The Trap (17 page)

The bus moves along, the sound of the horses’ hoofs on concrete synchronized almost perfectly with one another. The wood-shelled carriage creaks as we move forward.

Several stops along the way. More people pile in. Somebody approaches. Points to my backpack on the seat next to me. I ignore him, stare out the window. He doesn’t say anything, only
stands in the aisle. He reaches up and grabs a strap dangling from above. Bodies fill the aisle now. Somebody sits next to Sissy. Then a wall of bodies in the aisle blocks my view of her.

People staring at me, annoyed at this young punk who’s too self-absorbed and selfish to move his bag so others can sit down. I keep my head facing outward, even as my eyes scan from side
to side behind the Visor.

A sudden turn at an intersection. The bodies tilt and sway slightly and I catch a brief glimpse of Sissy. Her shoulders bunched and taut, her neck unnaturally canted. She’s tense. But
she’s still got her wits about her. She’s facing outward, pushing her breath through the open window. Capable, this girl. Something like pride swells in me.

Minutes pass. More bodies pile in. Then we’ve made our last residential stop, and the bus-carriage is flying along the street. The road is filled with other horses and carriages, the
sidewalks bursting with the pace of thousands walking to the Convention Center. No one speaking, everything quiet except for the sound of hoofs and the pounding of thousands of boots on concrete.
The buildings grow taller, no longer the low domiciles of the residential zones. We’ve entered the business sector.

And minutes later, we arrive at the Convention Center. A water show is on full display in the large fountain out front. High arching, spiraling streams of water jet out of the pool, twenty,
thirty meters into the air before splashing into the rippling, frothing surface. Music is piped in through outdoor speakers, synchronized with the water show. Sissy gets off the bus before me,
walks with the flow of pedestrian traffic. Everyone’s pace faster now, the start of the event drawing closer, the excitement level building. She walks slowly, knowing it’ll be easy to
get separated in such a crowd.

She stops in front of the fountain. I sidle up next to her. Our eyes stayed fixed on the water shooting up in wide symmetrical arcs above us. Phosphorescent liquids have been added to the water,
and the soaring twirls of water glow lightly in the dark.

“Okay?” I whisper.

“Okay.”

“No. Really. Are you okay?”

She doesn’t respond immediately. “There’s so many of them. Too many.” Her voice catches, hitching. “How are we ever going to pull this off? What were we
thinking?”

“Sh-h-h. Don’t stand so close to the fountain. They’re afraid of it—the water, the depth, the lights.”

“Why do they have it then?”

“The danger’s a huge part of the thrill for them.”

She takes a step backward. “I don’t think we can do this. There’re too many of them. They’re everywhere.”

“No, we’re doing fine. Just remember the game plan. Focus on that. And on nothing else, not the people around you. Okay?”

After a moment, she whispers, “Okay.”

“Stay close,” I say, and we rejoin the crowd streaming into the Convention Center.

T
O ENTER THE
main arena of the Convention Center, the crowd must first filter through a large tunnel that breaks into smaller and smaller
tributaries leading to higher levels and sections. Here in the main tunnel, every sound is amplified and echoed and the thunder of footsteps makes it seem like there are many more than the
thousands heading into the auditorium.

Despite our best-laid plan to remain apart, Sissy and I walk side by side. It’s simply too dark and too crowded to risk losing each other. We even take off our Visors, a dicey move but
given the near-pitch-black environs, a necessary one. I comfort myself in the knowledge that this throng of thousands is facing the same direction, with no one glancing backward or sideways at
us.

Sissy starts trembling next to me. It’s barely discernible, invisible to most. But I see the way her fingers are quaking. She’s trying to tamp down her fears and give off a calm
demeanor, but she’s over-compensated. Her lips are torqued into an odd curve, and her arms swing with disjointed jerks. We can’t go on like this. Sooner or later, somebody’s going
to notice.

On our right is a small food court, mostly empty. It’s surrounded by concession stalls selling light fare, slims of synthetic meat and artificially flavored sludge. I nudge Sissy toward a
table in the far corner where we can keep our faces from view. There are a few other couples at other tables, conversing and sipping their drinks. That’s good. We fit in.

“I’m sorry,” she says as we sit down. “It just got to me. Too many of them, penning us in. The air went thin, I felt suffocated.”

“It’s okay. Let’s take a minute to regroup.”

She takes slow, deep breaths. Shakes her head in frustration, catches herself. “Thought I was stronger than this,” she says, a hoarse whisper issuing from her throat.
“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re not used to it. Listen, we can stay together. Maybe it was a foolish idea to separate.”

But she’s already shaking her head. “No. We stick to the original plan.”

“Sissy—”

She touches my hand. Withdraws it quickly, remembering. “No, Gene. We decided it was best. You in the upper levels. Me down on the floor. You take her out with the sniper, make a quick
getaway. If you miss, or your sniper jams, or . . .”—she bites her lip for just a second—“I’ll take her out.”

“That’s not going to happen, Sissy.”

“We just have to—”

“I won’t let it happen. I won’t miss. I’m not going to make you take the shot on the floor because we know what that means. Down there, you have no escape.”

“I know. But we should plan for every exigency.” She brushed her hair to the side. “Regardless of how it goes down, we try to meet out front by the fountain. And worse comes to
worst, we’ll meet back at the boulders in the desert.”

I want desperately to run my hand under her jawline where the hardness of bone and softness of flesh meet. But all I can do is stare at my stationary hands.

“We should check the TT,” she says after a while.

I take out the TextTrans. Nothing. I type out a quick message.

It’s risky to give away our position like this, and my finger hovers over the SEND button, hesitating.

But Sissy urges me to send it. “It’s the right move,” she says. “Maybe his TT’s broken, can receive but not send messages. If that’s the case, we need to let
him know we’re here. Give him at least a chance of connecting with us.”

