The Nexus Series: Books 1-3 (28 page)

14

“OKAY,
we’re in,” Amber’s voice sounded from the black van’s dashboard terminal.

“Excellent work, Amber,”
Director Holiday asked from the driver’s seat.  He looked over his
shoulder.  “Desiree?”

Dizzie sat on a
bench along the back of the van.  She studied her computer, which was
routed into the van’s dashboard.  “Trying to establish the connection,” she
said.

On the bench
across from her sat Jill and Corey, uniformed and ready just in case. 
Their helmets sat on their laps.

“A rare privilege
to have you present during a mission, Director,” said Corey.

Holiday was
apparently less excited than Corey was.  “I felt the need to be on site
for such a brazen breach of protocol.  I’m here to be held personally
responsible in case of anything going wrong.”

“Got it,” said
Dizzie.  “Ready, Sherlock?”

“
Ready, Miss
Mason
,” Sherlock’s suave British voice sounded from the dash.  Dizzie
had told Sherlock she preferred ‘Miss Mason’ to ‘Desiree.’

“Remember your
manners!  You’re looking at the Section 46 system, but you can’t store any
of the data.”

“
Once the link
has been disconnected, I will literally forget any of this ever happened
.”

“With any luck,”
muttered Holiday, “so will I.”

“CONNECTION
established,” Amber told Bradley.

Bradley gestured
in half-admiration, half-irritation.  “You’re so good at this, you do it.”

Amber
smiled.  “Oh, I was planning on it.  Are you looking at the security
records, Sherlock?”

“
I have them
before my eyes, so to speak, Miss Phoenix
,” Sherlock replied in her
earpiece.

On the central
screen, Amber pulled up a map of the section of tunnels under the watch of this
security hub.  “Show me which passage is closest to the hidden room we
found under the conservatory.”

Sherlock
highlighted the passage on the map.

“Camera 89b.”
 Bradley pointed to the map.

“Sherlock, review
the security footage from camera 89b over the past week.  We’re looking
for any VOFARE matches with Doreen Maybury.”  VOFARE referred to the
government network’s vocal and facial recognition system.

“
Of
course.  Give me just a few moments—the link slows my processing down a
bit
.”

“Take your time.”

They
waited.  Bradley was still eyeing Amber suspiciously.  “I didn’t
realize you were such a whiz at computers.”

She looked
away.  “I wouldn’t say ‘whiz.’”

“Where’d you get
your hacking skills?  I thought you were just a common, innocent civilian
before you joined the department.”

“Something like
that.”

“
Thank you for
your patience
,” their earpieces buzzed.  “
Unfortunately I was
unable to make any VOFARE match with Ms. Maybury.”

“They’re not the
sharpest cameras,” observed Bradley.  “We may need to enhance.  Let’s
get any videos of human movement through that passage.”

“How about from
last night when Jill was there?” Amber suggested.  “Maybury and her pal
must have been in the tunnels, before and after they encountered Jill.”

“Good thinking,”
agreed Bradley.  “Sherlock, show us any activity in that tunnel last night
between the hours of eleven and midnight.”

“
No activity
occurred during that particular time slot, Mr. Park
.”

They looked at
each other.

“You’re sure?”
asked Amber.

“
I would not
have said so if I wasn’t, Miss Phoenix
.”

Dizzie’s voice
interjected:  “Sketch’s people may have found a way to intercept the
camera’s signal—maybe loop an image of the empty passage.”

“Any sign of
that, Sherlock?” asked Bradley.

“
I detect no
evidence that that particular feed has been manipulated in any way.  But
if it was expertly done, no evidence would necessarily exist
.”

Amber slouched
dejectedly.  “Well, we may as well be thorough.  Sherlock, find any
records of human activity in that section of tunnel and all branching tunnels
over the last month.  Send them to Dizzie’s computer for enhancement.”

“
Right away
.”

“It’s a long
shot,” said Bradley.

