Sam spent the flight compulsively memorizing details about the cabin. She couldn't access the console built into her chair, big surprise, so she had nothing to do but worry.
She spoke quietly to Turner. "Is it possible Charon is working for the Air Force?"
He answered in a low voice. "I don't think so."
It seemed unlikely to Sam, too. The man in fatigues didn't strike her as Air Force, but his taciturn style revealed little. He saw to their needs in food and water, but responded to none of her questions. His careful movements, muscular build, and military bearing made her wonder if he was a mercenary Charon had hired.
Their "steward" had strapped on a stun gun, or staser. At first it relieved Sam; apparently he didn't plan to kill either of them. Then she realized he might be avoiding anything more powerful only because he didn't want to damage the Rex. She hoped Charon considered her expertise as an EI analyst worth enough to keep her alive. If he had done everything Turner claimed, though, he might not care if she died; he could resurrect her as a forma. But anyone brilliant enough to create Turner had to realize her value lay in her creativity, memory, expertise, and mental stability, any of which could be lost if he copied her mind into an EI.
What the hell. She whould just try again to ask the steward what was up. She had little to lose. Turning in her seat, she said, "Hello."
He tilted his head, watching her as if she were an exotic animal he had caught in a cage. "Hello."
"I was wondering," she said.
"Yes?"
She made a conscious effort not to squirm under his scrutiny. "Who do you work for?"
Silence.
"Did you all steal this Rex?"
Silence.
He wasn't any more verbose now than before. She tried another tack. "So what do you do in your everyday life?"
"My job."
At least that got an answer. "What is that?"
Although he still didn't answer, this time he did smile. It made him look familiar, though she couldn't place why.
"You don't talk much," she said.
No answer, just that enigmatic smile.
After a few more futile attempts at conversation, Sam gave up and turned back around, slouching in her seat. She had thought, when she retreated to her beach six months ago, that the world would ignore her. She had left behind the acrimony and bitter losses at BioII. The potential payoff in the design and production of biomech and neural implants for humans was so damnably huge, BioII was rushing the work. Sam couldn't live with putting people at risk that way. The third time she had lost her fight to implement better safety controls on testing the implants, she had resigned.
It had caused a commotion Sam never intended. She was BioII's highest paid EI architect, the team leader who had patented their most profitable neural matrices. When she left on a matter of principle, the proverbial heads rolled. Then BioII had tried to woo her back. Although she missed her work, she couldn't in good conscience go back after all that had happened. Yet here she was in a worse conflict, one that might end her life instead of her job.
"What I don't understand," Sam said to no one in particular, "is how Charon got his people onto this Rex."
Turner shrugged. He had already made clear what he thought: the Redbird had come from Charon, not Thomas Wharington, or else Thomas worked for Charon. Sam didn't believe Thomas had betrayed them nor did she think these people were NIA or Air Force. The fake helicopter scenario didn't convince her, either. She had grown up around Air Force personnel. She would swear those medics had been the real deal. But that left the improbable scenario that Charon had substituted his people for the crew of this Rex, managing that feat at a hidden field in the mountains. It would mean he had a prodigious intelligence network, which suggested powerful backers.
"I just don't see how Charon managed it," Sam grumbled.
Turner gave a bitter laugh. "Welcome to my world."
"What will he do with us?"
"He probably wants you to work for him."
"Not a chance." It went against every principle she had fought for these past years.
Turner glanced back at their steward. Sam turned, too, and frowned at the man in fatigues.
"Can I help you?" the steward asked.
"I was wondering if you had a name," Sam said.
"Yes."
She waited. "Will you tell us?"
"No."
"You know," Sam said dourly. "Our conversations aren't exactly scintillating."
He smiled. "Sorry."
"Come on," she said. "Just a name."
He regarded her with curiosity, but no animosity. "Be realistic. Would you tell me anything if our situation was reversed?"
"I wouldn't have kidnapped you."
"I'm sorry you don't like this, Dr. Bryton."
