The Archivist (27 page)

The unlit hallway seems abandoned. After about thirty feet, I conclude that the locked gate was meant to close off an unused area. I am about to return and try the other way when a sound I never expected to hear again comes from a door that is slightly ajar, to my right.

Static hiss.

I push open the door and step into a room that is very un-Disciple-like: it is lit with a dim light bulb. Against a wall on the far side is a rack of electronic equipment; I gasp as I step forward.

It has been more than three decades since I last encountered anything like this, but I still recognize very sophisticated radio equipment. Deep space communications equipment, to be precise. There must also be some sort of movable receiver on the arena roof, probably cleverly disguised.

This goes completely against the essence of Disciple doctrine. There is simply no way to reconcile this with their professed beliefs, but these are not the first true believers led by true deceivers.

The racked equipment is mounted next to a desk lined with a bank of monitors and controls. One panel controls the radio equipment itself.

It has been an exceptionally long time—since I was a space pilot—since I operated equipment like this. A single glance suffices to tell me that it is fully functional and active.

I examine the other control panel for a minute and open a couple of menus on a computer terminal. Then I realize that it controls a geosynchronous communications relay satellite. With this setup, someone could send and receive communications any time of day, to any part of the sky.

Even, say, Mars.

I have not forgotten my purpose here, but I cannot just walk out of this room without at least trying the radio. I lean my sword against the wall next to the desk, and then I redirect the relay satellite, which is pointed out randomly into deep space, toward the Large Magellanic Cloud.

The satellite has to track key stars to maintain its orientation, so the planetary orbits have been pre-calculated for the whole century. I just need to designate Mars as the target, and it knows where to point.

The satellite will take a few minutes to reorient, so I turn to the other screen and check its frequency. It is set to 1420 MHz. Why the hell would the Disciple inner sanctum want to conduct a SETI? If they are trying to contact their Goddess, they should be looking downward.

Whatever. I do not have time to worry about Disciple dogma. I switch to a frequency in the X band that I know the Mars colony would monitor. If anyone there is still listening, it will be here.

I hold down the transmit button and send a message hailing them, telling them who I am, and asking them to respond if they can hear me. I check the panel to confirm that it is transmitting, then repeat the message two more times.

The orbits of Earth and Mars have brought them to the closest point that they have been in in decades, and will be for many years to come, but our planets are still almost thirty-five million miles apart. My signal will take just over three minutes to get there, so even if they respond the moment they hear my voice, I will not hear an answer until more than six minutes have elapsed since my transmission.

I am bursting with anxiety to find Danae and the generator, but this is literally a once in a lifetime chance. So while I sit and wait, I close my eyes and take some deep breaths to calm myself.

What if there is no response? That does not mean they are not there, just that they either did not get the message or could not respond. I know I cannot wait long, but after all this time, I have to give it at least a few minutes.

After six very long minutes, I lean close to the speaker, hoping to discern even the faintest answer. But the only sound that emerges from the speaker is the soft hiss of static as the seconds tick. I am about to switch everything back to where I found it when first a crackle and then a man’s voice come through the speaker.

“Sorry it took so long to respond, but we were surprised to hear from someone, especially you. It’s part of the watch to listen, but we stopped expecting to actually hear from anyone, so we had to hunt for a microphone. Anyway, God, it’s great to hear from you, and someone here will very much want to talk to you. So don’t go anywhere.” Then I hear the man’s voice fade as he turns away from the mic. “Johan! I saw her on one of the hydroponic plant monitors a few minutes ago. Run down there right now, and get her. Hurry.”

Relief washes over me. Not just that I got a response, but that Sarah is still there, still alive, and I will hear my wife’s voice again after all these years. I reach for the microphone to reply, but before I depress the send switch, the metal gate clanks and rattles out in the hallway as it swings shut.

Now that I pay attention, I hear faint footsteps in the distance. I have just enough time to switch off the volume on the speaker and hide behind the rack. Fortunately, the dim light creates nice deep shadows, and my gray garb blends perfectly into the grungy concrete wall.

