Gale Force (8 page)

But if
this
was some kind of bottled, stable antimatter, that was bad. Very, very bad. When matter and antimatter collided, gamma rays were one side effect, which would explain the radiation. Even this container, whatever it was, wasn’t able to completely contain the antimatter, so there was a continuous stream of radioactive energy pouring off it.

‘‘Antimatter collisions are about ten times more powerful than chemically based energy,’’ Silverton said, and wiped his sweating forehead with his sleeve. ‘‘One kilogram of antimatter annihilating itself is supposed to produce about 180 petajoules of energy.’’

‘‘Which is . . .’’

‘‘Catastrophic would be charitable.’’

‘‘And how much do you think is in there?’’

We both looked at the thing lying on the concrete floor, alien and deadly enough to destroy a Djinn even without being released.

‘‘I think,’’ Silverton said slowly, ‘‘that we’re looking at about two kilograms.’’

In other words, double the worst-case scenario he’d just described.

‘‘We need the Djinn,’’ I said. ‘‘At the very least, they need to know about what happened to him.’’ I nodded toward the dead Djinn.

Silverton nodded. ‘‘I think we’re going to need more than the Djinn,’’ he said.

‘‘Like who?’’

‘‘God.’’

Chapter Three

There was no way we could safely remove the black antimatter shard by ourselves. Touching it had damaged Silverton already; he was trying to hide it, but I could see the pain in his face, the way his gloved hands were trembling. I remembered Lewis’s blistered hands— and that had been on the aetheric.

‘‘Let’s get out of here,’’ I said. Silverton didn’t argue. He had trouble getting to his feet. I dumped the equipment, stripped off his pack, and supported him on the way up the stairs. He made it about halfway before his knees gave out. He was a big guy, and I had to work hard to get him up the rest of the way and out into the hallway.

‘‘Leave,’’ he said. In the light from my floating lantern, he looked drawn and sick. ‘‘You need to get the Djinn here, fast. Go.’’

‘‘I don’t need to go anywhere to do that,’’ I told him, and concentrated on the invisible thread that linked me with David. It was thin here, but still a connection. I pulled, and distantly felt his attention shift toward me. I couldn’t communicate with him over the aetheric, at least not from this spot, but he knew I was looking for him.

I put my back into pulling Silverton down the hallway, trying to avoid the worst of the debris. It seemed like a very long way, and I had to superoxygenate my lungs to keep spots from dancing in front of my eyes. I’d pay for it later, but for now, I just wanted
out
.

My heels hit an inconveniently placed broken computer monitor, and I tipped backward.

David caught me. ‘‘What the hell is going on?’’ he asked. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

I whirled to face him. I can only imagine how I must have looked—wild-eyed, sweating, scared. He took a step back. ‘‘Help me get him outside,’’ I panted. Without comment, he scooped up Silverton in his arms and walked down the hall, olive-drab coat belling behind him. I hustled after, feeling a shake in my knees that definitely hadn’t been there before. In fact, I felt distinctly sick now, wobbly, light-headed, but I was determined not to show it. We had enough problems to talk about.

David simply blew the glass doors off their hinges at the entrance—effective, if a little showy. The resulting hail of broken glass melted away in midair and formed a soft mound of sand, which served as a bed on which he placed Silverton. ‘‘Now,’’ he said, and turned to me, ‘‘what the
hell
—’’

He caught me as I collapsed. Which actually came as a surprise to me—the collapse, not that he caught me. I hadn’t felt it coming on; I’d thought I was coping just fine. David pressed his warm hand to my forehead as he lowered me to the sand beside Silverton. ‘‘Jo?’’ He muttered under his breath, something about stupid Weather Wardens and their foolish sense of invulnerability, which really wasn’t fair because I didn’t feel at all invulnerable at the moment. I felt scared.

David’s magical touch poured warmth into me, but it was like pouring it into a black hole. Whatever was affecting me, it was wrong in ways I couldn’t even begin to realize.

‘‘Wait,’’ I said, and held his gaze with all the determinationI had left. ‘‘David, I need you to go into the basement. There’s a dead Djinn there, and a thing— a thing we think is antimatter. Don’t go alone. Be careful—’’

I had more to say, but it got lost somewhere, and the light was too bright in my eyes, and then it was dark and still and quiet, and I was all alone, floating.

Well, dying always had been kind of peaceful for me.

