly the same color as the suit. Maybe no one would notice.
As I was tying the laces on the second shoe I heard a soft ding, and felt the elevator slow. The doors opened on the third floor.
It was showtime again.
XXXVII
Thursday, March 25th, 2083
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I straightened up, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the lobby.
I glanced to my left. There were perhaps half a dozen soldiers in my field of vision, most of them milling around a low table where someone had unrolled a 30-inch screen with a network feed. Several had guns, but none noticed me immediately.
For a moment I thought I would have to do
something dramatic to get their attention. Then I glanced to the right.
Standing not five feet from me, where he had apparently been waiting for the elevator, was Colonel Perez.
We stared at each other. Him gawking with his mouth open, me an expressionless mask of American military cool. Then he started shouting in Spanish, pointing at me and waving to the nearest soldiers.
I punched him in the face. Then I ran like hell.
There was a lot more shouting after that.
I ran past two soldiers who simply stared at me, startled, their rifles still slung loosely at their shoulders, clearly unaware of what had just happened. But from behind I heard Perez shouting with authority.
“¡Párese! ¡Párese!” he screamed at me.
I elected not to párese, whatever the hell that meant.
I sped past the young guard at the entrance to the command center. He barely glanced at me, instead staring back toward Perez, trying to figure out what all the fuss was about.
The suit was a nuisance. My visor was quickly fogging up; it felt like I was breathing into a plastic bag. And the suit slowed me down—it was awkward and stiff. But adrenaline made up for that, at least, and I sped down the hall pretty quickly. I ran past a work crew assembling a large metal cabinet; while they all looked alarmed, none moved to intercept me.
My luck couldn’t last. Ahead on the right was a small corridor leading to the service elevator. The urge to take it was strong. I would be out of sight for long seconds before they could follow.
But unless the elevator was there waiting for me, it was a death trap.
I kept running.
Now only a few workmen in overalls stood between me and my destination: a stairwell barely twenty-five yards straight ahead at the end of the hall. I could hear sounds of close pursuit behind, but didn’t turn to look. My peripheral vision in the mask wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, but my hearing was crap.
But I could still hear Perez. His voice cut through the others; his orders—in Spanish—were crisp and concise. All the other shouting died away, and then the sounds of pursuit did too. Now there was only silence behind me.
That was far, far more alarming than the shouting. I put on an extra burst of speed, closing the distance to the stairs.
Fifteen yards.
Ten.
There was a single workman in my way now. He was on a step stool, holding a handful of tightly looped wiring connected to a lamp fixture. He looked civilian, not military, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to stop me—block the stairs, or try to tackle me. I braced for combat.
What he did instead was much more unnerving. He didn’t look at me at all; his terrified gaze was fixed back the way I had come. As I sprinted to the door he suddenly cowered on the stool, then hit the deck, landing on the floor with both hands over his head.
Someone—likely several someones—was aiming a gun our way.
The courageous thing to do would have been to keep on running and slam through the door. Instead, I gave in to raw fear and doglegged right and ducked, slowing just enough that I didn’t dislocate my shoulder when I smashed into the wall.
A bullet hit eighteen inches to my left, at about waist height. I heard another one impact metal a few feet away—probably the door.
I risked a glance back down the hall. Fifty yards away three soldiers stood aiming rifles at me, and more were pouring out of the command center. Perez stood in the middle of it all, directing the action. In front of him, two more soldiers dropped to one knee, raising their rifles.
I heard a third shot and felt a stabbing pain just above my left knee. Then a fourth shot. When that bullet failed to pass through my heart—or any other part of me—I somehow managed to unclench, spin around, and leap for the door. My hands fumbled with the handle, and a moment later I was in the stairwell and out of their line of fire.
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted.
I tore off my mask. My breathing came in ragged gasps, and my hands were shaking. They’re shooting at me. Jesus, I think I’ve been shot.
Somehow this was both more real and more terrifying than even facing the Godkiller with Van de Velde had been. I hobbled to the stairs, clutching my left knee.
Strangely, my knee felt fine. Well, it was sore, but certainly not shot. My fingers grabbed at the fabric of the suit, but there was no hole I could find, no evidence that I’d been hit at all.
That wasn’t completely true, I realized. Directly above my left knee, the suit had hardened dramatically and taken on a soft sheen. The outer layers of the suit had responded to the impact by instantly forming a tough outer coating.
Even unpowered, the suit had protected me, preventing the bullet from penetrating. The American combat suit was bulletproof. Or at least, bullet-resistant. I flexed my knee. I’d probably have a pretty serious bruise, but that was a lot better than a bullet hole.
