Fortress of Lies mda-8 Page 15

  He drained his own glass, poured another. “I want to believe you.”

  “What was between us was real, Erik. Please believe me. It still is.”

  “This changes everything,” he said.

  She hung her head. “I know. I’m sorry, Erik. I can’t help what I am, any more than you can. People like us, we’re never really free. We’re always beholden to someone.”

  The words were especially bitter, because they were true. Yet what could he do? Uncle Aaron, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, the Capellan spy. There would always be lingering doubts.

  The Sandovals didn’t even trust each other. There was certainly no reason to trust an outsider, a spy, a Cappie.

  Part of him wanted to stay in the trap, to let the accord run its long and unnatural course, while he spent his nights in Elsa’s arms. But it would only be prolonging the agony.

  He was trying to think of something to say, when there was a rumble like thunder, and the room trembled. They both looked around.

  Elsa looked at him. “What was that?”

  Another rumble, louder this time. Then another sound—a siren of some sort. Though he’d never heard it, he thought he knew what it was. He grabbed Elsa by the hand and pulled her up and out of the room. “We have to get somewhere safe.”

  The main dining room was in chaos—people scrambling out the door without paying, the staff in confusion. Through the row of windows across the front they could see people running down the street in both directions.

  “I don’t understand,” said Elsa. “What’s happening?”

  There was a flash in the sky outside, followed moments later by the sound of an explosion.

  “My God,” she said. “It can’t be.”

  He looked at her. “The Cappies really didn’t tell you, did they? Didn’t warn you?”

  She shook her head.

  “War,” he said, “has come to Shensi.” Another explosion, and the floor shook. “These are the people you’re working for,” he said.

  She seemed genuinely surprised. He felt sorry for her.

  A louder explosion, frighteningly close. Then the whole front of the restaurant seemed to light up, and the noise hit them like an invisible hammer, as every window in the building shattered.

  10

  CONTROLLER: Attention, unauthorized spacecraft: You have entered the Shensi atmosphere without clearance. You are not cleared to enter the Whitehorse-controlled air zone.

  [Static]

  CONTROLLER: Unidentified spacecraft, you are ordered to turn right on a heading of one-eighty degrees and proceed to the Chung Military Airfield, where you will land and surrender yourself. If you do not turn, air defenses have been activated, and use of deadly force is authorized. [Unintelligible] I don’t think they’re listening! Do those missile batteries still work?

  —Shensi Planetary Traffic Control transcript

  La Cuisine Traditionnelle

  Whitehorse, Shensi

  Prefecture V, The Republic

  21 November 3134

  Erik peered out from behind the table he’d overturned as a shield. Through the broken windows he could see people screaming, running—some of them covered with blood. He knelt down to check on Elsa, who cowered next to him—scratches on her face, a cut on her right cheek. “Are you all right?”

  She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, as though he were speaking some alien language. Then it finally seemed to register. “I’m fine.” She laughed nervously, almost hysterically. “No, I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m hurt.” She brushed the hair out of her face, and was shocked to see blood on her hand.

  He took her hand in his. “It’s just a scratch. Listen to me. Listen carefully. Unless you seriously believe your friends know not to drop a missile on your head, you have to get off-planet. Now. There will be a rush on the spaceport as foreigners try to leave, but you can find passage on a ship before it’s too late.”

  “What? Why? My apartment—”

  “Forget it. If things calm down you can send for your things. Don’t even go back there unless you have some cash hidden—and I think you might. If you’re really a spy, you’ll have a bug-out kit with money and travel papers stashed somewhere. But I’m not sure you’re that much of a pro. Just go. This planet isn’t safe anymore.”

  She clutched at him. “Come with me!”

  He looked off in the direction of the Capitol Building, already planning. “I can’t. Wait here.”

  He scrambled back to their table and dug through the mess of broken dishes and fallen ceiling tiles to find the envelope that Kinston had given him. He duck-walked back to where Elsa was hiding.

  “Erik, where are you going?”

  “There may still be something to salvage here. I’m going to try, anyway.” He looked at her. “You can tell that to your employers if you talk to them again.”

  She looked hurt. He wanted to take back the words, but it was too late.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. Maybe this just wasn’t meant to be.”

  More explosions, distant, possibly from across town. The lights flickered and went out. “Come on.”

  He grabbed her arm, half guiding, half dragging her out of the building. They ran down the street—Erik on the outside, pushing her close to the buildings.

  Aerospace fighters flashed overhead, and he saw missile tracks scribbled across the sky. They crossed a street, and he got a clear look at the Capitol Building, the three domes over the rotunda burning and half-collapsed.

  An unfamiliar car, dodging rubble in the street, screeched to a halt in front of them, one wheel up on the curb. The door opened. Lieutenant Clayhatchee was driving.

  “Commander! Get in! Your driver ran off when the bombing started, but I knew you’d be here.”

  “Where did you get the car?”

  He grinned and held up his side arm. “I charged it to diplomatic immunity, sir!”

  “Good work, Lieutenant. There’s a medal in this if I have anything to do with it!” He pushed Elsa into the car, but didn’t follow her.

