A brown-haired man in a courier’s jacket came around the corner. Both his hands were jammed in his pockets. He didn’t seem the least bit interested in the exhibit, not sparing it a single look.
“Impressive,” the man said. He stood with his legs slightly apart, and Mallowes sensed the tension running through the newcomer’s body. He jerked his head at Agnes, and she slowly stood.
“Yes,” Mallowes said, “they are. Some very capable scientists.”
“Not them,” the newcomer said. “You two.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that you didn’t miss a beat. You picked up that conversation like all that stuff in the middle didn’t happen. The trouble is,” he said, looking slowly back and forth between Mallowes and Agnes, “it did.”
“I’m not quite sure…”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good device,” the man said. “The problem is, the people who made it knew how to break it. So they put your disc on the general market, and then put a way to break the shield in some back channels, pricing it for ten times what your device costs. Selling both the disease and the cure—nice little racket. You’ve gotten by for a while, you see, because barely anyone has the cure. But a few of us do.”
Mallowes didn’t need to hear anymore. He feinted forward, just enough to make the man flinch, then darted into the corridor behind him. The man tried to draw the weapon Mallowes knew was in his pocket, but Agnes was quicker. She was on him instantly, and they tussled on the museum floor.
The fight wouldn’t last long, Mallowes knew. Agnes might have fared well in an even fight, but museum security would detect the scuffle and arrive too quickly for her to make her escape. She’d be tied up for a while. For too long. He cursed silently. He’d have to move down to the next name on his list.
But first he had to get out.
He emerged from the exhibit’s exit at a brisk walk. He disliked it, but he was forced to take the catwalk to the stairs—there was no time to wait for an elevator.
The catwalk seemed to sway beneath his feet. The light breeze from the heating system suddenly seemed to grow stronger. Mallowes’ legs became wobbly.
He was almost to the staircase when thudding footsteps made him jump backward. The catwalk’s low railing caught him at his thighs, and, for a brief moment, he mentally saw himself pitching over and falling five stories. But he caught himself as two security guards ran past him, and he proceeded down the staircase.
He walked as quickly as he could without running. The guards would be with Agnes very shortly and the courier, if he were still alive, would start talking.
Agnes had better not fail him.
He wound down the increasingly narrow stairway, the final twists making him slightly dizzy. But then his feet hit the carpeted floor of the entry hall.
The entrance was just ahead. No one stood between him and freedom except for the attendant. The guards must have gone to investigate the disturbance.
He pushed forward, one hand in his pocket, preparing to grab his phone and make the next call. Just as soon as he was out.
To his right, his mind registered the soft chime announcing an elevator’s arrival. A voice followed the chime.
“That’s enough, Senator.”
Had it just been the voice of a security guard, Mallowes would have hurried on. But the shock of recognition, the surprise of hearing that voice here, stopped him in his tracks. He turned, and saw the wrong end of a revolver held by Heather GioAvanti.
His shoulders slumped. A vision of a million humiliations that would now be his swamped his mind. But that vision could not push away the sight of the gun staring him down.
In her other hand, GioAvanti held a small parabolic dish. A long needle extended from the center of it like a stiletto. He knew it immediately for what it is.
GioAvanti followed his glance. “A handy device,” she said. “Cuts through static fields like sunlight through a window.” She smiled, and Mallowes didn’t find it the least bit charming. “You just have to know where to point it.”
The second elevator chimed. The courier, bleeding from a cut under his eye but otherwise functional, walked out first. Two guards, carrying a shackled and unconscious Agnes, followed.
GioAvanti glanced at her. “I hope she wakes up soon. We have a lot to talk about.” Then she turned to Mallowes. “In the meantime, though, I’m sure you’ll be interesting enough.”
52
St. Croix Warehouse, Geneva
Terra, Prefecture X
20 December 3134
The day of the election dawned gray. Heather wished she knew what Mallowes and his companion were saying, but she’d been forced to leave them soon after bringing them in. Jonah promised he’d notify her immediately if anything relevant to her side of the investigation came up, and she returned to her makeshift headquarters.
Duncan’s eyes lit up immediately as soon as she entered.
“Paladin GioAvanti! Where have you been? I have information on eight groups, all of whose name starts with the word ‘Stone,’ a leadership change in the Brothers of the Blood, rumors of Stormhammers approaching Terra…”
She turned rapidly and was stunned to feel her knees creak beneath her. She was forty-six years old and hadn’t slept in two days—she felt like age was asserting itself.
“I have very limited time and even less patience,” she said as kindly as possible. “I only want to hear about things pertaining to the Kittery Renaissance. Everything else—and I mean everything —will wait.”
“Yes, Paladin.”
“Do you have anything on the KR?”
“No, Paladin.”
“Then find something!”
Watching Duncan scurry away was almost as gratifying as the expression on Mallowes’ face when the elevator opened.
She hurried into the conference room, where Rick Santangelo held a noteputer in one hand, a phone in the other, and was attempting to press a few keys on a desktop computer with his elbow.
“What do you mean there’s a warehouse you didn’t know about? How do you lose track of your own warehouses?” He waited for the other party to speak. “I don’t care if you own them or rent them! I don’t care if you’re stealing the space! You should keep track of where you store your goods!”
Heather extended her arms, palms down, trying to signal to Santangelo to calm down. He noticed her gesture and his voice became a bit less intense.
While he talked, she slipped the noteputer out of his hand and reviewed his notes. Troop availability for the next morning. It was sparse, but would have to do.
After a few moments, he finished his conversation, disconnected the call and took a deep breath.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
Looking at his bloodshot eyes and fevered air, she replied “I think I have some idea. How much time do we have?”
“Just over twelve hours.”
“And how much time do we need?”
“Twenty, twenty-five hours maybe.”
“Just the way I like it.”
The time seemed to move slowly as Heather pushed through the weariness, but when the moment came for her to ascend to the cockpit of her Spider she found herself alert, tense and wishing she could have another hour to prepare.
She powered up the cockpit communications links and checked in. Altogether Santangelo had come up with two squads of hastily borrowed militia infantry—twenty-four troopers, not counting herself and her two Knights—all mounted on hoverbikes and armed with pulse rifles, plus a Shandra scout vehicle and a Fox armored car. Every other police and militia unit was involved with security, crowd control or the pursuit of other rumors.