by David Ryker
“I wish Quinn were here,” Ben sighed. “He’d know what to do.”
“Well, he’s on the other side of the world right now,” Schuster snapped. “So you’re stuck with me.”
“What? He’s out of New Alcatraz? How do you know that?”
“I just do. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”
“Where is he? Are the others with him?”
“Quiet,” said Gloom, frowning at her display. “The guards just switched to another elevator, and now they’re going up. Ben, call up schematics for government house on the table display.”
Ben did as he was told, which was fine with Schuster, because he wasn’t in the mood for a long explanation.
“They’re stopping on the 176th floor,” said Gloom. “What’s up there?”
“Supply storage, backup servers…” His eyes widened. “Infirmary.”
“They’re putting her in the hospital,” said Gloom. “Of course. Drake’s taking advantage of her showing up out of the blue to gain some leverage over Oscar.”
Out of the blue. Schuster took a deep breath to push the thought out of his head. As much as he didn’t want to leave Melinda to Drake, he knew this was the best possibility they could have hoped for.
“We need to get out of here right now,” he said, heading for the door. “We won’t get another chance to get to Bloom Tower unseen.”
“That’s cold,” Ben said. “But I guess you’re right.”
Gloom tucked her hackbox into a pocket of her tunic, then unlocked the wrist band from her arm and tossed it on the sofa. Ben and Schuster did the same.
“As far as they know, we’re right here in the living room,” she said.
“Let’s just hope they follow your orders and not check in when they get back,” said Schuster.
“They will,” she said absently as the door slid open and they stalked into the hallway.
“How do you know?”
She turned to him and surprised him with a cocky grin.
“You always do,” she said.
Can’t argue with her there, he thought. A few seconds later, they were in an elevator on their way to the ground floor.
It took about thirty minutes to navigate the streets from Government House to Bloom Tower in the soft white glow of the public lighting system. There was little foot traffic and no hovercraft at this hour—the area was far from the night life of San Francisco, even though it was right on the bay—and they were able to plan while they walked. By the time they reached the entrance to the Tower, they had formulated a strategy, such as it was: Gloom would hack their way into a service elevator to get them to the entrance of the Bloom residence. From there, they would wing it, and if Oscar Bloom answered, they’d overpower him and force their way inside.
They all agreed it wasn’t a good plan, but at least it was a plan.
The first part went off without a hitch: the service entry they chose was abandoned, and the elevator took them to a floor where they could access a circular corridor that would take them around to the lift that led directly to the servants’ entrance of the Bloom floor. Gloom had to hack into the system to get the doors opened, but once inside, it took them straight up to where they needed to be.
“I’m assuming there are already cameras on us,” Schuster said as they stepped out of the elevator.
“Not necessarily,” said Gloom, her eyes on the hackbox display. “Melinda told us she left from the servants’ exit, which probably means this one. If they didn’t notice her leave, they might not notice us coming in.”
Schuster hoped that was the case as he watched her fiddle with the hackbox. Any second, it would send out one of its patented waves of green light and the door would open as if by magic.
Any second now…
“Shit.” Gloom frowned at the display. “I’m up against military-grade security on this door. There’s no way I can kick through it with this jury-rigged piece of junk.”
“Damn it!” Schuster hissed. “We got this far!”
“I’ll try to work around it—” Gloom began, but Ben cut her off.
“Guys,” he said, looking at them like they were stupid. “How about we try ringing the doorbell?”
Schuster and Gloom exchanged a glance and shrugged.
Ben waved a hand over the panel and they stood in silence and waited for an answer. Schuster felt the sense of urgency rising inside him almost like a physical thing. They had to get inside.
After almost thirty seconds of waiting, a voice came over the speaker: “Yes?”
“Delivery for Chelsea Bloom,” Gloom said in a bored voice. “Need a signature.”
Schuster gaped at her. “Seriously?” he hissed. “You think that’s how people with the Blooms’ kind of money get their stuff? And there’s a camera on us!”
“I didn’t see you doing anything!”
“Hang on,” said the voice on the speaker.
The three of them stood exchanging nervous glances, wondering what was coming next. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door slid open. On the other side was a woman with long, dark hair, standing to one side to clear the way for them.
“Come in,” she said, ushering them through the door and into a wide foyer that led into a kitchen that was bigger than Dev Schuster’s primary school had been back in Mumbai.
“Thanks so much,” he said, goggling at the opulence of the room: marble floors, four restaurant-size cooking stations, crystal chandeliers hanging from a ceiling that was at least ten meters above them. “Uh, I have to admit, we don’t actually, uh, have a package…”
“Bitch!” Gloom’s cry startled him out of his reverie and he spun in the direction of her voice just in time to see Ben drop to his knees on the floor. Gloom was swaying on her feet, a snarl on her lips. Schuster began to move to his right, but it was already too late: he felt the hypospray against his throat, and within two seconds his body slumped as if he weighed as much as Maggott. He dropped silently to the floor beside his friends.
The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a pair of purple eyes staring down at him.