I cannot see around the rack, but the footsteps approach and pause at the doorway, then continue down the hall. As they move away, I walk over to the doorway and glance stealthily out into the passage. I cannot see anyone, but I hear his footsteps fade in the distance.

It’s probably just the sentry doing his rounds, but I will not risk that he will lock the gate on his way out. Danae is about to become a human sacrifice, so as much as I crave to hear Sarah’s voice, I will have to wait just a little while longer for her response.

When I reach the gate, I discover why the guard made so much noise: the chain is looped through the gate and padlocked, so I can pull the gate open about three inches, but no further.

The gate is constructed of welded steel bars, and the sides are encased in mortared brick that goes up to the ceiling. The Disciples could not have made the gate, but they did a great job of salvaging it. I can slide the chain up and down the bars a couple of feet, but that does not help any.

Reluctantly, I reach into a pocket and remove one of the few items I snagged from my backpack. The small, pen-sized plasma torch which I used to free the generator will not have more than a minute of cutting time left, but that is not the real problem. I did not have room for the goggles or the mitt, so all I can do is turn my head and estimate the cut while using my unprotected left hand.

I finger the trigger and hear a pop and hiss as a brilliant blue-white light illuminates the whole hallway. I hope the guard is way around the corner, ideally in a room.

It only takes about five seconds with the torch before a small section of bar drops to the floor. That is as much as my hand can take. My thumb and forefinger already burn like they are on fire as I drop the plasma torch in a pocket, and I flinch when my fingers brush against the fabric. If it stings this much now, it is going hurt like a son of a bitch later.

The chain slides up and slips through the break, and I swing the gate open so I can step through. Then I pull the gate closed again and hook the chain back through the break. It will not pass a close examination, but a quick glance should not reveal anything wrong. Still, it is only a matter of time until it gets noticed, so the clock is running. The fun begins.

A minute later I am back at the stairwell and as I expected, the sword and foodstuff have gone on rounds with the guard. I continue past and head in the other direction, moving slowly for the first few minutes while my eyes adjust to the low light that filters in from the main arena.

The first fifty feet or so are just defunct restrooms, which judging by the stench wafting through the doorway, were probably where the guard went to use a chamber pot, the first time I came through. Then I start passing the suites.

Many of the doors to these rooms are either broken or missing altogether. A quick glance reveals that most of the rooms are packed with trash. A couple of doors are closed but not locked; I hear nothing on their other sides when I press my ear against them. A quick search inside finds these rooms stacked high with chairs and tables.

Then, about a quarter of the way around the arena, I reach a door with a sliver of light shining under the bottom. I press my ear against the door cautiously and hear a man talk; a few moments later, a woman sharply replies. I cannot make out the words, but I know the woman is Danae.

The sound of her voice hits me like a punch.

For a moment I clutch the side of the doorframe as my head spins. I did not expect this; I focus my breathing so I do not pass out. What I felt while waiting for Sarah’s response is a mere shadow of what I now feel, when I hear Danae. Never in my life have I ever wanted or needed something the way I need right now to get to Danae.

I reach for the sword tucked into my belt—then I remember where it is: leaning against the wall next to the communications rack. Crap, I keep losing my weapons. I reach into my pocket for the final item I brought with me: the hypo spray Danae used so successfully on me. Hopefully, I will find it just as effective.

Going back down the hallway a couple of doors, I find a small box just large enough to hold with two hands, and add some small chunks of concrete to it, so it has a little heft. Then I go back to the room holding Danae and barely turn the door handle. Not locked.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle all the way and push the door open. Just a couple of feet ahead of me stands a Disciple with his back to me. Beyond him, Danae sits tied up in a chair. I lower my head as I step into the room, and as he starts to turn I hold the box in front of me. Hopefully my gray servant garb and submissive posture will buy me the precious seconds that I need.

The man gives me a scornful look when I thrust the box toward him, hands shaking. The quivering is not feigned, as agonizing pain from the fingers on my left hand shoots up my arm.

“They told me to bring you some food,” I say with an apologetic tone, and when he reaches for the box, I let it slip out of my hands.