Amber
shrugged.  “What else can we do?”

Bradley
stood.  “We can find out for sure if that camera’s been tampered with.”

“Don’t tell me you’re
going in there,” Amber said anxiously.  “What if you’re seen?”

“Then I’m not
wearing this stupid disguise for nothing.”

“Do it,”
Holiday’s voice affirmed.

Bradley studied
the map for a few seconds before leaving the security office.

A moment later he
appeared on one of the screens—the video feed from just beyond the hallway
outside the security room.

“Got you,” Amber
told him.  “You know where you’re going?”

“I think so,” his
voice replied.  “Guide me if I get lost.”

“All right. 
Sherlock, track Bradley on camera; send the video to this screen.  And
mark his position on the map for me too, will you?”

THERE
was a sound in the tunnels—a nameless, low, vibrating hum.  It made sure
Bradley couldn’t forget that he was surrounded in every direction by countless
mechanical parts, the massive engine that powered and propelled the floating
city.

He’d lived in
Anterra all his life, but he’d never stopped to consider just what it took to
keep the city up and running.

The tunnels were
lit every few meters by pale fluorescent bulbs.  A few weren’t
working.  Others buzzed and flickered intermittently.

He turned a
corner and descended a cramped concrete stairway.  At the bottom he
stepped out into a long gap in a twisted tangle of pipes.  A railed
catwalk traversed the gap, with lights like streetlamps along one side. 
The sound was louder here.

AMBER
watched as the screen switched from one camera view to another, following
Bradley’s path.

A movement
suddenly appeared on one of the other screens.  “Uh-oh.”

BRADLEY
was
halfway across the catwalk when Amber’s warning came.  “You’re about to
have company.”

He darted a hand
to the gun tucked beneath his lab coat.  “Sketch’s people?”

“Not sure. 
They’re dressed like Section 46 staff members.”

“How long do I
have?”

“Maybe ten
seconds.”

He considered
swinging over the catwalk and hiding underneath.  But the panels he stood
on were of webbed metal.  They’d spot him for sure through the gaps.

Time to make use
of that disguise.  He kept walking like he belonged down here.

Two figures in
lab coats emerged from the door at the other end of the catwalk—an elderly
white-haired gentleman and a middle-aged Japanese woman.  They spoke to
each other in hushed tones.

Bradley walked
toward them as casually as possible.

They saw him and
stopped talking.

“Everything all
right, Mr. Paik?” the woman asked, looking at the ID card displayed on his lab
coat as they neared each other.  Her own ID card marked her as an
atmospheric specialist.

“Fine,” he said
with a bland smile.

“You’ll have to
do better than that,” Amber’s voice buzzed in his ear.

He cleared his
throat.  “Got a, um, non-functional camera.  Checking the
connection.  Happens all the time.”

The old man
nodded.  “You’d think they could get us better equipment down here,
wouldn’t you?”  His ID said he was an electrical engineer.

“Always trying to
keep costs low, I
s’pose
,” said Bradley.

They exchanged
humorless chuckles and passed each other.

In his earpiece
Bradley heard Amber release a held breath.  “Okay, you’re almost there.”

He entered
another cement-walled passage and rounded a corner.  “This is it,” he
said, waving toward the camera mounted on the ceiling.

“I see you,” said
Amber.  “I guess it’s a working live feed after all.”

“We had to be
sure.  Any luck, Dizzie?”

“Nope. 
Still no VOFARE match on the enhanced images.”

“They could have
hacked into the security records and deleted any evidence,” said Amber.

“It’s
possible.  If they did, there’s not much we can do.”

“Hey, as long as
I’m here, I’ll check things out,” said Bradley.  He examined the wall
along the side of the passage.  “Where exactly is the room under the
conservatory?”

“Sherlock, can
you help us with that?” said Amber.

“
Just to your
right, Mr. Park
.”

Bradley shifted
that direction.

