robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain (2 page)

Sorli had opened Pamela's eyes to the danger facing the world. He'd shown her its terrifying reality, and he'd offered her a chance to do something about it. But for all his help, Sorli remained an uncommunicative bastard. And he still had too many secrets. Like where some of the equipment for this transit web came from. And just how it did what it was supposed to do. She'd once maneuvered him into explaining the principles, but she'd had to cut him off before he'd gotten very far; she hadn't been able to tell whether he was bullshitting her or not. Had this been ordinary tech, she would have called in experts for verification; but there were no experts in this field.

Only Sorli.

She hated relying on him, but she found herself concerned that he survive this adventure.

"Ten seconds to insertion."

The right screen wall came to life as the team members activated the ComEye™ systems in their helmets. Twelve windows, one for each of the men, ranged in two rows; Sorli's window stood by itself to one side. Each ComEye view monitor showed what the man who wore it saw; a smaller window displayed telemetry: the man's vital functions and insertion suit status.

The ComEye command-control telemetry system was a Tsurei product and traceable to the Mitsutomo family, but no one made a better system. Pamela hadn't been willing to compromise the success of the mission by using an inferior product, even though the system could be connected to Mitsutomo. It was a popular system; lots of companies used it.

"Three seconds."

The mesh of the transit web glowed, pulsing with varicolored light flashing through its optical fiber cords.

Still
in
the stone. They'd succeeded. Arthur had not drawn the sword.

Or
had
they succeeded?

No one was reporting anything and the overhead view was maddeningly frustrating; all points and dots and lines. It wasn't
real.
The ComEye screens weren't helping much; the poor transmissions made it hard to reconcile the screen images with the map. The situation discomfited Pamela. "Have we got viriuality?"

Wilson checked his personal screen. "Insufficient certainty."

"Damn."

The pink dot labeled Arthur moved toward what she believed was Caliburn.
No!
Not when they were so close.

"Go, second team! Go!" she ordered.

McAlister led them through the gateway.

"We've got a weapon discharge," one of the techs said.

Pamela checked the map. The dot labeled Arthur had gone from pink to yellow, indicating a neutralized threat. The one labeled Black was flashing back and forth between pink and yellow. Two of the unnamed pink dots disappeared.

The pictures on the ComEye pov screens remained poor, confusing images and strange shadowy shapes. Flickers of light flashed in some. The static on the speakers stuttered. The rhythm had the regularity of automatic weapon fire.

"That's not one of ours," Five said.

Sorli's voice broke through the static. "We've only got one shooter. Team one, give fire. Team two, rush him."

Pov monitor screens lit with fire as thunder rolled through the speakers.

An explosion!

Four of the ComEye monitors went black at once. Dead men. McAlister tumbled out of the milkiness and landed sprawled on the ready platform. Sorli's arm, shoulder, and part of his head thrust through into the insertion chamber. On one of the ComEye screens a silhouetted shape flailed against a disk of dazzling brightness. Sorli's arm was outstretched; his hand brushed against the edge of the gate. He screamed, the sound broadcast by his helmet mike
and
the

pickups in the insertion chamber. Then the hand and arm were sucked into the rainbow and out of sight. The flailing figure on the ComEye screen vanished into the brilliant disk.

Pamela checked Sorli's monitor. Unlike those of the men who had died, Sorli's monitor wasn't black. That meant he wasn't dead, didn't it? A second look made her question her assumption; the life sign status bars remained steady, showing none of the fluctuations of pulse and respiration. The comEye pov screen was a steady, formless gray.

"What's happened to Sorli?"

No one answered her. No one moved. The control room seemed frozen in time.

"Wilson, what's happened to Sorli?"

"I don't know." The operations officer sounded stunned.

This wasn't the way the mission was supposed to go. It wasn't supposed to be so costly.

Pamela read the name from the monitor that had shown Sorli's disappearance while she wrenched Wilson's microphone toward her. "Jensen, what's going on?"

Nothing.

She needed to know. "Jensen, answer me!"

"Transmitter link is down," Wilson said.

She didn't want to hear that.

Jensen's voice still came through the speaker. "Set up a left sweep." He was giving orders to his team. Pamela backhanded Wilson's shoulder.

"I thought you said the link was down. How come we can still hear them?"

Wilson shrugged. "Computer says link is down."

"Damn the computer! I want to talk to them."

"Shit!" Jensen again. "He's got the sword!"

It couldn't be! Pamela eyes snapped to Jensen's monitor. The pov screen showed a fuzz-edged man-shape wielding a sword. The sword slashed down and the screen went dark. Jensen's life sign bars shortened and dropped to nothing.

The audio transmissions from the insertion team were suddenly clear. Shouts, screams, and gunfire filled the control room.

Two more monitors went dark.

Pamela was terrified. What was happening? Sorli kept too many secrets. Now he was gone and things had gone sour. What would happen now? Everything was in chaos. Everything was falling apart.

No!

Panic wouldn't help. Panic never helped. She had to get a grip. Someone had to take charge or everything
would
fall apart. She locked up her fear.

"Bring them back," she ordered. "Use the rebound code."

"Don't have to." Wilson pointed at the ready platform. "Look!"

Two stocky figures emerged from the milkiness and collapsed on the platform. One sprawled atop McAlister's prone and bloody form.

Three. Only three had come back.

And Arthur had the sword.

Very bad.

An alarm began to hoot.

"Shut the grid down!" Wilson shouted. "Shut it down before it overloads."