I woke up in a hospital, hooked up to tubes, and I was alone. No David by my bedside. No Lewis loitering in a chair. No Cherise, even.

All alone.

I pressed the call button, wondering if I was in a Warden hospital. Pressing the call button seemed like an Olympic event, and one I wasn’t likely to medal in at that. I was unreasonably exhausted, considering I’d just woken up. While I waited for attention, I looked over the room I was in. Typical hospital issue—an adjustable bed, with rails that were up. Machines that beeped. A silently playing TV high in the corner, tuned to the Weather Channel, which led me to believe that at the very least I’d had Warden visitors.

Nobody was responding to my call. I pressed the button again, sweating with effort. My mouth tasted like metal, and it was sticky and dry. Everything smelled wrong. My whole body ached, the kind of nasty, all-over body aches you get with high fever, and there were some white-hot spots of pain in various joints. I’d been hurt worse, but somehow, being all alone, hooked up to machines and left ignored, made this seem worse.

I gulped down a breath and pressed the button again, convulsively.

The door banged open, admitting a nurse wearing the latest scrub fashions—floral print, with a predominantly red color. She didn’t look familiar, and she didn’t look happy. ‘‘Ms. Baldwin,’’ she said. ‘‘Awake, I see.’’

I tried to nod. Appallingly, I couldn’t seem to get my throat to produce sounds. I gestured at the water pitcher; she poured me a glass and held it for me. I gulped. Water had never tasted quite so good . . . until I realized that it was taking on a red tinge. I was bleeding into it. I pulled back, gasping, and wiped my lips. Blood on my fingers. It was coming from my gums, which were seeping red.

‘‘Relax, honey,’’ the nurse said, unbending a little bit when she saw the obvious distress in my face. ‘‘You had a pretty high dose of radiation. You’re getting treatment, though.’’

The water had lubricated my vocal cords. ‘‘Where am I?’’

‘‘Extension Hospital Fourteen,’’ she said, which meant I was in the Warden system, not general human health care. Thank God. ‘‘I’m sorry we didn’t have anybody with you, but you’ve been out for a while, and we had other patients. Do you have a lot of pain?’’

I managed to keep my nod to a measured sort of response, not a frantic oh-my-God-yes-give-me-drugs sort of gesture. She got the point, though, and showed me the meds button, which I pushed for all it was worth. Liquid gold painkillers slid through my veins, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Even tasting blood didn’t seem that disturbing, suddenly.

‘‘David?’’ I asked. My voice sounded horribly weak.

The nurse hesitated and didn’t quite meet my eyes. ‘‘Your friend and Lewis Orwell brought you in, but they had to leave. Some kind of emergency.’’

‘‘Haven’t been back?’’

‘‘No, not yet. But I’m sure they’ll be back as soon as they can.’’

Not good. That meant something had happened. She’d said it had been days. . . .

Someone else hip-bumped open the door, and came in carrying two tall coffees. It was Cherise. She looked tired, but still glamorously touseled, and the smile she gave me was pure relief. ‘‘I
knew
a mocha would get you up,’’ she said, and flopped into a chair next to me. ‘‘You are so predictable. So. How are you?’’

‘‘Sick,’’ I said. ‘‘What the hell happened?’’

The nurse cautioned her about hot liquids and my invalid state, which both of us ignored, and left the room. Cherise leaned forward and helped me manage the mocha. It was warm, not scalding, and the caffeine/ sugar/fat combo made me feel much steadier inside. ‘‘Well,’’ Cherise said, ‘‘you pretty much freaked everybody the hell out. Including people I’ve never heard of, who flew over from Switzerland and Australia and places like that.’’

‘‘Wardens?’’

‘‘Some of them, yeah. There’s some kind of big meeting going on. That’s where everybody is.’’ Cherise’s big blue eyes focused on mine, and I saw an internal debate going on for a few seconds before she said, ‘‘Your friend’s dead.’’

‘‘I—what?’’

‘‘Your friend Mr. Silverton. He didn’t make it, Jo. They tried, but he was too far gone. David and Lewis both tried, but nothing worked. They were scared about you, too.’’ Cherise’s expression told me everything I didn’t want to know about how bad off I really was. Bleeding gums were the least of my problems. ‘‘You’re going to have to rest up this time. Seriously.’’