The box lands on the floor and the man leans down to get it. I place the hypo on the Disciple’s neck and activate the spray. With a surprised grunt he starts to stand, but then, his movement continues into a backward fall.

“K’Marr! Watch out,” Danae cries out.

I look up to see who else is in the room: another Disciple on the other side of the room draws a sword and steps toward me. The hypo has an effective range of about two inches, so I toss the useless weapon aside and grab the nearest item within my reach, which is a chair that the first man probably sat in.

The Disciple steps forward to jab and run me through with his sword. I barely have time to parry his thrust with the chair so that, instead of piercing my guts, the weapon sinks into my left thigh. When the man pulls back to try again, I hold the chair in front of me and charge.

The sword gets entangled in the legs of the chair, and as I twist it the man loses his grip on the weapon and it clatters to the side. Raising his fists, he approaches me and we square off.

My opponent appears to be younger, and he is probably counting on wearing me down. But I will take experience over youth, because he has not been to the places I have been nor seen the moves that I have learned.

When he jabs at my head, I seize his wrist and pull him forward in a classic jujitsu throw, and the guard finds himself on his back. He is stunned for a moment, then shakes his head and rolls over as he scrambles to his feet. Growling, he charges with his arms spread wide to grasp me in a bear hug. I grab an outstretched arm and drop to the side, essentially turning his momentum into a head-on crash against the wall, which ends with a sickening crunch.

The man drops, knocked out cold.

I stand there, eyes darting about the room looking for further threats. Both men lie motionless on the floor, so I let my guard relax. That is when I hear Danae call to me, sobbing.

In that moment, I do not care about the generator, or the Archives, or getting back to Sarah. What matters most in this world—the only thing that matters to me—is right here in this room. I just want to take her in my arms.

I search my second opponent for a knife and crouch down to cut Danae’s restraints.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Danae sobs and flings her arms around me, knocking me backward off my feet so that she is sprawled on top of me. We untangle and she sits up, then reaches for my left leg, drenched in blood from my wound.

“You’re hurt,” she says.

“I’m probably supposed to say it’s nothing, but it definitely feels like something,” I admit as I sit up and prop my back up against the wall. “I don’t think it’s too serious, or you’d see blood spurting across the room. But I’m not doing much running. What about you, are you alright?”

She looks thinner, and her hair is disheveled. The journey definitely took a toll on her; she has numerous bruises on her arms, along with a growing shiner around one eye that attests to some rough treatment. But she still displays that enchanting smile which first captivated me.

“I’ve had better days, but I think it’s starting to look up. Let me check that wound.” She kneels and her face turns pale as snow when she examines my injury. “You didn’t by any chance bring that thing Angelina gave you, for sealing wounds?” she asks, and I shake my head.

Then she bites her lip and uses the knife to slice up one of the guard’s shirts. “Don’t get me wrong,” she says, while tearing the cloth into several strips. “I’m glad to see you. But I told you to just get your machine thing back. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t care about the generator,” I reply as she wads up another square of cloth into a compression bandage, then I grunt when she presses it against my wound. It is starting to hurt like hell now.

“How will you get back to your wife?” Danae asks, as she wraps and tightens the strips around my thigh. She begins to tie the bandage, and I grasp her hands. I want her looking at me when I answer her.

“I don’t care. Finding the generator, returning to Mars, none of that matters anymore. The one thing—the only thing I care about—is getting you out of here.” Motionless and silent, she stares at me. “Danae. I love you.”

Her gaze remains frozen for a few more moments, probably as shocked as I am at the words coming out of my mouth. Then, several tears ease out of the sides of her eyes.

“I love you too,” she whispers, then leans forward to give me a wholehearted kiss that seems to stop time.

My arms wrap around her and I pull her against me, our mouths locked in oneness while I caress her flowing red hair. Then she pushes away and quickly ties the compression bandage around my thigh, which staunches the flow of blood. I reach down to examine her handiwork.

