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Chapter 29

"Come with us, please."

Pali looked up into the face of Sergeant Dorfer, who was flanked by two uniformed officers. "Excuse me?" she said.

"I asked you to come with us," Dorfer repeated, his voice developing an edge.

"May I ask what for?" Pali felt her stomach knotting. She looked past him and saw that they had an audience—several of the women of her department peering in from the reception area. Where was Kyd? Pali hadn't seen her all day. She gestured to her desk. "I have a lot of work to do here, as you can see. If you'll just tell me—"

"You're under arrest for sabotage, conspiracy to commit sabotage, and concealment of evidence."

"Ah." The knot in her stomach tightened. "I see." She felt herself stalling—knowing as she did so that there was nothing to be gained. "You're putting me under arrest," she repeated.

"That's what I said. Now please come."

"Of course." She rose dizzily. As she walked through the outer office she said to her secretary, "Marge, would you call Russell Thurber and tell him that I've been detained by these gentlemen?"

Marge nodded and hurried away. "And cancel my appointments for the afternoon," Pali called after her. Then she shrugged and stalked out of the office, followed by the three officers.

 

* * *

 

The ComPol detention area was silent. From her cubicle, Pali could see a short hallway ending at a green soundproof door. They hadn't brought her any food, so it must not be noon yet. She'd been questioned twice already, and twice she'd answered the questions, pleading that no crime had been committed. How had it come to this? she wondered despairingly. She'd only been trying to do her job. That was surely down the drain now—along with her project. Were Sage and Ramo really corporate saboteurs, as the ComPol seemed to believe? She couldn't believe it. Whatever had happened on that strange evening, she was certain that they hadn't intended harm.

But could she still trust her own ability to judge character? Heaven knew she had enough mistakes in her past. Take David, who'd walked out on her less than a year after Gregory had died. Or Russell, who was supposed to have been keeping the stupid ComPol off her back. Had she judged Russell's character when she'd gotten involved with him? Actually, yes, she'd gone ahead impulsively, thinking that some love was better than none. And why think of Russell now? Because he was supposed to get you sprung out of here. "Where are you, Russell?" she murmured, staring at that silent green door. "Just where the hell are you?"

 

* * *

 

The door opened when lunch arrived, and when an officer came to remove the tray, and once more when another officer brought her a cup of moke and asked if she had a family who ought to be notified and nodded sympathetically when she said no. The officer stayed awhile and eventually got around to asking, almost casually, if she really wouldn't rather come clean and tell them what had really happened—and he was in her mind before she had so much as an inkling that he was a psych-scanner.

What did they do to the system?

The pressure in her head made her wince. I don't know!

Tell me where they've gone.

I don't—

Where's Kyd Metango?

Her anger flared. I have rights!

There was a lance of pain in her skull. She screamed and threw the hot moke in his face. Sputtering and dripping black liquid, the officer staggered out, and left her shaking with rage and fear.

What in God's name was happening? She wasn't even trying to resist. Why wouldn't anyone believe her?

A while later, the door opened again. It was Russell. She stood up and embraced him silently, trembling against his reassuring shoulder. "I would have been here sooner," Russell said, "but I've been trying to get through to somebody who would listen to reason." He gazed at her sympathetically. "Have they been treating you okay?"

"Oh—just great. They only tried to mind-rape me, but other than that, no problem. They serve good moke here." She gestured at the dark stain on the floor.

Russell cleared his throat. "Yes, I heard there was a . . . an incident."

"Incident? Is that what they call it? How about invasion of privacy and suspension of rights?" she snapped. She realized that Russell was looking at her oddly. "You don't think I was the instigator!"

"Oh, no no no," Russell said. He smiled an embarrassingly phony smile, and she felt her stomach drop. "It's just—"

Her voice hardened in self-defense. "Just what?"

"Just . . . that I don't quite understand why you don't cooperate with them. I mean, you have nothing to hide, do you? They already know what happened to the system, so there's no reason to keep that from them."

"I'm not hiding anything from them. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Yours, of course. It's not a matter of taking sides. I'm just saying you'd be in less trouble if you leveled with them completely."

"Meaning you think I'm lying?"

Russell's eye twitched. "No, but . . . I think you might try to help them find the others. It makes them appear guilty—"

"I don't know where they are! Is that so hard to understand?"

"Now, Pali, don't—"

"Don't 'Now, Pali' me!" she said dangerously. She glared. "I thought you were going to help me with the ComPol."

"Well, I tried, but . . . you know, it's not that clear. That is . . ." He paused, flustered. "It would help if you at least told me where Kyd is. That way—"

"Russell!"

"Anyway, they're pretty well closing in on Romano and DeWeiler, you know." His voice trailed off as he looked away.

"No, I don't know! Are you working for them now? Did they send you in here?" Her hands throbbed, and she pressed them to her sides to still them. To keep them from committing violence.

"Of course not," he said weakly. "I'm just trying to do what's best."

"And what's that, Russell? What exactly have you told them?"