  Clayhatchee was confused. “Sir, aren’t you coming?”

  Elsa stared at him. “Erik!”

  He leaned in and kissed her hard.

  “Get her to the spaceport, and on some kind of transport off-planet. Get yourself on one, too, if you can. Head back to my uncle, and tell him what’s happened here.” He paused. “Tell him”—he held up the envelope—“that I carried the mission to its logical conclusion.”

  Clayhatchee hesitated. “That’s an order, Lieutenant!”

  “Yes, sir!” He saluted sharply, then backed the car off the curb, and zoomed away down the street.

  Erik looked around. He could just see the roof of the Hereditary House a block over. He had no way of knowing if Kinston was still there, but he needed a guide. He ran toward the building.

  He found the entrance unguarded, and a few frightened people cowering in the lobby. Where was everyone? In the catacombs, undoubtedly. But where? Probably these people were outsiders, too. If they knew, they’d already be down there.

  He tried to remember the stairs leading into the basement at Senator Prescott’s house. There had been a symbol on the wall. At the time, he’d thought it was just a decoration. It had been a chevron over a triangle of small dots. But the chevron might represent a roof, and the three dots might represent people. Shelter!

  He headed for the building’s core, where an entrance to the shelter might more logically be located. It took him five minutes before he spotted the symbol next to an arrow pointing down a dead-end hall. At the end was an unassuming door next to a janitor’s closet. The door had the same symbol on it. He turned the knob. By the reddish glow of emergency lighting, he could just make out a stairway leading down. He could hear people below.

  He climbed carefully down the stairs. Somebody pointed a flashlight up into his face. He shielded his eyes. “I’m looking for Ozark Kinston. Do you know him?”


  Silence.

  “He was at Senator Prescott’s office when the attack came.”

  “I saw—” A woman’s quavering voice came from behind the flashlight. “I saw some of the staff head down that way.” The beam pointed back toward the rear of the building. “Maybe he’s down there.”

  Erik made himself smile. “Thank you.”

  He pushed on to a central corridor, surrounded by rooms—most with doors open. He glanced in, and by the dim red emergency lights he could see people in almost every room—some waiting quietly, some talking, or sobbing, or huddled together for comfort. With each distant explosion they would tense and pull together.

  Erik wondered how Elsa was doing. He hoped she could take care of herself, and if not, Lieutenant Clayhatchee could take care of both of them.

  “Kinston,” he called to anyone who would listen. “I’m looking for Ozark Kinston.”

  “Here,” he finally heard a voice say. “I’m here.”

  He found Kinston in one of the side rooms, sitting on a folding cot. He was dirty, and had a bloody handkerchief wrapped around one hand, but otherwise looked in good health. He looked up at Erik, his eyes like those of a whipped dog. “What’s happening?”

  Erik stood over him, arms crossed. “My guess is that House Liao has come to pay its respects to Shensi.” He held out the envelope. “It seems to me that an alliance with Duke Sandoval would be a good thing right about now.”

  Kinston shook his head. “I know, I know. I did my best, Commander. A few more weeks and I might have had them.”

  “Not in a few weeks,” he said. “Now. We’re going to sign an accord now.”

  Kinston’s eyes widened. He wiped his face with the flats of his hands. “What?”

  “We’re going to go get this accord signed by the Governor and the Legate. The original, not that other piece of crap you tried to pass off on me.”

  “Yes,” he stammered, “of course, they’d sign it now.”

  “Then let’s go find them.”

  Kinston looked pale. Despite the cool of the subbasement, he was sweating profusely. “Find them? Us?”

  “Us. You and me. Come on.”

  “Us? No. No, I can’t.”

  “Look, Kinston. The Governor and the Legate have probably gone to ground. I’m betting there are shelters under the Capitol Building, catacombs, and that you know how to find them.”

  Kinston blinked; thinking seeming to take enormous effort. “Yes, I suppose I know the way in. I saw the Situation Room once. The Legate might be there. But I can’t—”

  “You can, Kinston. I can’t find them alone.”

  Kinston looked like he was about to burst into tears, but he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

  Erik handed him the envelope, and he clutched it, almost gratefully. Then Erik took him by the arm and led him out into the hall. “Which way?”

  Kinston looked confused. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Kinston. There are tunnels running from this building to the Capitol Building, aren’t there? Can we get there without going up to street level?”

  Kinston nodded. “Yes. There’s a tram. A subway. This way.” He pointed back toward the middle of the building.

  With Erik urging Kinston along, the two of them reached the door to another stairwell, which they took down two more flights. They emerged at a tram station.

  Surprisingly, the lights were on here. Perhaps the subway had its own power source, or was powered from the Capitol Building end. They stood on a long platform tiled in white marble, the roof supported by Greek columns. Large potted plants spaced regularly along the platform helped mute the cold sterility of the place.

  There were two tracks running through the center of the platform. The side they were on seemed to be for departing cars, the other for arriving cars. The two sides of the platform were connected by a short tunnel running under the tracks. A line of small, open-sided cars, each with ten or so seats, sat lined up at the platform.