“
Stop there
,”
said Sherlock.  “
The armored door beneath the conservatory is directly
in front of you, approximately five meters beyond the wall
.”

Bradley
frowned.  “How did they access the tunnels from that door?  This wall
is totally seamless.”

“They barricaded
the door,” Amber reminded him.  “They may have sealed off this end too.”

Bradley shook his
head.  “This wall hasn’t been touched in ages.  There was never any
opening here.”

“Maybe they
weren’t using that door to get into the tunnels after all,” said Dizzie. 
“No sign of entry, no video records, nothing.”

“Hold on,” said
Bradley.  “I thought I just heard something.”  The sound had come
from farther down the passage.  “Someone else coming, Amber?”

“The cameras
aren’t showing anyone else.  You sure you’re not imagining things?”

Bradley moved
slowly in the direction of the sound.  The cement wall he’d been
inspecting came to an end; that side of the tunnel was now bordered by a
massive pipe running along the passage.

He heard
something again.  It sounded like footsteps somewhere behind the pipe.

“Someone’s
there,” Bradley whispered.  He knelt and peered through the gap beneath
the huge pipe.

There was only
darkness.

Until he caught a
glimpse of moving light through the machinery, just a few meters behind the
pipe.  “Why didn’t I bring my night-vision specs?” he lamented to himself.

“Your mobile,”
Amber reminded him.

“Oh,
right.”  All department handheld devices included infrared video
capability.   He held his mobile in the small space under the pipe
and aimed the camera lens toward the light.  “I’m routing it to your
computers,” he whispered.

IN
the van, Dizzie angled her computer screen so the others could see it.

“Are you guys
getting this?” Bradley’s voice asked from the dashboard speaker.

“For what it’s
worth, yes,” said Dizzie.

The image was
grainy and greenish.  In the middle was a shifting whitish blur.

“A flashlight
beam,” said Holiday.

“It’s hard to
see,” said Bradley.  “The gap is small, and there seem to be a lot of
wires and stuff in the way.  I’ll try to get a better angle.”

The image cleared
a bit.  The upper half of two figures became visible in the
infrared-enhanced video.  One of the figures carried a flashlight.

“The image is
still dark,” said Dizzie.  “You may have to manually adjust.”

“Okay.”  A
moment passed while Bradley apparently studied the video options on his
mobile.  “How’s that?”

The image cleared
even more.  The figures had faces now, pale faces with dark gaps for eyes
and noses.

Faces like skulls.

Corey leaned
closer.  “That’s...”  His words trailed off, and he closed his
mouth.  No one had heard him.

Bradley swiveled
his camera to follow the figures’ path, but it wasn’t long before they had
disappeared from view.  “Too much machinery in the way, now,” Bradley’s
whisper came over the dash speakers.  “I can’t see them anymore.”

“Bring it back
in, you two,” said Holiday.  “We’ve done what we can here.”

“IT’S
not on the map,” Amber insisted back in the van as they headed for HQ. 
“Wherever those two people were, it’s not part of Section 46.  Their maps
don’t show any passage running parallel to the one you were in, Bradley.”

“So it’s some
other tunnel beneath the city,” said Bradley.

“Who knows how
many nooks and crannies there are in the depths of this satellite,” mused
Holiday.

“So Sketch’s
people may have never been in Section 46 at all,” said Dizzie.  “That door
under the conservatory may have led somewhere else entirely.”

“How can we be
sure they’re Sketch’s people?” Corey asked slowly.

Jill eyed him
curiously.   “Who else would they be?”

“Whoever they
are,” said Dizzie, “they’re weirdoes.”  She turned her computer screen
toward the others.  She’d enlarged and enhanced an image from the video on
Bradley’s phone.

The two faces
looked even more like skulls now.

Corey just looked
away.

15

MURKY
daylight showed palely through the office’s round window.  Beneath the
gaze of the eagle’s red eye, the man with the long gray ponytail sat at his
desk.  Two visitors stood across from him.

