Contact Imminent (31 page)

Niall nodded once. “Shroud,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on the view through the windscreen as he pressed the charge-through.

The skimmer pulled away. At first Jani watched the hybrids recede in her passenger mirror. Brondt. Torin. Bon. Gisa.

Then she fixed on John. When Niall veered the skimmer so she could no longer see him, she lowered the window and boosted herself through, hanging out the door from the waist up, balancing on the frame. The morning air, scented by the sea, flowed around her. She blamed it for the way her eyes stung as she watched John's grey-clad form grow smaller and smaller until they turned the final corner and he disappeared entirely.

 

Micah sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on his work. A new device. A new manual to read. A new something that he prayed would divert his attention yet never seemed to for long.

Weeks had passed since Veles had picked his pocket outside Forrestal, and his every waking moment since had been consumed by the
waiting
. For the visitors to his flat, the gym where he worked out, the bullpen.
Pairs
. He flipped through one display screen after the other.
They always work in pairs
. That's what he'd heard, at any rate. In case the suspect tried to make a break for it, and they needed to use force to subdue him.

“Hey, scholar?”

Micah closed his eyes. The more things changed, the more Cashman remained the same. “What?”

“I got a call—I can't take it.” Cashman's head poked over the cubicle divider. “An
interview
at the Dahlberg Annex. Second floor. Two five five.”

Interview
. Micah prayed he looked relaxed as his stomach roiled.
Make that interrogation
. He sat back and folded his arms.
No—I don't think so
. Too close to his possible future for comfort. “You don't look busy.”

“Not this split second, no.” Cashman rolled his eyes. “But I've got to record the insurance talk this afternoon, and I need to be here when the Benefits crew stops by to take them to the room, and before that I need to set up.” He held out a soft, fat hand. “Come on, man. I see what's on your display when you don't think anyone is looking. This is right up your alley. All that psych stuff—brain changes during stress and shit.”

You noticed
. Micah hung his head, then stood and gathered his gearbag. If nothing else, he'd get away from Cashman for the afternoon. That had to be worth something.

“Thinking of changing your spec or something?”

“Yeah.” Micah stepped out into the corridor, looking both ways first to make sure it was clear.

The Dahlberg Annex was a three-story white box located
just west of the Far North buildings. A poured cement coffin of a place, it contained offices for base auditors and temporary staff. The second floor, windowless and with coded doors throughout, was reserved for miscellaneous “questioning,” the sort of discussions that often lead to a date with the counsel of one's choosing and an extended stay at Camp Brigstone.

The rooms are soundshielded
. Micah keyed into the stairwell, trudged up the short flight of steps, then keyed out onto the floor itself.
That way, no one can hear the screams
. Not strictly true. He had recorded several interrogations, and in only one had the tension escalated to violence. But they had the guy dead to rights for murder, and he didn't have anything left to lose…

Micah walked the corridor and scanned the doorplates.
Two fifty-one…253…255
…He stopped, keyed in his passcode, pressed his hand to the doorpad. Watched as the door panel slid open, and found himself staring into a damnably familiar face.

“Come in, Faber.” Pascal stepped aside and motioned him through. “Always room for one more.”

Micah backed away from the door. Then he ran, down the hallway toward the stairwell, only to have one of the doorway shadows move, and change into Veles, who stood at the hallway's end, shooter drawn.

They work in pairs…
Micah slid to a stop. Held his hands out in front of him to show he wasn't armed. Bit back a howl as Veles grabbed his wrist and spun him against the wall, then kicked at his ankles to spread his legs.

Shit—shit
—He felt hands. Yanking his gearbag from his shoulder. Patting down his thighs, his ass, his waist and chest. Knew they didn't belong to Veles, because Veles stood off to one side, shooter aimed at his head.
Keep your goddamn hands off of me, you freak-fucker!
But he pressed his face to the wall and kept his mouth shut because if he said anything like that, well, then they'd have him. If they didn't already.