“You did yourself a disservice, when you said you wouldn’t make a good nurse. That’s a first-rate battlefield dressing.” My leg is already starting to stiffen, so I use a chair to give myself leverage as I rise. The pain is sharp enough to take my breath away.

“Would you hand me that?” I ask Danae, and point to the hypo spray.

I set the device to yellow and give myself a half-dose. I want just enough to take the edge off without affecting my wits. Even with the spray, the pain in my upper thigh rivals that of my hand now. I use one of the mental exercises I learned to ignore the remaining pain. I am by no means a trained SEAL or Ranger, but my Archivist training included intensive sessions with a couple of former SEALs.

Danae hands me the sword before we step over the tranquilized guard and move toward the hallway. She has her arm around me; I feel her body tremble.

“How did you find me?” she asks.

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime, but for now let’s just get the hell out of here.” We reach the doorway, and are about to step into the hallway when Danae pulls me back. I turn to look at her. She is crying.

“Wait, I have to tell you something first. Before we go anywhere,” she says, wiping away her tears.

“I’m sure it can wait,” I say impatiently, then tug on her arm. “Believe me, every minute counts.”

“This is important. You need to know.” Then she just stands there looking into my eyes, as if the balance of the universe hangs in front of us. Clearly, she has something she must tell me.

“Alright. What is it?”

Danae takes a deep breath. “Remember that first morning on the ship to Entiak? When I said that you made me pregnant? Well, I wasn’t kidding.” She pauses, and I just stare at her. “I’m pregnant.”

This is, without question, the last thing I expected her to say. “How is that possible?”

Danae gapes at me in disbelief. “Really?! Well, my father was a doctor, and he explained that the man makes these little fishie things, so when a man and a woman…”

“I know how it works,” I interrupt her. This certainly is not the time or place for Human Anatomy 101. “I’m just surprised, because we only slept together that one time. I just don’t understand how it happened.”

“Well, the little fishes swim up the woman’s stream looking for her pond, then they…”

“Yes, we’ll go over that later. Right now we need to get ourselves out of here.” I look down and touch her belly. “All three of us.”

Now I have something else to shove into my emotional lockbox. This is not the time or place to wrap my mind around the fact that I am going to be a father. I have already realized that Danae is my number one priority. Now, if anything, the depth of my bond with her redoubles. So much so that it almost hurts to look at her standing there.

I glance out into the hallway. The passage is clear, so we step out and start heading back to the stairwell. We are about halfway to the stairs when I hear numerous footsteps approaching from ahead of us. I pull Danae into one of the door-less rooms. This one has a row of desks standing on their sides. We crouch behind one of them as a small contingent of men passes, heading toward the room I rescued Danae from.

All the shit is about to hit the fan in one big dump.

After they pass, I give Danae a hand up so we can leave, and hold her hand for a moment. “About you expecting. I’m glad you told me, and I’m glad I’m going to be a father. But why didn’t you tell me before, and why now?”

She does not hesitate. “You were always leaving or planning to leave. I didn’t want you to change your plans for the wrong reasons. Saying you love me—that was the right reason.”

There is obviously so much for us to discuss, and there truly could not be a worse place or time to do it. We head out into the hallway and as we reach the stairwell, I hear distant shouts from the direction where Danae was being held.

Damn, everything has gone so well, up to this point. All we needed was five minutes, but I guess that was asking too much, since we only got about two.

I urge Danae to run down the stairwell as fast as she can. I move as fast as I can, as well, but I am actually slowing her down.

I glance up the steps as we round a flight. Damn it again, I am leaving a trail of blood that a five-year-old could follow. We reach the main level as running footsteps reach the stairwell above. With even a minute to spare, I would tell Danae how to find the access tunnel and send her ahead on her own while I lead our pursuers in a different direction. But we do not even have time to stop running.

Before we continue down, I take a few hopping steps out onto the floor, which scatters some blood drops. Then I squeeze my leg and hope I can make it at least half a flight down without shedding any more blood. We resume our descent. Just as we get to the bottom, our pursuers pause; then it sounds like a couple of them continue on down. At least I tried—maybe I evened the odds a little.