“Excuse me a
moment,” he apologized when his phone began warbling.  “Yes?” he asked
into the receiver.

The same
distorted voice:  “How are things proceeding?”

“More quickly
than we anticipated, I’m pleased to tell you.  It looks as though we’ll be
able to bring you in much sooner than we had planned.”

“Excellent.”

“And I’ve taken
your suggestion to heart; even as we speak, I’m taking further steps to ensure
our operation’s safety.”

“Glad to hear
it.  I’ll be in touch.”

The man with the
ponytail hung up and regarded his visitors once more.  “Now,” he said,
“where were we?”

“Reinforcements,”
one of them replied.

“Yes, of
course.  How many of your people are available to add to the patrol?”

“We could double
our numbers here,” the other visitor answered.

The man
nodded.  “Then do it.  We’re prepared to increase your pay as well.”

“Don’t worry
about that,” the first visitor said.  “It’s payment enough just to be able
to assist in your efforts.”  He smiled.

A harrowing
smile, the man with the ponytail thought.  Beneath their dark hoods, the
visitors’ painted faces looked like skulls.

THE
elevator doors opened, and Joseph looked out into the lobby of The Nexus.

A black-haired,
dark-eyed girl was waiting for him.  “Welcome.”

The big Ugandan
smiled.  “Jillian Branch, isn’t it?  I’ve heard a lot about you—much
more than Giles should ever have told me, I’m sure.”

“Well, let’s not
hold it against him.  Right this way.”

She led him up
the small stairway to Holiday’s office.  The director was standing in
front of the windows at the back of his office overlooking HQ.  He turned
and faced his visitor.  “Thank you, Jillian.”

She nodded and
left.

Holiday pushed a
button.  Panels slid down over the windows behind him.  “Any trouble
finding the place?” he asked Joseph.

Joseph’s look was
deadly serious.  “I should not be here.”

“You didn’t want
me to know where your office was; I invited you to mine.”

“We should have
met at a neutral site, as we always do.”

“So I’d have to
buy you dinner again?”

Joseph
frowned.  “Do you not take our positions seriously, Giles?  We have
been put in charge of important things.  Compromise could be our undoing.”

“And if we don’t
cooperate, Sketch could be our undoing.”

Joseph
sighed.  “Well, now that I am already here, you may as well tell me what
you need.  I do not promise I will give it to you.”

“I need to know
about the other tunnels.”

“What other
tunnels might those be?”

“Your department
maps are incomplete.”

Joseph
frowned.  “If you mean that our maps do not include every conceivable
passageway beneath the city, you are of course correct.”

“Go on.”

“The architects
of MS9 left many openings and passages along their way,” the Ugandan explained,
“in order to keep access to the interior of the satellite during the building
process.  As they progressed, they no longer needed access to many of
those areas.  They worked their way out of the passages, sealing them off
or simply leaving them behind.”

“Then those
passages still exist down there somewhere.”

“For those who
know how to find them, yes.  The system of abandoned tunnels is
affectionately referred to as the Dark Beneath.  I’m sure you’ve heard the
term.”

“On occasion.”

Joseph
smiled.  “Anterra is like the human heart, Giles.  It shows very
little of itself on the surface—mere glimpses of its true character to the
casual observer; underneath lies much, much more, understood only by those who
know it well.”

“A fascinating
analogy.”

“I am glad you
think so.  I came up with it myself.  But we digress.  I suspect
you did not find what you were looking for last night.”

“We no longer
believe Sketch’s people are making use of Section 46.”

“That is indeed a
relief.”  Joseph stood.  “Then it seems I am no longer involved.”

Holiday held up a
hand.  “Before you leave, you’re going to tell me everything you know
about these other tunnels—this Dark Beneath.  Sketch’s men are down there,
and we plan on finding them.  But we don’t know where to begin.”