"Nothing. Not much at all," he said, obviously lying and hating himself for it. You pitiful bastard, she thought without pity. His fingers were twitching now, groping for a cigarette he didn't have. "But if you give them something, they'll make it easier for you," he muttered.

"What'd they do to you, Russell? How'd they get to you?" she said, her voice low. "Did they threaten you with your job?"

Russell stiffened, his face darkening. For a moment their gazes locked, and Pali, if she could, would have strangled him with her eyes. Finally he said, "There's no cause to—"

"Get out," she said.

"But Pali—"

"Get out!"

He turned to the door. "I'll . . . do what I can at the other end," he mumbled. The door shimmered to let him pass.

"Don't bother," she whispered, sinking back onto the bench seat. Tears were coming finally, and there was no reason any longer to hold them back. "You spineless son of a bitch, just don't bother!"

 

* * *

 

The room was in what appeared to be some sort of military installation, and the agent's name was Mike. Ramo was comfortable enough and the guards were treating him decently, but he missed Silver and Odesta's house. He'd been whisked away in the middle of a great confusion—Sage gone, apparently skipped out in the middle of the jamdam—only to be piled into the back seat of a van and flown to heaven-knew-where by a couple of guys who didn't believe in making conversation. He hadn't even been given a chance to say goodbye to Silver.

And Sage had gone off and left that nice young girl Elina frantic with worry and bawling her eyes out. What sense did it make?

And what sense did it make for him to be sitting here, twiddling his thumbs, while every once in a while someone came in and either asked him a couple of questions or else assured him that soon someone else would?

Crazy.

The door opened and Mike came in, followed by a man in a grey suit. "Someone here to talk to you," Mike said. "Got a minute to spare?"

"Time on my hands," Ramo said. "What'll it be today?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "I'd like to ask you about your episode with the McConwell gnostic system. And I'll start by reminding you that this is a very serious matter. Not just to the McConwell Company, but to the government, as well."

Ramo sighed wearily. "Sure enough. What do you want to know?"

 

* * *

 

"I can't help it how upset they are," Katzen said to his aide. "If they hadn't sent one of their goons out after him, it never would have happened. Tell them to be more careful."

"George, they understand that. What they're upset about is the gnostic system and the fact that we've got the only guys who know what happened to it. They think we're trying to pull something, and just using the law as an excuse."

"Bull." George Katzen stabbed a finger at his assistant. "In case they haven't heard, there's a war on—and that gives us prior claim. On this one, the Old Man isn't going to give. McConwell can scream all they want."

"Great. Will the Old Man back us up?"

"He has no choice," Katzen said. "The system's critical. He has to know what's going on, and DeWeiler's the key. The system actually contacted DeWeiler at the safe house, through what was supposed to be a foolproof screen."

"So is he going to interview DeWeiler?"

"I think so. I finally convinced his staff that it was important enough to affect the outcome of the war. So now that they're convinced, they say no prior briefing. They want him to sweat a little."

"And meanwhile, the rest of us sweat along with him."

Katzen nodded. "And wonder what the hell that crazy gnostic system is doing to our war."

 

* * *

 

For Sage, imprisonment was not so much a cause for outrage as for puzzlement. He still didn't know exactly whose prisoner he was. He was being held in a comfortable enough room—cell, really—but nothing had been explained to him, nor had he been questioned except by a doctor, asking if he still felt any dizziness after the blow to his head. In a way, it was a relief, not having to talk or be bothered about anyone else, but the solitude was beginning to wear. He almost wished that someone would charge him with a crime, to break the monotony.

He gathered that he was being held by federal agents, rather than by the ComPol. Whether he was being held for the ComPol, he didn't know. He'd assumed so, until he'd heard someone referring to "the ComPol goon who was shot"—which, among other things, caused him to wonder if maybe the Company and the government were more at odds than he'd thought. One heard stories of power struggle and conspiracy, but he'd always dismissed them as fantasy. Still . . . that man getting shot had been no fantasy. Could he really have been a ComPol agent—shot down by the feds? Sage found it hard to believe that he was that valuable a prisoner.

And what of Ramo? Was he still at Silver and Odesta's house, dancing nonstop? Or had he too been whisked away in a van? And Silver, saving his life only to dump him into the hands of the feds: was he a protector or betrayer? Sage didn't know whether to feel ashamed, or proud, for at least making the attempt to save himself. Except . . . when he thought about Elina, left waiting, wondering . . .

Guilt made a poor cell mate, so he tried to keep his thoughts free of it, tried to think of Kyd and Pali working to get them free. Tried. The truth was, he knew, that they were in deep trouble and it was fundamentally his fault. None of this would have happened if he hadn't been so clever, so willing to fiddle and tinker with the system. He could have said no to the core.

He hadn't, though.

Overhead, there was a shiny grid of wire embedded in the ceiling, flush with the surface. He lay on his bunk staring up at it as he thought. He assumed that it was part of the security field, and possibly a listening device as well, and he began having silent conversations with it, asking it when he was going to get out of here and whether he was ever going to see his coworkers again. Are you in there, core, can you reach this far? It was the washbasin in the corner that answered him, with its plink ploink plink and an occasional rumble deep in its throat. The answer was interesting but uninformative, and if the grid was offering a better answer, it was doing it like some elusive god, in cryptic silent riddles.