And the suit was still flexible enough to run.
There was more rifle fire as the heavy door slowly closed behind me. At least one bullet penetrated the stairwell, and I heard it ricochet eagerly in search of my heart. By then I was taking the stairs three at a time, climbing two stories before daring to stop again.
I heard the door slam open two floors below, then renewed shouting. They were in the stairwell. Move, move, move, I thought. But I forced myself to stay where I was for one more moment, catching my breath and listening.
Running feet. More shouting. Echoes as the voices bounced around in the tight space. More voices, slightly more distant now.
They were moving downstairs. They probably assumed, logically enough, that I was fleeing the building. Only an idiot would run upstairs, to the heavily guarded offices of the senior staff.
I was an idiot, I realized.
They’d figure it out soon enough. Time to move—but quietly. Stealth now, not speed. All the same, I moved to the door as fast as I dared, pulling the mask back on as I went.
The door that gave access to the fifth floor had been sealed with an electronic lock. I pulled at the handle experimentally, but it wouldn’t budge.
Don’t panic, I thought. You expected this. This was a lie, but like a patsy, I fell for it. Staying calm, I groped for Hayduk’s GPU card.
The sound of running feet was now getting closer. The soldiers had started moving upstairs. They were two floors below me and closing the distance quickly.
The door lock was military grade; it required physical contact with an electronic key. I found Hayduk’s GPU card, rotated it once, and slid it into the lock.
Nothing happened. I heard voices now, one floor below, rising fast.
I withdrew the card, turned it over, inserted it again.
There was a soft click. I tried the door, and the knob turned in my hands. I pulled it open, as quietly as possible, and slipped through.
An armed guard stood with his back to me on the other side, his rifle resting easily in his arms. I seemed to have gotten the drop on him, and as I moved past him he jumped, obviously startled. He swore softly under his breath, automatically coming to attention.
I ignored him, striding purposefully down the corridor. Just like you belong here, I thought. No one gets through that door unless they’re supposed to.
It didn’t work, at least not entirely. The guard called out in Spanish, sounding more curious than confrontational. I kept walking across the plush carpet.
I heard two soft beeps that I realized were coming from the combat suit. Despite everything, I found myself smiling. If the beeps meant what I hoped they did, I was getting close.
This floor had once housed upscale business offices before the occupation, probably hotel administration or long-term rental properties. Just like the sixth floor, most of it was under construction, as the Venezuelan army gradually converted it into secure office space for two dozen duty officers. I saw gaps in the ceiling panels where they were running heavy-duty power lines, and a score of office cubes had been dismantled to make space for high-wall offices. Stee
l paneling was piled neatly near the windows, and thick rolls of fiber cable were stacked like tires nearby. I didn’t see any workmen, but the lights were on in at least half a dozen offices. I could make out muffled conversation to my left. I turned to the right, following a clear path through all the construction toward a line of what looked like completed offices.
Pretending I couldn’t hear the guard had not made him go away. He was following me now, leaving his post, and his questions were in a much sharper tone.
I had another problem. The corridor ahead was blocked. The Venezuelans had installed what appeared to be a soundproof security wall of transparent glass running from floor to ceiling, dividing the floor into two wings. I could see larger offices on the other side and what looked like some serious telecom equipment half-assembled in the corridor.
A glass door had been cut in the transparent wall, but there was no handle or other visible way to open it. A balding Venezuelan in uniform sat on my side of the wall behind a ridiculously small desk, looking like an impoverished tax collector. He glanced up as I approached, but I ignored him too.
So far that was working out pretty well for me.
I stopped in front of the glass door. A gentle push confirmed it was shut tight. I heard the soldier walk up behind me. He directed another stern question at me, then spoke to the seated man, who shrugged, looking helpless.
I probably had only a few seconds before the shouting and shooting started again. Fortunately, I’d spotted what I was looking for: a thin square of frosted glass ten inches to the left of the door at about shoulder height. I pressed Hayduk’s card against it.
There was no visible reaction. Don’t panic, I thought. You expected this.
The lie didn’t work this time. But before I could panic in earnest, I pushed the glass door again. It opened with no resistance. I slipped through and pushed it closed behind me. I felt the magnetic seal grip the door as it slid shut again, leaving the soldier and his tax-collecting buddy on the other side.
The air seemed cooler on this side. As I strode down the corridor, I caught a tiny motion near the ceiling. A camera was following my progress. Surely they could access it from the command center, and it would be only moments before they confirmed where I was.