  “They’re not running,” said Erik. “Is there a pedestrian tunnel?”

  “No,” said Kinston, pointing. “See those lights. They have power. They’re like elevators. You just get on and push a button.”

  “Show me.”

  They climbed into the front row of seats in a little car. In front of each seat was a single button. Kinston pushed his, and it lit up green. “Push yours,” he said.

  Erik pushed his button, and it turned green as well.

  “This car is now departing for the Capitol Building complex,” said a recorded voice. “Please hold on to a post or handrail. Keep your head and hands within the vehicle at all times.”

  Erik couldn’t help a slight grin. These recordings were the same, no matter what planet you were on.

  The car accelerated smoothly out of the station with only a slight whine. Almost immediately, the track curved thirty or so degrees to the right. Once it was straight again, the car began to speed up.

  The tunnel was well lit. Maintenance catwalks ran along either side, and periodically there were metal doors leading to some unknown destination—possibly a machinery room, or even a manhole to the surface.

  The tunnel jogged slightly to the left, and suddenly they were plunged into darkness.

  “Uh-oh,” said Kinston.

  “This isn’t supposed to happen?”

  “No.”

  “We’re still moving. Maybe it’s just the lights that have failed.”

  There were occasional emergency lights still working. Erik could see fresh cracks in the concrete walls. Broken pipes leaked water and foul-smelling fluids. Erik hoped the city didn’t have gas mains down here as well.

  He squinted into the darkness ahead. He thought he saw something.

  Erik yelled something guttural—not a word, just a sound—as he shoved Kinston out of the moving tram and went tumbling after him. They hit sand. Erik rolled, coming up on his feet just in time to see the tram smash into the stalled car ahead of it.

  There was a crash, a shower of sparks that illuminated the collapsed section of tunnel roof, and then they were plunged back into gloom. He looked over, and could just make out Kinston, on his face on the ground, trying to get to his feet.

  Something in the wrecked tram burst into flame, and it was suddenly much less gloomy.

  Erik picked up the fallen envelope, brushed it off, and helped Kinston to his feet. “The whole tunnel isn’t blocked,” said Erik. “We can get around the wreck.”

  Fortunately, they were almost to the Capitol. Only fifty meters past the collapse, Erik spotted the lights of the station ahead. Erik climbed onto the deserted platform, and pulled Kinston up after him.

  Erik could smell smoke. A large concrete beam had collapsed at the end of the platform. “Where now? How do we get into the shelters?”

  “I don’t know from here. I only know from above. We’ll have to get up to the building, then back down.”

  Erik remembered the collapsed domes he’d seen from the street. “Not an option. You sure you don’t know how to get there from here?”

  Kinston stared at him blankly.

  “Okay, what levels are they on? Up or down?”

  “I don’t know. I took an elevator. Down, I’d think.”

  Erik nodded. “Makes sense. They’d bury it very deep.”

  They exited the station into a wide, subterranean concourse. A few people huddled in doorways along the side, but it was largely deserted. Erik scanned every door and side corridor, looking for some sign. Finally, he spotted an unmarked door with an armored guard window next to it. The guard station was empty. The door, fortunately, had been blocked open with a chair.

  Erik looked inside. Another stairwell, leading down. The walls were heavily reinforced, and there was no visible damage. “This looks good.”

  They climbed down the stairs: two flights, three, four. There were no exit doors. Finally they reached the bottom of the shaft, and an enormous vaultlike blast door. Again, it was unguarded, and op
en just far enough for a person to slip through. Erik shook his head. “You people really have a thing or two to learn about security.”

  He squeezed through, and Kinston followed. The tunnel beyond was narrow and lined with pipes and conduits of all kinds. They’d traveled a dozen yards when a voice addressed them.

  “Halt!”

  Somebody slipped out a side passage and Erik felt the barrel of a rifle pushed against the small of his back. Erik slowly put up his hands and turned to see who was confronting them. He found himself looking into the frightened eyes of a young private, whose finger seemed to spasm in the trigger guard of his automatic rifle. “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Who goes there?’”

  “I’ve got orders not to let anyone pass without a staff ID.”

  “Son, I’m Commander Erik Sandoval-Groell, envoy of Lord Governor Duke Aaron Sandoval. I’ve got important business with the Governor and the Legate. Are they down here?”

  “I can’t tell you that, sir.”

  “That wasn’t a no.”

  The soldier looked even more nervous, if that was possible, as he tried to figure out if he’d been tricked into revealing a secret.

  “Look,” said Erik, “we just need to talk with them. Haven’t you heard about the accord I’ve presented?” He glanced up at the ceiling as another missile fell somewhere. “Those are our mutual enemies up there. We need to form an alliance to help defend your world.”

  “Sir, you are a foreign national—the last person I should be letting in. You could be a spy.” He licked his lips. “Maybe I should just shoot you.”

  Erik held up his index finger. “No! Look, we’ve got this accord. Show him the accord, Ozark.”

  Kinston fumbled with the envelope, trying to open it.

  “This is Facilitator Ozark Kinston. He’s not a foreigner. Homegrown Shensi native. Haven’t you seen him around before?”