14
The entrance to Oleg Johnson’s apartment was like that of a hangar, wide enough to have accommodated the wingspan of a Raft and at least five meters tall, and there was no door to speak of. Quinn could see shapes on the other side of the threshold, gray blobs moving amid a bank of white fog, but the hallway in which he and the others were standing was silent as a church.
“Security screen,” said Alina. She was at the front of their group, placing her palm against a panel set in the wall next to the entrance. “It’s a wall of vibration mixed with a special refracting gas. It counteracts the sound from the suite, and if you try to cross through it without authorization, it will literally melt your brain with infrasonics.”
“Ho-lee sheepshit,” Ulysses breathed, goggling. “This is the big leagues right here.”
To Quinn, his friend looked like a completely different person in the form-fitting black formal suit with a white tie-stripe down the front of the tunic. So did Bishop and, he supposed, himself. He’d never worn anything other than street clothes or a uniform in his life. Han, meanwhile, looked distractingly female in her skin-tight yellow cocktail dress with the slit up one thigh. He’d never really thought of her as a woman before—she’d always been just another Marine to him—but he had no choice now.
The panel flashed green under Alina’s palm and she motioned for them to step over the threshold.
“You’re sure about this?” Bishop asked warily.
“My palm print is on file,” she said. “It allows up to five people to cross, so go.”
Quinn took a deep breath and took a step. His leg didn’t feel any different on the other side, so he allowed the rest of his body to follow. The instant his head was inside, his senses were assaulted by the thumping vibrations of what he supposed was music, beating so loudly he could feel it in his chest. Laser lights of every color flashed from a hundred differen
t generators around the enormous room, criss-crossing over what had to be two hundred people all writhing along to the beat on a dance floor that seemed to stretch out beyond the horizon. Different levels of it were floating above the main floor, coasting slowly on magnetic levitation pads.
In short, it was a party, the likes of which he never would have imagined standing in the hallway on the other side of the entrance. It was like Alice stepping through the looking glass in the tattered old book his mother had read to him when he was a child.
“This is in-sane!” Ulysses hooted as he sidled up next to Quinn. “Ah thought the Saints showed you fellas a good time in San Antonio, but this is on a whole ‘nother level, dude!”
Strangely, Quinn was able to make out Ulysses’ words over the thumping music. He chalked it up to whatever tech was also allowing the noise not to permeate every square inch of the Tower around Oleg’s apartment and prompt every other tenant to sue him for disturbing the peace.
Quinn scanned the room, then turned back to where Han was standing in an alcove with Alina. The two were looking at a display on Alina’s wristband—guests at the party weren’t allowed to use them, but as a regular and an associate of Oleg, Alina had special dispensation—showing the schematics of the building. After a few moments, Han nodded and Alina stepped into the crowd, disappearing almost instantly. They were on their own now; she would rendezvous with them outside at street level once they had found the human popsicle they were here for and extracted it from the building.
He desperately wished they had a better plan, or at least better intel. On the other hand, they had been charging headlong into ridiculous situations for a while now, and they’d made it this far alive. Maybe their luck would hold.
Then the image of John Elliot turning to scarlet mush next to him flashed through his mind, and what little optimism he’d been holding onto disappeared like smoke in a gust of wind. He joined Han in the alcove while Bishop and Ulysses ambled over to the nearest bar, where a man who was taller than Maggott and yet thinner than Bishop was serving drinks to the crowd.
Han leaned close to speak, but Quinn looked away quickly as the plunging neckline of her dress put her cleavage on display. She saw his reaction and poked his ribs with an elbow.
“Focus,” she said, frowning. “My boobs aren’t the mission. The schematics show a small room that’s positioned to the rear of the main kitchen in this apartment. You can’t get to it from this level, though; it’s only accessible by freight elevator from the main floor, or via stairs from the floor above, which is Oleg’s personal quarters. Alina figures since it’s right next to the unit that runs the freezers for the kitchens, and it’s not a room where any of the guests could accidentally wander it, it’s likely where we’ll find the cryo-chamber.”
“Copy that. The question is how do we get into it?”
Bishop and Ulysses appeared at the opening to the alcove, each carrying a tumbler of clear liquid.
“Get into what?” asked Bishop. “Do we know where we’re looking?”
Quinn explained where the room likely was, and their dilemma of getting access to it. Bishop nodded.
“I’ll do recon near the kitchen, see if there’s any way of getting upstairs, and if there is, whether it’s guarded.”
“If we can’t get in from the apartment, we’ll have to go down to the main floor,” said Quinn. “That’s a distant Plan B, because once we walk out of here, we can’t get back in without Alina. We’re not in any hurry, so let’s just take our time and do things right.”
“Roger that,” said Bishop. “I’ll be back. Don’t wander off too far while I’m gone.”
Quinn gave him a nod just he disappeared into the crowd.
“Ah’m gonna do a little recon of my own,” said Ulysses. He was scanning the place like a slum kid who’d been left in a Tower mall candy store.
“Keep your mouth shut like we planned,” Han warned. “And stay close. Try to blend in.”
“How’m ah s’posed to blend in with this crowd?”
Ulysses pointed to a man and woman pole-dancing on a platform. They each had adult bodies, and yet were proportionately the size of children. Genetic manipulation was illegal in most of Western society, but it seemed to be common among the people of Moscow, or at least the ones Oleg Johnson hung around with.
