The Enclave (32 page)
The opening was so small he had to crawl on hands and knees to get through it, and the grating turned out to be a dead tree, whose sharp thorns and rough branches tore at his skin and cotton tunic as he pressed through it. Finally, though, he escaped its clutches and stood upright on a sloping, rocky surface. At first he had to clench his eyes shut and hold an arm up against them. Even then, the brightness flared white and yellow against the back of his eyelids. But after a while it didn’t seem so bad, and he pulled his arm away just a bit, slitted his eyes open, and peered around.
The space was horrifying. He stood at the midst of an expanse of heat and whiteness that sucked at him from every angle until he felt as if he would explode away into it. The brightness, the barren ground, the space, the heat . . .
Panic swooped upon him and he fled back through the dead tree’s thorny, grasping branches, wriggling through the hole, then running down the first passage and around the corner into the second—into the blessed velvety darkness from which he’d come. He fumbled on the hand lamp—which seemed a puny light indeed after what blazed on the surface—and kept going. He passed the bed on its metal frame, ducked under the straining wooden supports, and on down the increasingly narrow passages, his hand lamp flashing off a succession of oblong glowstones that guided him steadily downward. And all the while he felt the pain mount in his head, as his throat and lungs burned worse with every breath.
Neos had lied, not Father! The surface was everything the Elders had said it was: barren, burned, and poisoned. And now, for his foolishness he was dying. Unless he could get back to the infirmary before the poison spread and his organs began to shut down. . . .
He reached the small chamber where he’ d slept, clawed his way through the crawl tube, and rammed into the steel plate and metal drum that blocked the tube from the pump room. Hysterically he threw himself at the plate, smashing into it with shoulder and hands, toes dug into the rock floor as he shoved with every ounce of his strength. When it didn’t give an inch, he collapsed in despair, weeping bitterly. But as he regained his breath, his fear exploded again, driving him to shove himself at the plate, again and again and again.
How could he have been such a fool! Neos was dead. He’ d obviously imagined all of this, made his way to the surface somehow. He’ d gone out unshielded, and now the toxins were slowly frying him from head to toe.
I’m going to die!
Out of his mind with fear, driven by desperation, he kept on hitting and shoving at the plate. Finally it gave, just a bit. He shoved some more—shaking, sweating, his toes blistering from the repeated need to grip the rock and push, push, push.
Finally he’d moved it enough to slide his hand out and get hold of the plate’s edge. Slowly he worked it sideways until he made an opening large enough to squeeze through and wriggled out onto the pump room floor. Once he’ d caught his breath again, he stood and hurried past the red- and blue-lined pipes, still using the hand lamp, heading toward the door at the far side. Beyond it lay another room, then another door and another room. But finally he pressed through a third much heavier door and staggered into the light of a small finished corridor. He’ d made it!
And then he realized he still had no idea where he was.
Thirst clawed at his throat and glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He sagged against the wall, feeling dizzy and cheated. All that work for nothing. They would never find him in time. His lungs were on fire. His heart was beating so fast he thought it would come bursting from his chest at any moment. His vision was blurring, and the paralysis was setting in. . . .
He began to weep. “Oh, Father, what have I done?
What have I
done?
”
On Wednesday morning Cam sat in his usual place at Swain’s table, surrounded by a cacophony of breakfast chatter, with not one remark directed toward him—though many were undeniably about him.
It had been like this since Monday morning when he’ d walked into the dining hall and found himself greeted with such coolness from his co-workers, he feared his new alliance with Rudy had already been discovered. It was almost a relief to learn of the Saturday night fight he’d supposedly had with Manny Espinosa wherein he’ d murdered the postdoc and dumped his body in the desert.
Since it was more or less what Swain had predicted the rumor mill would produce, Cam wasn’t too concerned, knowing the arrival of Manny’s letter of resignation would set things straight.
Except it hadn’t arrived. Despite Cam’s faithful return Sunday night, Swain had not only withheld announcement of his “receipt” of the letter on Monday, but had been “forced” to notify the police of their missing postdoc after twenty-four hours.
The police had come to investigate that same Monday, questioning Cam in his glass-walled lab office in full view of his subordinates. Though completely innocent, he’d been so nervous and lied so poorly, his questioners left the interrogation convinced he was involved. But with no witnesses, no evidence of foul play, and no body, they could bring no charge of murder. Especially since Manny’s car and personal belongings were missing, too. And since he’ d certainly had motive to quit his position and walk away, they could only agree he’ d likely done so. Until something more turned up, that was how they would leave it.
But as of Wednesday morning, with the absolving resignation letter still missing, Cam was being avoided like the plague. His arrival inevitably cut off conversation and usually cleared the immediate area within five minutes. Swain himself hadn’t said one word to him, though they had shared every meal at the table in front of the stage for two days now. In fact, the director had never even looked at Cam, treating him as if he didn’t exist. The rest of his Inner Circle followed suit, except for Nelson Poe, who couldn’t seem to stop himself from answering Cam’s questions, even if his answers were mumbled monosyllables and he never made eye contact.
Since Cam knew Swain could have generated that letter whenever he wished—or released his incriminating video from the Vault’s loading dock the night Manny disappeared—it was obvious he intended this as punishment. Discipline for Cam’s having missed the director’s special Sunday afternoon security meeting, and for leading the blue Honda Accord nearly to Mexico before heading back to Kendall-Jakes. Cam suspected there was also the crime of telling Lacey McHenry the truth that night in the Madrona Lounge: her sudden transfer out of Cam’s department and into Gen Viascola’s on Monday morning had come as a genuine shock.
