Death Wave (14 page)

It's just a matter of minutes before they send reinforcements, Jordan knew. He raced down the steps, toward the hotel's lobby level.

But then he skidded to a stop. They'll be waiting for me in the lobby, he thought. I'll be walking into their arms.

Slower, more carefully, he went as far as the mezzanine level and tried the door. It opened onto another service area, virtually identical to the one on his floor. A maintenance robot was emptying one of the bins into a rolling cart, totally oblivious to Jordan's presence.

He pushed through the door and found himself on the well-carpeted mezzanine. Nearly a dozen people were walking along, chatting, laughing. A grand curving staircase leading down to the lobby was only a dozen paces away from where he stood.

As casually as he could manage, Jordan slipped in among the people who were heading toward the stairs. The men were wearing suits or sports jackets; the women stylish dresses. Jordan was glad he'd thought to put on his jacket—he blended in with the others better, and it hid the gun stuck in his trousers' waistband.

He saw a trio of security people down on the lobby floor, all in the same dark jackets and white turtlenecks, threading through the crowd, hurrying toward the service area. One of them had his hand to his ear.

They're telling him that I got off the stairwell at the mezzanine level, Jordan guessed as he started down the gracefully curved stairs. Stay with the crowd, he told himself. Don't run, don't do anything to call attention to yourself.

As he reached the lobby floor, he glanced sidelong at the security team. They rushed past him, nearly within arm's reach, and started up the stairs toward the mezzanine. Another pair of guards stationed themselves at the elevator bank.

Get to the main entrance before they put guards on it, Jordan told himself. They might have the entire hotel under surveillance, but it takes time to get orders from the monitoring center to the security teams stationed around the hotel. You've got to move faster than they do.

Staying with the crowd that was heading toward the hotel's main entrance, Jordan could feel his heart thumping beneath his ribs. He turned to the elderly gentleman beside him and said, in Spanish, “It seems like a beautiful evening.”

“Yes,” the older man replied graciously. “There should be no rain until after midnight.”

The hotel's entrance was wide. Steady streams of people were entering the lobby and leaving it. Jordan counted four robots standing impassively just outside the entrance, and a single human doorman in splendid uniform smiling at the people climbing out of taxicabs and limousines.

Jordan stepped through the entrance, turned to his right, and started walking down the crowded street.

To where? he asked himself. I've got no money and I don't dare use the credit chip that the government gave me; it could be traced in a matter of minutes.

Alone on the busy streets of Barcelona, Jordan realized that he was free for the time being. But what should I do next?

 

COMMUNICATIONS COMPLEX

Aditi picked at the dinner she had ordered, her attention focused on the viewer built into the wall of the living room where she sat.

Perhaps this underground complex is shielded too heavily for my call to get through, she worried. She knew that the communicator in her brain operated on dark energy, completely different from the electromagnetic frequencies used on Earth, but still she feared—

“Hello, Aditi.” Adri's face, lined with age, smiled gently at her.

She gushed out a relieved sigh. In the three-dimensional viewer, Adri appeared to be walking along the stone path that ran along the perimeter of their city on New Earth, out in the open on a bright cloudless day. He wore a floor-length robe of forest green, with fine golden traceries bedecking it.

Before she could say anything, Adri suggested, “Perhaps you had better talk to me and tell me what has happened to you since we last spoke. From your latest message, I presume that you are alone. They have separated you from Jordan?”

As swiftly and concisely as she could, Aditi explained what was happening to her and Jordan. She tried to keep her voice calm, tried to recite only the facts. But she found herself trembling with emotion: fear, resentment, even anger. By the time she was finished she felt weary, drained.

The viewer went blank. She knew it would take about an hour for her words to reach Adri, and his reply to return to her. She went to the lavatory, showered and prepared for sleep, thinking that Castiglione could walk into her apartment whenever he chose to. Aditi wondered what she would do if he chose to barge in on her at this time of night.