“It looks like anything goes here,” said Quinn, shaking his head. “Gene mods, surgical enhancements. I can point out a dozen people high on narcotics that would get you thrown in New Alcatraz back home. I wouldn’t be surprised if the place was crawling with cyborgs, too.”
“That would explain why Oleg knows Zero,” Han said distractedly, pulling at her neckline. Her discomfort with the dress was obvious, and he couldn’t blame her. If it came down to moving quickly, which their situation almost certainly would, she’d have difficulty not flashing significant parts of her anatomy.
Then again, there were far more pressing things for them to worry about than wardrobe malfunctions. Quinn kept his gaze on Ulysses as he moved about the room, taking in all the sights and sounds. The man’s sense of wonder and curiosity was almost childlike, in stark contrast with what Quinn knew about his cunning mind and capacity for violence.
He turned his attention to the rest of the room, or at least as much of it as he could see, scanning for potential threats but trying to look casual at the same time. What form a threat might take was anyone’s guess, but he was going to do whatever he could to see one coming before it developed into something that was beyond their control.
A few seconds later, two simple words told Quinn that he had just failed miserably at his task.
“Oleg Johnson,” said a gravelly voice from behind him. “Welcome to my home.”
He and Han spun in unison to see a tall, rugged-looking man who appeared to be in his early forties, with an iron-gray crewcut and a suit that looked like it had come from a museum display—it was plain black with an open jacket—completely unlike the form-fitting one-piece that Quinn was wearing—with a narrow tie in matching ebony. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a public archive movie starring that old singer, Frank Sinatra. He was flanked by two women with brilliant blue hair and Asian features, wearing dresses that left as little to the imagination as Han’s own. They both wore oversized mirror sunglasses and blank expressions.
Quinn’s mind raced. Encountering Oleg was bad, and they needed to minimize the amount of contact. Their host sized him up with a look that betrayed only mild curiosity, but his eyes lingered quite a bit longer on Han. To her credit, she didn’t show any discomfort, and it gave Quinn just enough time to remember their cover story.
“Thank you for having us,” he said, trying to sound respectful but not eager. “Your party is legendary; I’m glad we’ve finally had the opportunity to attend.”
Oleg’s eyes shifted to Han. “I didn’t catch your names.” Despite being in the heart of Moscow, Quinn tagged the man’s accent as pure South Philly, reflecting his dual upbringing.
“We didn’t throw them,” Han said with a grin. Alina had coached them that caginess was king in Moscow. Laying your cards on the table was always a last resort. “What’s in a name, really? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and a plasma cannon by any other name would still be as dangerous.”
“Is that right?” Oleg sprouted a grin of his own, but on his weather-beaten face it was anything but humorous. “Are you telling me you’re dangerous, then?”
“We made it in here, didn’t we?” Quinn said quickly. “Surely that should count for something.”
“You and a thousand others.” Oleg took his arm from around the tiny waist of the women on his right and swept it toward the expansive room. “I certainly hope they’re not all dangerous, too.”
“Have any of them talked to you about the coming war?” asked Han.
Quinn saw Oleg’s eyes narrow. The plan was to extract themselves from the situation as quickly as possible by convincing Johnson that they were merce
naries looking for work. Alina told them it would have the same effect that most sales pitches did, and that Oleg would quickly shut down the conversation and move on.
But Han had just mentioned the war, and now curiosity was evident in their host’s expression. That wasn’t surprising, given that he ran in the same dark circles as Zero, but it was the exact opposite of what they wanted to happen.
“War?” Oleg asked amiably. “That’s a four-letter-word these days. Why would I want to talk about that? You know something I don’t?”
There was mischief in his eyes, but the tone of his voice told Quinn he was definitely not joking. They needed to extricate themselves right fucking now or risk scuttling the whole mission. Quinn hadn’t had the chance to ask Zero what would happen if they failed, but he seriously doubted it would be something he’d like.
“Nothing specific,” said Quinn, hoping he sounded nonchalant. “But a man like you obviously knows that war never truly ends. No harm in being prepared, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Oleg’s attention was on him now. “That the Bronx I hear in your voice?”
“A long time ago, yeah. You got a good ear.”
“Good brain, too. Good enough to know that we don’t get a hell of a lot of Americans here in Moscow. They tend to find it a little too rough for their tastes, you know what I mean?”
“That’s why we left,” said Han. “It’s no fun hanging around with a bunch of pussies. We go where the action is.”
She was vamping it up, but Oleg was still focused on Quinn. “You look like the kind of guy who knows where to find the action. I can respect that.”
Quinn tilted his head. “I appreciate that. I hope you’ll keep us in mind if you ever need—”
“And there it is.” Oleg shook his head and held up a hand to cut him off. “Why doesn’t anyone ever just want to have a conversation anymore? Everybody’s gotta be selling something. I’m not in the market.”
Quinn felt a twinge of hope and shot a glance to Han that said, in effect, keep your mouth shut. They were right on the verge of squirming out of this trap, and they should just leave it be.