“You really think he might be here?”

She nods. “If he wasn’t able to kill her last night—and judging from the fact that the event is still on, he didn’t—he’d want to come here. For the very
reason we’re here: she’s here.” Sissy nods. “Let’s send it. Play big, win big.” She taps on SEND.

Or lose big,
I think, but don’t verbalize.

Behind us, the crowds grow larger by the minute. Their footsteps are thunderclaps bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

Sissy half-turns to look at them. Under the table, she clenches my hand tighter.

“This is not something we didn’t anticipate,” I say.

“I know. But this is so much worse than I thought it’d be.”

I lean closer to her. “We can still leave. Just forget about—”

“No. Let’s do this.”

“Sure?”

She nods, tensely.

Someone sits at the table next to us. The food court is getting crowded, filling with people who walked here on empty stomachs. “We should move on,” I say reluctantly. “Before
we attract any attention.”

Her hand squeezes mine one more time before letting go. “But this is where we part ways, Gene.”

“Don’t put it like that.”

A flicker of a smile. “I’ll see you later then, okay?” she says.

“Okay.”

But neither of us moves. We don’t want to separate.

Using her body as cover, she takes out her handgun and pockets away a silencer. “We stick to the plan, Gene. Don’t deviate, okay?” She slides the gun into her the waist of her
pants, pulls her shirt over the bulge. “See you in a bit.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

One last look at me, and then she parts. I want to grab her hand, stop her from leaving. But I stay rock still, arms lashed to my sides, one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. She walks
along the edge of the crowd—to her, it must feel like touching the sharp edge of a razor—then disappears into it like a raindrop into a river. She is there, and then she is gone.

A minute later, I join the masses. My feet fall in step with theirs. I want to catch a glimpse of Sissy ahead, but it is all darkness. I walk on, backpack slung over one shoulder, unable to
shake the thought that, in letting Sissy go, I’ve made a fatal mistake.

C
OMING OUT OF
the tunnel, the throng of thousands moves efficiently and quietly along slate-gray walkways. At every level, thousands leave
the ramp to find their sections on that floor. By the time I’m on the fifth and top level, the crowd has noticeably thinned.

I clutch the strap of the backpack. A different sort of crowd up here, better dressed, with more airs about them. The men in ritzy suits with wide velvet lapels, the women garbed in the
luxuriant colors and swanky dresses of the affluent. The cream of society rising to the top where it’s all about private luxury suites.

And not a Visor in sight. Other than mine, of course.

The layout of the arena is a mystery to me, and I’m unsure which doors lead where. When an announcement comes over the PA system that the event will start in five minutes, I start to panic
a little. I don’t know how to get to the rafters. I quickly decide to go to plan B: find an empty suite. Private and isolated, the suites are actually the perfect places to set up for the
kill. I can still sight the target from a high vantage point. Then pull the trigger, drop the target, and escape quickly by merging with the panicking crowds.

The only problem is finding an empty suite. This is a packed event, and every suite I walk past is either fully occupied or fast getting there. I quicken my pace. A little too quickly. From the
corners of my eyes, I observe two staffers conversing, their heads swiveling around to study me. They see a person walking too fast, whose attire and demeanor don’t fit in with the
upper-crust denizens of the Luxury Level. Who’s wearing a Visor. Indoors.

I slow my pace, walk around the natural bend of that level. Once out of their view, I move faster, legs scissoring past each other with contained panic. My eyes again cut into every suite I
pass, wishing for a miracle I know will not come. There’s little hope of finding an empty suite.

An announcement is suddenly made over the speakers. “One more minute. Take your seats.”

The small clusters of people milling about disappear into their suites. Leaving me virtually all alone and completely exposed.

There’s one suite coming up. Unlike the others, the door is closed. As I draw nearer, the words
The Palace
embroidered in gold letters come into view.
It’s empty,
I
think to myself.
It’s got to be empty
. The Ruler, his staffers, they’re all stuck in the Vast, unable to journey on such short notice. I turn the knob. And like a gift, the
door opens.

I glide in, shut the door quickly. Take off the Visor. The suite is empty, the air undisturbed. I press my ear against the door. Footsteps outside, too hurried to be anyone’s but the
security staff following me. The footsteps march quickly past the door, fade away. It’ll be minutes before they circle back, if ever.

I take in the suite. It’s larger than expected, perhaps the size of two typical suites, with a bar in the rear, velvet sleepholds on the ceiling, a sliding glass door that opens to two
rows of cushioned exterior seats that peer into the arena. The dim lights go dark, enshrouding me in black. The show is beginning.

I slip through the door to the exterior rows of seats. Glance over the edge into the arena.

Only the stage is lit, dimly, an orb of faint gray gleaming off the bare floor. The arched glass roof of the arena, usually smoothly concaved like a dome, appears oddly granular and bumpy. It
takes a minute to realize why: there are hundreds, thousands, of balloons bunched up there. I know what they have planned. At the climax of the evening’s event, they’ll drop all the
balloons. It’ll be quite the spectacle: thousands of colorful orbs descending to the floor while tinted moonlight beams down through the domed glass.

From the suites to my left and right, soft sounds. Clinking of wineglasses, restrained whispers of conversation. I edge back from the edge, not wanting to be seen, and slink into the second row.
A good place to set up for the kill undetected.

The master of ceremonies takes the stage. He’s yammering on, but I’m not paying attention. I need to focus on the task at hand. I take out the sniper rifle. Screw on the hollow,
cylindrical silencer. Load and chamber two rounds. There won’t be time to clear the shell casing, then load and chamber a third one. Pandemonium will ensue quickly, and I’ll have to
drop everything and book out of here in two seconds flat.