The technicians responded with frantic activity. The rainbow ring contracted. She watched the slowly shrinking circle with dread. As the rainbow closed off the whiteness, someone standing behind her cleared his throat.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone there. She turned.

A tight knot of business-suited men stood facing her. The Mitsutomo pin gleamed from each lapel. None of the faces were friendly, and she recognized the foremost one.

Ryota Nakaguchi.

She swallowed hard. Nakaguchi was a
kansayaku,
officially a free-roaming auditor for the corporation, but in reality a hatchet man. Nakaguchi was rumored to have direct access to Mitsutomo-sama himself. He was the old man's facilitator; he also cleaned up messes. Efficiently. More than one departmental chiefs head had rolled under his hatchet. Until now, she had thought her position as head of North American Group made her immune to Nakaguchi.

Something exploded beyond the Perspex wall; she could hear fragments pelting the barrier. She was afraid to look. Nakaguchi's cold eyes told her she was not immune.
"Konichiwa,
Ms. Martinez. I believe you have some explaining to do."

CHAPTER

1

It was Friday night and the Rezcom 3 mall was busy, which was just the way he hoped it would be. He was a little worried about being recognized, but not much. It had been almost a year since he'd been here. He dressed differently now and wore his hair differently, too. It would take more than a casual glance to recognize the John Reddy who used to live here. But then, he wasn't that John Reddy anymore. That John Reddy had been buried after being killed in a break-in at the Woodman Armory Museum, where he had worked as a security guard. It had been in all the local media and it was in the police files. Condolences due to the bereaved mother for her son gone to join his long-dead father.

Condolences were a bit premature.

There were lots of people thronging the mall, too many for the security guards to watch individually. He was just one among many. He walked casually, trying not to make it obvious that he was headed for the doors to the south residential tower. No one accosted him. No one called out his name in shock or surprise.

He felt a little disappointed.

He felt a lot more disappointed when he reached the entry to the tower. He'd been hoping someone would have propped the door open, a common occurrence on a hopping Friday night. It wasn't. It was shut, sealed. On the wall beside it, the brushed metal and plastic screen of the security panel gleamed softly. The computer behind the security system glared at him with the brazen red eye of the active light. It would know who he was if he put his hand on the recognition panel, a necessary step in activating the system. The computer didn't care about his new clothes and haircut.

The problem was that he didn't want to tell the computer he was here. The computer was Mitsutomo. He had no interest in letting the paternal corporation know its prodigal son had returned.

Standing around dithering was only going to attract attention. Just in case someone had noticed him stop, he looked around, switching the line of his gaze randomly and trying to look like a fuzzed-out kid who'd just happened to stop in front of the access corridor. He shuffled away, walking a little unsteadily to keep up the illusion.

lust in case.

It might be, probably was, pointless, but he did it anyway. He had taken too long to screw up enough courage to come back here to have it blown just because he was an amateur at this sneaking and poking stuff.

On his third pass near the corridor, he spotted a couple of mainline straightline wage slave types just as they took the turn. He angled his path and started down the corridor just about the time they reached the door. Still looking at his pal, one of them pressed his hand against the recognition panel. The other caught sight of John approaching.

John saw the calculation in the man's eyes. What was he facing here? A scuzzy kid coming home, or a mugger? Or worse, a street kid about to lay guilt on them for their well-earned, easy lifestyles and ask for a handout?

John didn't look Mr. Corporate in the eyes. No threat, Mister. Just a kid. Don't want nothing from you.

Except that you hold the door.

John was close enough, and the man's corporate politeness made him hesitate just long enough that John grabbed the door before it clicked shut.

"Sorry," Mr. Corporate said. His smile was full synthetic and vanished faster than Foamnut™ packing in a heavy rain.

"Null," John replied.

The street slang got a twitch from Mr. Corporate and his pal. Mr. C was thinking he'd miscalculated and should have shut the door. His pal was clearly feeling the same way. They were two to John's one but they were still edgy. Too safe, I hey were. Entirely too safe.

He gave them a grin, showing a little teeth. Not mainline straightline safe, the smile said. They twitched.

The elevator car arrived and Mr. Corporate's pal slipped in and punched the door closed. The closing panels nipped Mr. C's heels as he boarded. John let them go; they'd had their thrill for the day. He took the stairs.

The stairway didn't have buttons to push that might get logged in the computer. The well was all concrete, with steel handrails and steel steps. It was all echoes and chill. He paced himself going up, knowing it was a long climb. No need to rush. Not now.

On the twenty-third floor landing he stopped, staring at the big "23" painted on the concrete. He could see the faint outline of black that had once closed up the three and turned it into an eight. That had been Yael's idea. How long ago? A lifetime. He wasn't a kid anymore.

At least not that kind of kid.

Too bad.

He tugged on the fire door and froze before he'd gotten it more than a couple inches open. An elevator was arriving in the lobby, the doors already opening. It couldn't be his bad luck that those two wage slaves lived on twenty-three. No, ihey'd have reached it a long time ago if they had. He caught sight of a bent figure with a familiar shuffle, ft was worse: Mr. Johnson, a neighbor who knew him. He let the door slip closed, holding on to make sure it would be quiet.

John gave the man time to make his way to his door, more time to open it and go inside, and a little more time just to be sure. He was certain Mr. Johnson would recognize him, and he didn't want to be recognized. When he thought he'd waited long enough, he headed down the corridor Mr. J had taken. He didn't count doors or look at apartment numbers; he knew exactly how many steps it took. He stood, at last, in front of the door.