She took a long, deep breath. The right thing to do was to go back out and find the Security officer in charge of the operation and hand it to him, but she knew that doing the right thing wasn’t an option for her. Not this time. She needed to know what was in the package, and why a man should be willing to die to keep it from them.
She knew how they worked. Security would strip these levels bare to get what they wanted—would search each and everyone who went, herself included. But this time they would find nothing. Setting the parcel down, she took the sketchboard from about her neck and, balancing it on top of the seat, began to strip the inner workings from it. She had done it often enough when cleaning the machine, but this time she undertook the task in real earnest. As each piece of the delicate mechanism came loose, she lifted it and let it fall beside the grimy bowl. Then, when she was done, she forced the package into the central space and popped back the sketchboard’s screen. She took another long breath, calming herself. The machine looked no different. Only the discarded parts gave the game away, but there was nothing she could do about that. Audacity alone would save her now.
At the washroom door she paused, listening, then went out into the corridor again. There was shouting still, some distance off, but things seemed much calmer now. Quickly she turned right, making toward the big interlevel lift.
You’re mad, she told herself. There’s no reason for this. None at all. But she was in the grip of a compulsion. She had to get the package out. Suddenly it was as if she were Song Jiang himself, alone in the enemy camp with only his wits, his silver tongue, to get him out. “Nu Shi!”
She turned, facing back down the full length of the corridor. It was the young soldier from the guard post; the one who had been watching her. He came quickly toward her, then stopped, three paces away, his head bowed. “Are you all right, Nu Shi?”
Her mouth was dry, her hands, where they clutched the sketch-board to her chest, damp. She lowered her eyes and nodded, playing upon the vulnerability the guard clearly expected from her, exaggerating it, knowing instinctively that he was the key. “It was awful,” she said quietly, in an affected little-girl voice. “I thought I was going to die.”
“It’s all right,” the guard said, coming a pace closer, trying to reassure her, to comfort her without touching her, knowing—by her clothes, her manner—that she was far above him. “It’s all over. They got him. Look, I’ll see you to the transit, all right?”
“Thank you.” But inside she was burning with curiosity. How had they got him, and where? Was he alive or dead? Maybe they were questioning him right now, torturing him, perhaps, to get the truth from him. And if they were, they would come directly here and find the machine’s discarded workings and then . . .
“Come,” the young soldier said. “Let’s get you out of here.” She let him lead her out into the main feed corridor and along, past milling crowds of curious locals and down two flights of stairs to the bottom of the deck. There, in the crowded space before the interlevel transit, a barrier had been set up. In front of it a dozen guards formed a line, their riot helmets lowered, their heavy automatics held threateningly at waist level. Hannah’s heart began to beat furiously. To one side of the barrier an officer sat behind a desk, questioning an elderly Han. Hannah followed the young soldier across, close behind him as he pushed through the line, coming out at the side of the desk. The officer—a young man, in his mid-twenties—looked up at her quizzically, then turned to the young soldier, clearly angered at being interrupted. “What is it, Private Lauer?”
The young man stiffened slightly, then answered. “The Nu Shi here was caught up in things earlier. This isn’t her level, sir, and I thought—“ “Quiet!” The lieutenant turned to her. His voice had been hard, dispassionate. Now his eyes studied her face as if she were something strange and horrible; something he would like to crush beneath his heel. “Your pass, please,” he said coldly, his politeness masking what seemed a natural brutality.
Reaching into her jacket, she pulled out her pass and handed it to him, watching as he opened it and began to read. After a few seconds he looked up, surprised. Getting up, he went across to a second officer standing by the lift. The two spoke quietly for a moment, a hint of urgency about their whispering, then they came back. The second man, a Captain, stood to the fore, Hannahs pass between his hands. He looked at it once, checking the holophoto against her face, then gave a bow. “Forgive me, Nu Shi Shang. We had no idea that you were on this deck. If I had known, I would have assigned a squad to protect you.” He smiled weakly, then continued. “You must forgive me if I am constrained from explaining exactly what has been going on—I’m sure you understand—but if you would like an escort home?”
She looked past him at the lieutenant. The man’s eyes no longer met hers. Abashed, he looked to one side, his discomfort evident in the way he stood there.
“Thank you”—she glanced at the name tag at his neck—“Captain Johnson. I must admit, I feel rather shaken by events. I think it would be best if I did as you suggested.”
“Of course.” He bowed his head respectfully, then. “Forgive me, Nu Shi, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but what exactly were you doing at this level? It can be dangerous this far down, even at the best of times. I’d have thought your father ...”
He changed tack, as if mention of her father disturbed him. Then, remembering that he still held her pass, he stepped forward, offering it to her.
“I was sketching,” she said, taking the pass and slipping it back inside her jacket. “Drawing scenes from life down here. Usually my guard is with me, but he was ill today. I suppose I shouldn’t have come. There’s usually no trouble. Even so, I’ll not make the same mistake again, will I?” “No.” The Captain smiled, then turned, giving instructions to the lieutenant. With the briefest glance the young officer turned away and went across to speak to his guards.
“You must forgive his abruptness,” the Captain said quietly, leaning toward her, “but he lost two of his men today. This business ...” He shook his head. “Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Nu Shi Shang. I hope your drawings are satisfactory. Have you plans to publish them?” She kept her smile steady. “No. It’s only a hobby. Besides, they’re not that good.”
“Ah . . .” He straightened and, bowing his head smartly to her, took a step backward. “Well, if you would forgive me now, there’s much to do.” “Did you ... get him?”
He hesitated, meeting her eyes. “You saw him, then?” She nodded, remembering the sight of the man running, the way his red-gold hair had flowed out behind him as he fled, the fear in his ashen face. The Captain sighed. “We got him. I wanted him alive, of course, but he gave us no choice. As I said, we’d already lost two men, with another couple wounded. I couldn’t risk losing any more. Strange, though, I’d not have thought him the type.”