“Just walk to the room, Micah.” Pascal stood too damned close and whispered too damned low.

Micah pushed off the wall and walked, his hands over his head.
They know
. If they didn't know, why Dahlberg? The place was official. It had a reputation.
Why did they set it up through Cashman
? How did they know Cashman was busy, and would bounce the call to him?
Maybe Cashman isn't busy
. Maybe he worked with Pascal and Veles. Maybe he helped with the setup.
Bastard
. He should have killed the loudmouth creep when he had the chance.

He entered the room. White walls and ceiling, cut at regular intervals with inset lighting. Grey floor. All smooth surfaces, suitable for hosing down if necessary. A table and three chairs.

“Have a seat, Micah.” Pascal dragged one of the chairs away from the table and sat. He wore dress blue-greys, as did Veles, who declined a seat, preferring to lean against the far wall.

Micah sat. Wiped his hands on his trousers once, then again. Watched Pascal, who pulled his gearbag onto his lap and examined the scuffed exterior.

“This has seen some use.” Pascal cracked the fasteners, then began rummaging through the pouches and pockets.

Keep your goddamned hands off my
—Micah choked back his silent scream.—
stuff
. He didn't stash anything unofficial in his gearbag anyway—it wasn't as though they'd find anything—

“What do these go with?” Pascal held up a set of earbugs, then placed them on the table.

No.
Micah sat back.
They only look like the ones I use for the sims—they
aren't
the ones I use for the sims, so what difference does it make?
“They're all-purpose earbugs, sir. I use them when I need to jack into systems during setups.” There. Easy as you please.
I'm supposed to have those, so shove it up your ass, freak-fucker!

“Air all clear?”

Micah froze. It had to have been Veles who spoke—his
voice was unmistakable.
Why does it sound familiar
? Then he remembered.
Chrivet. Something she said
. As they coursed over the water to the embassy, the spray tossing around them.

They cracked the wafer
. Well, they must have. Else why was he here?
They know everything
. So why question him here—why wasn't he under arrest and sitting under barred windows at Camp Brigstone?
Because they don't know anything
. But that didn't make sense—

“You have some interesting tastes in pornography, Micah.” Pascal looked up from his exploration of the gearbag. “
Tessa's Tempting Offer
—quite a story. What did you think about the scene in the back of the skimbus?”

Micah swallowed. His head felt as though it might explode. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to answer Pascal's disgusting question.
They searched my flat, found the porn wafer
. But he'd set out traps, flecks of paper and such—he'd have known.
They went to the place where I rented it
. That made sense, too, maybe more sense. Everyone knew what kind of place it was. “Skimbus?” He shook his head. “There's no—no scene like that, sir.” He heard Veles's ragged snicker, and imagined his face smashed and bloody.

Pascal shrugged. “Perhaps I'm thinking of another story.” He gave one last look through the gearbag, closed the fasteners, and dropped it to the floor beside his chair. Then he reached inside his tunic and removed a small imager. The silver cylinder glinted, the only spot of life in the room.

“I thought you might find this interesting. It's a scene from another wafer.” Pascal twisted the imager's activator ring, then set it atop the table. The top of the cylinder flickered. Then the image sprang up, life-size and in full color.

Micah sat, his hands on his knees, his mind a white-hot blank. But he stood astride the table as well, in full exoskeletal kit, mid-range in hand, his helmet faceplate a semi-transparency that revealed his identity for all to see.

He remembered the moment captured before him, felt the weight of the exo, the heft of his mid-range. The battle had
ended, the last regions of the embassy secured. They had won.
We won!

“Different sort of fantasy, this. Yes?” Pascal cocked his head to one side as he regarded the image.

“We won! We won!” Veles's singsong raked like sandpaper.

Micah looked to the image and wrung the last drop of pride from it.
We won that one.
They hadn't won many since. The room changed as he stared at himself, from white and bare to darker and centered by concentric rings of chairs. Chrivet in the middle, stalking and talking.