By the time she returned to the sitting room, Adri's three-dimensional image was once again in the viewer. The old man had sat himself down on one of the stone benches that lined the curved perimeter walkway, his hands clasped on his lap. Once Aditi explained the situation to him, he shook his head slightly.

“The humans must be very afraid of you,” he said, “to keep you isolated. I presume that they understand you can contact me whenever you wish.”

Aditi nodded, even though she knew that Adri would not see her gesture for an hour.

Continuing unperturbed, Adri said, “We must not lose sight of the major objectives: to save as many of the intelligent civilizations as we can, and to save Earth itself and the other human settlements in Earth's system.”

But how can we do that if Earth's leaders refuse to act? Aditi wondered silently.

“It would seem,” Adri went on, “that your task is to convince Earth's leaders to act, without delay. But it is very difficult to make them see the need for prompt action. They are still steeped in their ancient ways, still distrustful of strangers, still eager to seek advantages that will promote their own interests.”

Adri slowly rose to his feet. “We must find a way to make them see the need to protect themselves and the other intelligent species that are in danger. Quite frankly, Aditi, I don't know how to do that. You are there, on the scene, among them. You must find the way. You and Jordan, together.”

“But we're not together!” Aditi blurted. “They've separated us!”

“I wish I could help you,” Adri continued. “If I think of anything that might be helpful, I will contact you. In the meantime, you must act as wisely as you can.”

The viewer went dark. Aditi sat in the underground apartment, alone.

*   *   *

Jordan walked along Las Ramblas, enjoying his newfound freedom even though he half-expected a team of security agents to surround him at any moment.

What to do? he asked himself repeatedly. Where can I go?

Las Ramblas was crowded with people, even though it was nearing midnight. Restaurants and bars were open, brightly lit. Crowds clustered outside theaters that offered everything from flamenco dancers to historical dramas.

Aditi, Jordan said to himself. Where is Aditi? What have they done with her?

I need help, he knew. The only person he could think of who might be willing to help him was Mitchell Thornberry. But Mitch is in Chicago, Jordan knew. I need help here, right now.

Then he remembered Professor Rudaki. Maybe he'd be willing to help me. He wasn't much help when I phoned him earlier, but who else can I turn to?

Jordan found a curbside bench that was occupied only by a pair of youngsters who seemed oblivious to everyone and everything except each other. He sat at the other end of the bench and wondered how he could locate Rudaki's address.

I can't risk calling him, or even using my phone to find his address, Jordan reasoned. Halleck's people probably monitor all communications and they'll pinpoint my location immediately.

With some trepidation, he said in Spanish to the young couple on the other end of the bench, “Excuse me, please. Could you kindly help me?”

The two youngsters looked surprised, shocked almost, to be pulled out of their private universe.

Trying to appear befuddled, Jordan said, “I can't get my communicator to function properly. Could you please find an address for me?”

The young man smiled. Jordan thought, In his eyes I must seem like a dotty old coot.

“Certainly, sir,” the lad said.

Within less than a minute the youngster found Rudaki's address and even showed Jordan a street map of how to get there. Too far to walk, Jordan realized.

“A million thanks,” he said as he got up from the bench.

“It's nothing,” said the young man, turning back to his young woman.

Jordan walked away and looked down the crowded avenue for a taxi. No cash and I can't use a credit chip. With a shake of his head and an almost rueful little grin, Jordan told himself, Imitate the action of the tiger. Be bold. Display no doubts. A confident attitude had helped him in other scrapes all those years ago, when he had been a diplomat sent to trouble spots around the world.

He waved to an approaching taxi. It glided to curbside and Jordan ducked into it. It was a tiny vehicle, with only two seats. No human driver, the cab was automated. Jordan smiled to himself. At least I won't cheat a workingman out of his fare.

He directed the cab to within five blocks of Rudaki's address. It was a quiet suburban area, hardly any traffic. The sidewalks were lined with trees, and empty of pedestrians. A nice, peaceful, upscale residential neighborhood, Jordan thought. Good.