‘‘But . . . did they say anything about the Djinn? The dead one? And the—’’

‘‘They said that under no circumstances was Joanne Baldwin supposed to jump out of bed and charge to anybody’s rescue. Seriously, Jo. Not your problem. Not anymore.’’ She reached out and smoothed hair back from my face. ‘‘You look like crap, by the way.’’

‘‘Gee, thanks. So glad you’re my affirmation girl.’’ I actually was glad, but I couldn’t let her know that. There was love, real and soothing, in the touch of her fingers. It lulled as much as the morphine. I felt sharp grief at the death of Jerome Silverton, and guilt. We’d gotten in over our heads, and that was the last thing we’d intended. I’d counted on Jerome, as the expert, to know when to back off. Instead, he’d continued though he’d known it was likely a suicide run. I guessed he thought it was necessary.

‘‘He wrote you a note,’’ Cherise said. ‘‘While he could still write. Do you want it?’’

Cherise was a better mind reader than most of my magic-gifted colleagues. I sighed and nodded, feeling the hot prickle of tears in my eyes. She dug paper from the front pocket of her jeans, unfolded it, and handed it over.

Jerome’s handwriting was messy. I couldn’t tell if that was normal for him, or if the damage was taking its toll. It took me a while to work out what the note said, but when I did, it hit me hard.

It said,
I was wrong. Thought I could control it. Not your fault.

And, on a separate line,
Hope you’re okay.

I folded it up, closed my eyes, and fought back wave after wave of useless tears. When I’d managed to get control again, I handed the note back to Cherise, who exchanged it for a box of tissues.

‘‘The dead Djinn?’’ I asked.

‘‘Well, that’s the weird thing,’’ Cherise said. ‘‘I mean, I wasn’t there, obviously, but I heard people talking. According to David, the Djinn wasn’t there.’’

‘‘What?’’ He most certainly had been there. I could still remember Silverton’s knife slicing his body open, remember the elastic tension of holding open the edges of the incision so Silverton could pull out the black glass shard.

‘‘Well, the Wardens say he’s there. The Djinn say he’s not. They say there’s a body, but it’s not Djinn. They can’t see the black thingy, either. Nothing.’’

I opened my mouth and shut it again, thinking hard. ‘‘David, too?’’ I finally asked.

‘‘Yup. None of them can see it, sense it, whatever. It’s just not there for them.’’

Oh,
man
. Not good. ‘‘So what are the Wardens doing about it?’’

‘‘They’re ‘containing the situation.’ ’’ Cherise made air quotes around the phrase, and rolled her eyes. ‘‘Some of them are talking about encasing it in a big block of lead. Some are talking about shooting it into space. Nobody knows what the hell to do, but everybody agrees, it’s way too dangerous where it is.’’

‘‘Everybody except the Djinn.’’ I couldn’t leave that alone. ‘‘Seriously, they
can’t see it
? How can they not see it?’’

‘‘No clue.’’

‘‘What does Lewis say?’’

‘‘
He
can see it, and yeah, he knows it’s a problem. The Djinn thinks the Wardens have some kind of psychosis. They say that if the thing was there, they’d be able to sense it.’’

Great. ‘‘How do they explain Silverton? Me?’’

Cherise looked grim. ‘‘They think one of you screwed up, accessed something you shouldn’t have. They can’t explain it, but they don’t believe the Wardens’ explanation, either.’’

‘‘Not even David?’’

‘‘No,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Not even David. Sorry, babe.’’

Wow. That was . . . strange. And I was too tired and too sick to do anything about it. Cherise didn’t need to worry about me going all heroic and crazy on her; all I wanted to do was hide under my blankets and pretend it was all just a bad dream.

And for a while, that was exactly what I did, as the morphine dragged me off to a dream-rich sleep.

Two days later, I was interrogated by a panel of Warden elders: Guillard from Switzerland, Jones from Australia, and Lewis representing the U.S. I felt a little better, and they’d let me walk to the shower and wash my hair, which made a difference in both body and soul.

There was also a Djinn in the mix—a short, round little thing with that indefinable glimmer to her skin and eyes. She was introduced as Zenaya, and gave me a slight nod but no other indication of how she stood on the subject of me.

No David. That was deeply troubling.

I went through things, step by step, detailing what I’d seen and experienced. Zenaya said nothing, but her eyes flashed an eerie green when I talked about the dead Djinn, and the manner of his death. I addressed a question to her. ‘‘Wouldn’t you know if one of your people disappeared?’’ I asked. She shrugged slightly. ‘‘Wouldn’t
David
know?’’