Take 'em down!

Micah felt the room shift as part of him stepped atop the table and entered the image while the rest of him remained seated. He turned from his tabletop vantage point, reactivating his mid-range as he swung toward Veles. He rose from his chair as well, raised his arm and sighted down as he took the first room-spanning step—

Then Pascal moved toward him. The bastard should have fallen, blitzed by the mid-range, but he charged forward, grabbing Micah and spinning him around and down.

Micah yelled as he slammed against the floor. Felt the cold tile—
why!
—the weight of a body atop him—
how!

Invincible. Invincible!
“We won! We won!”

“He's hallucinating! Why did you push…!” Pascal, angry, yelling in English, then slipping into a language Micah didn't understand. Veles, just as angry, answering in kind.

Micah tried to break loose as Pascal tore open the cuff fastener of his sleeve, then pushed it up past his elbow. Let loose his howl as he felt a sting in the crook of his arm. Felt the cry stop in his throat as the warmth filled him, flowing with his blood to his shoulder, across his chest, into his gut and below.

Quiet. So long since he'd enjoyed…quiet. Peace.

“What's your name?” asked a voice in the distance.

“Faber.” His lips felt numbed, his tongue thick. Every
scrap of pain left him—he felt light enough to lift off the floor and float away. “Micah. Lance Corporal. Cee number—”

“What is today's date?”

Micah told him.

“Tell me about ‘we won.'”

Micah told him that, too.

 

My head
. Pounding.
My mouth
. Dry. Infested.

Micah opened his eyes.

Dream?
He'd had a number of those lately, each worse than the last. None with Pascal, though. A few with Veles. The same, over and over. Veles had the wafer, and he had chased Veles.

Wafer?
Micah turned over on his back. Regarded his room shadows, his dresser and armoire, flush against the wall like—

—
Veles.

Micah blinked.
We won! We won!
A cry in his head, over and over and over. He turned back on his stomach and buried his head in his pillow.

White room. Bare but for a table and three chairs. Pascal was there. Veles.

“Crappy dream.” Micah rose in stages—sat up, pushed his legs off the bed, stood. He didn't recall the walk home from work, yet here he was. He knew he had been at work, because he remembered Cashman hanging over the divider, asking him to cover the interview at—

—Dahlberg.

He stopped halfway to the bathroom. Looked down at himself, naked but for shorts. Worked his arms, and felt a stiff ache everywhere, a soreness in the bend of his right elbow.

A scene flashed. Pascal, dragging him down.

Micah raised his arm and forced himself to examine the spot. Nothing. Walked over to the freestanding lamp, cranked
the power to high, and twisted the gooseneck so the source shone full on his arm.

He saw it. Barely, at first, then large and red and pitted after he dug out the microspecs from his gearbag and slapped them on.

A pinprick wound. Like the one an injector would leave behind.

He pushed the lamp away so hard it rattled against the wall. Backpedaled until he hit the bed, then sagged down and clapped his hands over his ears as his brain broke open and the humiliation played again and again. Veles's snicker. The imager. That final takedown, struggling in Pascal's grip.

Pascal
.

Micah closed his eyes as other words played through his head, in a soft, accented voice that all the girls loved.

It's quite a game, isn't it? I've played it, too.

Micah bent forward, head between his knees. Covered his head with his hands, and still more words came.

Your story ends after you win, but what comes after? How do you get out? Do they ever tell you how you get out? Seems a bit shortsighted of the designers, don't you think? After all, the game doesn't end when the last shot is fired, but much, much later.

Then came the worst words of all.

If you want to talk about it, you know how to find me
.

Micah bounded to his feet. Paced the room. He thought
Flee
. He thought
We're blown
. He thought
They caught us
. “I have to tell—” He needed to warn everyone. In the next wafer. He'd stand up in the middle of class and piss off Chrivet one last time, announce to them all that they needed to run.