When he tried to get out, though, he found that the taxi's door would not unlock.

“The fare is twelve international dollars,” said the synthesized voice from the cab's dashboard speaker, in Spanish.

“I'm afraid I don't have any money with me,” Jordan replied in English.

Switching to English, the nonhuman voice repeated, “The fare is twelve international dollars.”

“I don't have any money with me,” Jordan repeated.

“This vehicle is equipped to accept credit charges.”

“No credit chip, either.”

For several moments the cab remained silent. Jordan tried both doors; still locked. Then a distinctly nettled woman's voice issued from the speaker grille. “You don't have a credit chip?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Remain in the cab, then. I am dispatching a security car to take care of you. They'll be with you in a few minutes.”

Jordan glanced around the cab's interior. There was a transparent plastic panel in the roof, marked
EMERGENCIA
.

Well, he said to himself, this is an emergency if there ever was one.

Wondering if the cab was equipped with a security camera, he reached up and flicked the latch of the emergency panel. A shrill warning whistle erupted. Quickly, Jordan pushed the panel open, then stood up and climbed out of the cab. As he dropped down onto the street, he heard the woman's voice over the wail of the alarm, “The security car will be with you in less than a minute. Please remain seated.”

Not bloody likely, Jordan said to himself as he hurried away from the taxi. He saw a pair of headlights approaching from two blocks up the otherwise empty street, so he turned at the corner. As he slipped behind one of the curbside trees the gray unmarked sedan went past him and pulled to a stop behind the taxi. Jordan walked as fast as he could toward Rudaki's house.

 

JANOS RUDAKI

It was the smallest house on the block, but it still looked luxurious to Jordan as he stood before its gate of intricately decorated metal spikes. Two stories high, with a gabled roof. Set well back from the street. Gracious trees and thick flowering bushes adorning the front lawn.

Rudaki's doing well for himself, Jordan thought as he leaned on the call button set beside the gate. Being a World Council member must pay considerably better than being a university professor.

There were lights on in two of the second-floor windows, he saw. A figure passed by one of them.

“Yes?” Rudaki's querulous voice. “Who is it?”

Jordan hesitated. Should I give him my name? What if he calls the police?

“Well?” Impatiently.

“It's Jordan Kell, Professor. I need your help.”

“Kell? At this time of night?”

“I'm in trouble and I need your help, sir.”

Jordan heard grumbling, and a woman's sleepy voice. At last the gate's lock clicked and Rudaki said, “Come in. I'll meet you at the front door.”

As Jordan hurried up the walk to the front door of the house he felt a few drops of rain pattering down on him. Glancing at his wrist, he saw it was precisely midnight. Do they control the weather? he wondered.

Lightning flashed across the dark sky and a roll of thunder growled as Jordan reached the door. In the light of the overhead lamp he saw that the door was made of wood, with a schematic of the solar system carved into it.

Grateful for the overhang protecting him from the increasingly heavy downpour, Jordan saw lights come on inside the house. The door opened at last and there stood Janos Rudaki in a disheveled maroon bathrobe, his heavy brows knitted, his expression dour, wary.

“Come in, Mr. Kell,” the astrophysicist said. “Get out of the rain.”

Half an hour later, fortified by a healthy slug of Spanish brandy, Jordan sat in Rudaki's study, unfolding his story.

“So I was hoping that you could help me to reach Mitchell Thornberry, in Chicago,” he said.

The room was small, intimate. Astronomical photographs covered the walls. Data chips were strewn everywhere: in the bookshelves, on the couches and ottomans; stacks of them were lined haphazardly against the wall next to the professor's desk.

Jordan sat in a comfortably upholstered armchair in the only uncluttered corner of the room, Rudaki in a similar chair, facing him. Like Jordan, he held an almost-empty brandy snifter in one hand. The bottle rested on a small table beside his chair.

His expression still cheerless, Rudaki said, “You've set yourself against the most powerful woman in the solar system. Halleck wants control of your wife's FTL communications technology.”