Joseph
shrugged.  “I know the tunnels exist.  Nothing more.  Where they
are, or how to access them, I have no idea.”

“But someone
does.”

“Perhaps if you
examined the original building plans for MS9....”

Holiday shook his
head.  “Those blueprints are not on public file.  Sherlock checked.”

“Then I’m afraid
I can’t help you.”

“But you know the
one who can.  Come, Joseph, when you built your own tunnels thirty years
ago, you couldn’t have just burrowed into the satellite any way you
pleased.  You had to consult someone who knew what things looked like down
there.”

Joseph
sighed.   “Of course we did.  But you know I can’t speak about
it.”

“I’m begging you,
Joseph, and I don’t beg.  A name—that’s all I need.”

The big Ugandan
chewed his lip.  “Valentine.”

“First name?”

“I can’t
remember.”

“Where can I find
him—or is it her?”

“Him.  You
said you only needed a name.”

“And you can only
remember half of it.”

Joseph
grunted.  “At the time, he was Professor of
Anterran
History at
Davarius
University and curator of the
Museum of Metropolitan Satellite Artifacts there.”

“Is he still with
the university?”

“I do not even
know if he’s still alive.”

Holiday stood and
extended his hand.  “You’ve done too much.”

“I certainly
have,” Joseph agreed as they shook.  “A very nice office, by the way,
Giles.  A very nice base of operations.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bring me
down here again.”

“I hope not to.”

HOLIDAY
did a little research after Joseph departed.

It turned out Dr.
Michael Valentine was indeed still alive and active at the university even at
the ripe age of ninety-seven.  Director Holiday promised himself he’d
retire long before he reached seventy-five.

Probably.

ANTERRA
obviously had no natural resources.  It found other ways to become
involved in the world economy.  Tourism was a huge industry, as would be
expected in humanity’s only off-Earth society.  Research and development
were also major players.

So was
education.  MS9 was home to six major universities, all of which enrolled
mostly foreign students.  Tuition for non-Anterrans bordered on the
absurd.  But there were plenty of wealthy folks on the Home Planet who
wanted their children to have the unique “off-world” college experience that
only the floating city offered.  Each semester, shuttle-loads of wide-eyed
young Earthsiders arrived ready to pour their parents’ money into MS9’s
academic institutions.

Davarius
University was a collection of tall, white-walled
buildings southeast of the lake.  The blocky, modern-looking structures
were connected by crisscrossing elevated walkways.  Amber Phoenix, a.k.a.
Stephanie
Luvinsky
, traversed the highest of these
walkways as afternoon sun spilled in through the polygonal windows and made
glowing patches on the polished white floor.  Her steps clicked
importantly as she went; she had new heels to go with her new business
suit.  A pair of spectacles completed her disguise.

She reached the
end of the walkway and entered the
Grigorsky
Building.  The big white room was empty except for a big white desk and a
few white synthetic trees and plants.  Behind the desk a peppy secretary
informed her that the history department offices were to her left.

She turned a
corner into an imposing hallway lined with big oaken doors.  Halfway down
the hall she found the door marked DR. MICHAEL VALENTINE, ANTERRAN HISTORY.

Through the door
was another secretary who informed her that the professor would see her
now.  She offered her thanks and passed through the door behind the
reception desk.

The office was a
startling contrast to the stark modernity of the rest of the university. 
Amber had stepped into a time capsule from decades ago.  There were
shelves lined with leather bound volumes, and wood-framed paintings of
apparently important people.  There was also a lot of clutter—papers and
books strewn on the floor, the chairs, and the wooden desk at the back of the
room.

The clutter was
shoved out of the way enough to make room for some sort of contraption in the
corner.  The man strapped to the contraption was apparently the
professor.  He wasn’t what Amber had been expecting.  For some reason
she’d pictured the renowned academician as a tall, imposing man with wild white
hair, not the squat, balding little figure she saw now.  He was dressed in
a velour sweat suit of a nameless color.  His eyes were closed.  If
he was even aware of her presence he didn’t let on.