He was half asleep, hands interlocked behind his head, gazing up at the grid, when he heard footsteps and voices. The door shimmered clear and two of his keepers entered. "Let's go," one of them said.

Sage raised his head. "Exercise time? Let's just skip it, okay? Say I have indigestion."

"Put your shoes on. You're going for a ride."

Sage sat up. "Where to?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"You don't expect me to go out in these clothes, do you?" He plucked at his denim prison shirt. His own clothes had been taken away, supposedly to be cleaned.

The guard grinned. "Don't worry, handsome, we'll bring your tux along." He laughed and clapped Sage on the shoulder. Sage winced and followed them out the door.

 

* * *

 

The patrol car was climbing too steeply for a simple crosstown trip. Sage knocked on the partition and shouted, "Where are you taking me?" There was a small window through which he could see the driver and an officer in the front seat, but they ignored him.

Sage sighed and sat back. At least it was a car and not a van, and it was clean, which counted for something. But the windows were opaqued. There was nothing to do but wait the ride out. If only he could stop thinking. Where would federal agents be taking him? For psych-scan? He hadn't refused to answer any questions; they hadn't asked him any. Were they trying to make him crack by keeping him in the dark? If so, they were doing a good job. He was ready to talk to anyone. Eventually he just put his head back and closed his eyes and listened to the drone of the motors.

He woke with a crick in his neck as the car shuddered, descending. He had no idea how long they'd been airborne. He listened to the motors whining down as the power was cut and tried to peer through the partition window, but that too had been switched to opaque. He felt the car touch down and drive awhile over pavement; then it descended a long ramp before finally rolling to a stop. When the guards opened the doors, he stepped out into a parking garage just like the one they'd left from.

The destination was a small, windowless apartment in what appeared to be the basement of a large building. It was comfortably furnished, with the sorts of wall holos and lamps one might expect in a moderately priced hotel. He peered into the two bedrooms and glanced at his guards. "Don't wear out the carpet pacing," one of them said. "Why don't you rest? You're going to need it in a while. The small room is yours."

Sage stared for a moment, then stalked into the bedroom and thumped the wooden door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

There was a knock on the door. "Package for you," he heard. He rolled off the bed and trudged out and found his clothes, cleaned and pressed, draped over a chair. Without a word he picked them up, went into the bathroom and showered, and came out again, tossing his "borrowed" clothes into a corner. He was instructed to sit and wait. He did so, and finally there was a call, and one of the guards hooked a thumb toward the door.

"Where are we going?" Sage asked, mostly out of habit. They went down a corridor to a lift tube, up a dozen floors, down another hallway and into a far more luxurious lift tube fitted with leather and polished brass. The two guards flanked him in silence as they shot up another hundred floors. The Company headquarters? Sage wondered. When the lift opened, they walked down an impressive, almost regal corridor toward a large set of stained oak doors. A uniformed military officer stood watch outside. Not the Company headquarters.

The officer pulled open the door.

Sage walked forward, blinking. The room was magnificent. Cream-colored deep-pile carpeting stretched from wall to wall. There was a huge antique desk, potted plants, varnished mantels—and windows! Sunlight filled the room, pouring in through floor-to-ceiling panes, beyond which was a rooftop garden. Sage drew a deep breath and turned, absorbing the luxuriance. He was startled to see, standing with a group of men near the window, someone he knew.

It was Kyd. She detached herself from the group and came toward him. His breath caught, and for a moment it was all he could do to stand. "Kyd?" he whispered. She looked wonderful and aloof at the same time; she was severely dressed, in a grey business suit. "Are you—are we—?" His thoughts were spinning. What was she doing here? What was this? He struggled to breathe; air rasped into his throat and he tried to blurt out his confusion, but his voice failed.

Kyd took his arm gently and propelled him forward. "Sage, I just found out they were bringing you. Come on, let me introduce you."

"But where—?"

"Sage, I'm sure you recognize—"

At that moment he awoke and realized where he was, because there was a man in that group whose face he had seen in holos a thousand times: the tanned Latin features, the smiling eyes . . . except that now they weren't smiling. ". . . Secretary Martino," Kyd was saying.

Edward Martino: the Secretary of the United Americas. In name, at least, the most powerful man in the hemisphere and possibly the world. "Uh—" Sage stammered. "Mr. Secretary?" He tentatively extended a hand, then drew it back quickly.

"Mr. DeWeiler," the Secretary said, ignoring the hand. "My aides—Mr. Juarez, Mr. Diekmann, Mr. Clancy. And Mr. Katzen." Sage nodded, blinking, only half catching the names. His head was buzzing. Martino was still talking, but he was too bewildered to understand. Something about Kyd, what Kyd had told them . . .

He struggled to focus, to hear the words.

". . . tell us everything you know about the McConwell Company's gnostic intelligence. What you've learned from it, and what you've done to it."

"But I—I don't—"

"Everything, DeWeiler. Everything."

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