She worked on the sixth floor now, in Gen’s suite of offices and cubicles, developing a project for Swain. Should it be acceptable, the project would serve as her doctoral thesis in an adjunct mentoring arrangement K-J had allegedly made with the U of A Genetics department. Cam had found that notion so irregular, he’d called the university that same Monday to corroborate with the department head, a personal friend. Unfortunately, he’d been sent straight to voice mail, and as of yet, no one had returned his call.
With the exception of the brief walks she’ d taken around the campus each morning, Lacey’s new project had claimed her every waking moment. According to Jade, she divided her time between her new office and the staff library on the fourth floor, while living off vending machine food. And Cam couldn’t help but notice that not only had Swain isolated her, he’ d used her hope of fulfilling her abandoned dreams of gaining her doctorate to win her loyalty.
That he’d so swiftly pulled her into his web of influence might have been solely to ensure she didn’t guess the truth of what he was doing to Cam. Or it could be something else entirely. Rudy had said Swain seemed to be stepping up operations in various locations, so perhaps there was some overarching timetable driving the director’s actions.
Across the round table, Swain was pontificating to Slattery, Oscar Orozco, and Maia Ahmed-White, his immediate neighbors, about the importance of the open house set to begin in two days. Gen, who sat to Cam’s right, was in deep conversation with her other seatmate, Lee Yuen, while to Cam’s immediate left, Nelson Poe methodically ate his scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast, his normal melancholic mien downright gloomy today. His monosyllabic answers to the few questions Cam asked him soon discouraged further attempts, leaving Cam free to entertain his own thoughts.
With McHenry out of his reach for the moment, and his movements too closely watched to make snooping feasible, he’ d used the last two days to reintroduce himself to the ziggurat and its grounds, taking every reasonable opportunity to follow routes he’ d not yet traveled, or explore outbuildings and floors he’ d not yet visited. He’ d been careful not to make so great a change in his habits and activities as to draw undue attention, and in that regard was grateful for the rumors and false accusations, since they justified his avoidance of the more populous places he usually frequented.
He made a point now of noticing details of his environment he’ d not before, and over the last two days, the hyperawareness he’ d cultivated during his time in Afghanistan had returned with surprising ease and speed. Already it was almost second nature to note the positions of air vents, corridor intersections, camera positions, the locations of various supply and electrical closets, the people who used them, the routines of the service staff, and of the others with whom he interacted. He took note of the lay of the land in an active, inquiring way, noticed the relationship between roads and buildings and the surrounding hills and arroyos, even the weather and the vegetation, a myriad of details to be filed into his memory for potential use later.
Beyond this general reconnaissance, the only one of his goals currently achievable was snatching one of Swain’s eating utensils. Having decided on a fork, Cam had concluded it had to be taken at breakfast, that being the meal after which people—particularly Swain—were least likely to linger. He had picked up an unused replacement fork from one of the outlying tables at dinner last night. It now rested in the front right side pocket of his lab coat, awaiting the best combination of events to be put into play.
Crucial in that combination was that Swain leave before the servers cleared his place. Though yesterday he’ d sat and talked long after they’d done so, this morning Cam hoped—and prayed—he would adhere to his regular routine and leave swiftly. Having already gobbled down most of his breakfast, Cam dawdled now over his last few bites of pancake, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. Once the director left, Cam’s greatest challenge would be getting around the table to Swain’s place before the servers swooped in.
Feigning obliviousness, he listened intently as Swain went on about the various financiers crucial to K-J’s operation, who must be courted during the open house, a task he now assigned to Slattery, Orozco, and Ahmed-White. As the director’s words and tone wound down, Cam set down his coffee cup. Swain asked for questions. When no one spoke, he gave his underlings a nod, said good-bye, and left.
Immediately Cam grabbed his files and the used napkin they rested on and skirted the table. He reached the place a step ahead of a busboy, barging in front of the young man and laying his folders and napkin atop the fork he meant to take.
“Director Slattery,” he said as the assistant director laid his own napkin beside his plate. “I was wondering if I might have a word? This requisition order is only for—”
“Not now,” Slattery cut in, standing abruptly. “I have a security meeting.”
“It’s about my new frogs. I—”
But the AD was already turning away. “E-mail your concerns to Deena,” he said over his shoulder.
When Cam turned back to the table, he found himself being self-consciously ignored by his tablemates. Some were bending to pick up purses or briefcases, while others hurriedly arose to walk away, everyone keeping their eyes off him. Perfect.
He scooped up his folders, grabbing Swain’s fork through the napkin, stepped back quickly, and turned to walk away. To his horror the tablecloth came with him—glasses tumbled in fountains of water and leftover orange juice; plates and flatware slid away; coffee sloshed across the white linen and onto several of his tablemates. He let go of the tablecloth, napkin and fork, the latter falling to the floor. Immediately he bent to retrieve it as people swore in annoyance and the service staff came running. Somehow he managed to pocket the napkin-wrapped fork and drop to the floor the one he’ d stolen earlier before he was pressed aside by those trying to clean up his mess.
As he backed out of the chaos, he realized his little escapade had drawn every eye in the room. Embarrassment blazed in his face as he headed for the door and snickering arose in his wake.
Could you have been more inept?
he asked himself as he left the dining hall.
What was Rudy thinking? What was
I
thinking to imagine
I’m up to doing this sort of thing anymore?
He entered the men’s room just outside the dining hall, gave thanks that one of the two stalls was empty, and pushed into it. As he latched the metal door, a wave of trembling overtook him, and he sagged against the panel, waiting for it to pass.