Amber cleared her
throat.

“Please have a
seat, Ms.
Luvinsky
,” the professor said in a squeaky,
nasally voice.  He still didn’t open his eyes.

Amber didn’t
accept his invitation.  There didn’t seem to be any chairs available due
to the clutter.

“Have you ever
wondered,” the professor said, still immersed in his reverie, “what it would
have been like to be tried by the Spanish Inquisition, Ms.
Luvinsky
?”

“I can’t say that
I have.”

His eyes popped
open.  “You’re younger than I thought.  You have
heard
of the
Spanish Inquisition, no?”

“Of course,
Professor.”

Dr. Valentine
wheezed a laugh and unstrapped his hands and feet from the contraption. 
“They used the most terrible—and, may I say—
ingenious
methods, as this apparatus
here often reminds me.  Before I came to
Davarius
,
I taught medieval history at New York University, you know.”

Amber didn’t have
to fake her discomfort at the sight of the contraption.  “Is it a replica
of one of their torture machines?”

He laughed again,
slapping his knees.  “This is an exercise machine that was very popular
long before you were born.”  He frowned.  “Probably before your
parents were born, actually.  I suppose that makes me an old man.”

“You don’t look
your age, Dr. Valentine,” Amber told him.

His smile
returned.  He patted his machine.  “Well, I guess it works,
then!  Now, then, what was it we were going to speak about?”

“Well, as your
secretary must have informed you, I’m a representative with Section 46.”

“Ah, Joseph’s
department!”  With startlingly spry movements he stepped to a chair, swept
some papers off it, and offered it to her.  “Please sit.”  He bounced
behind his desk, cleared off his own chair, and perched on it.  “What do
you do with Section 46, Ms.
Luvinsky
?”

“My expertise is
atmospheric generation.”

“You make sure we
can all breathe while we’re traipsing around on this flying saucer of a city,”
he interjected brightly.

She smiled
stiffly.  “That’s right.”

“Well then, I
suppose I’m very indebted to you, Ms.
Luvinsky
. 
I make a habit of breathing regularly, you see.”  He laughed again. 
Laughter seemed to be a favorite pastime of the professor.  Maybe that’s
what kept him so lively at ninety-seven.  “Well, I’m not sure what it is I
can do to help.  I’m hardly knowledgeable about such things.”

“I’m not here
about my job, professor.  I’m here to speak on behalf of the department in
general.”

“Oh?”

“You once helped
us construct our tunnel system.”

A cloud suddenly
descended over the old man’s bright disposition.  “That was a long time
ago.”

“We need your
assistance once again, Dr. Valentine.  The department is expanding.”

The professor
shook his head vehemently.  “I’m too old for that sort of thing. 
Someone else can help you this time.”

Amber smiled
stiffly again.  “I’m afraid not, professor.  We’ve done our research
quite thoroughly.  You’re the only one who can offer what we require.”

He frowned
deeply.  “Which is what?”

“Surely you know
what I mean.  You’re the only one in possession of the original blueprints
of the satellite.”

Perspiration was
beginning to bead on Dr. Valentine’s forehead.  “It’s certainly not
accurate to say that I’m in possession of them.  They belong to the
university—to the museum, specifically.”

“And are you not
still curator of the museum?”

He was
shaking.  “Well, yes, but—”

“Then you have
access to those documents.  Furthermore you’ve studied them.  There’s
no living person as familiar as you are with the Dark Beneath.”

He’d been growing
edgier each moment, but these last words seemed to push him over the
edge.  He leapt to his feet.  “I’ve already told you, I can’t help
you.  I’m sorry.”

“But, professor—”

“
The interview
is over, Ms.
Luvinsky
!
”

Amber’s eyes
widened behind her spectacles.

The professor
looked at the floor, apparently shocked by his own tone.  “I’m very
sorry,” he said again, and gestured toward the door.