"How about you take us back, then?"
"I didn't say I was sorry we have you."
Disheartened, she turned to the front again. Turner put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, but judging from his tense posture, she doubted he would sleep.
Eventually the engine rumble changed. The deceleration made her feel as if the blood drained out of her torso, despite the pressure webbing that pressed in on her body. But they landed safely. The steward had taken Sam's mesh glove so she didn't know the time, but she estimated they had been in flight over three hours. Lord only knew where they were now.
After they landed, the steward went into the cockpit, moving with the muscular ease of an athlete. The contained energy of his walk made Sam wonder if he were even human. Charon might have created others like Turner. Not many, though; it had surely taken a huge investment of funds, materials, expertise, and equipment to resurrect Turner. Creating an android from scratch was just as resource intensive. She doubted anyone could make such formas on a large scale—at least not yet.
Charon needed a backer. Could it be Sunrise Alley? Rumors drifted through the world meshes of the Alley, a hidden conclave of biomech geniuses involved in the forma black market. It had great mystique, and shadowy tales abounded everywhere, but until yesterday, she had thought those were little more than urban legends.
The steward opened the cockpit door, but before he went inside, he turned back to Sam and watched her as if he intended to speak. She shifted uneasily under his scrutiny. She was about to ask what he wanted when he turned away and entered the cockpit, closing the door behind him.
"What was that about?" Turner asked.
Sam felt as if she couldn't breathe. "I don't know."
The cockpit door opened again. This time both the pilot and Raze came out—and bile rose in her throat. Both of them carried EM pulse rifles, massive silver guns that glinted in the harsh light. One bullet from those monsters could tear a human body to shreds.
The pilot was made from the same mold as the other two men, muscular and controlled, with dark hair and eyes. The steward followed him out of the cockpit and took another pulse rifle out of a locker in a bulkhead near the door. He turned, the rifle gripped in both hands. When he looked at Sam, his gaze became hooded. She suspected she had imagined his sympathy earlier, wishful thinking on her part that she and Turner might find an ally here. Disquieted and scared, she fumbled to unfasten her webbing.
Turner touched her shoulder. She jerked, feeling like a startled deer, except she couldn't run off. He mouthed the words We'll be okay.
Sam set her hand over his on her shoulder. They both knew they weren't going to be all right, but she appreciated his reassurance.
The steward opened the door, then stood silhouetted against a dark blue sky so vivid it seemed to vibrate. As Sam and Turner came forward under watch of their guards, the steward went out onto the top of what looked like mobile stairs. He motioned for Sam to follow. She stepped out—and gasped.
Mountains. They ringed the landing field. Steppe extended around the area for a mile or so, flat and parched. Beyond it, majestic peaks rose into the intensely blue sky, cloaked in snow, ringing the horizon in every direction. The stark landscape had a grandeur unlike any other mountains she had seen. A gibbous moon hung in the sky, ghostly blue.
The cold air seared her lungs, devoid of moisture, free of smog or dust. She couldn't pull in enough oxygen. They had to be incredibly high; she had never struggled this hard to breathe even in the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevadas in California.
"So they trod across the roof of the world," the steward murmured. He stood next to Sam, holding his rifle, letting her take her time.
The "roof of the world." Good Lord. It meant the Himalayas. "It's extraordinary," Sam said.
"So it is." His voice became businesslike. "Now we go down."
She looked down the stairs. Cranes were attending the aircraft, aided by mechbots, short for "mechanical robot," constructs with no biological components and little or no AI capability. The steward went first, followed by Sam and Turner, then the other two mercenaries. No one spoke. Icy air gripped them, drying the sweat on Sam's forehead.
They crossed the tarmac to a low building. It had no distinguishing features, only dark walls with no visible entrance. When a rumble came from behind them, Sam jumped and spun around. One of the cranes was closing up the door of the Rex.
The steward grasped her arm. "Keep going."
An image came to Sam: pulse projectiles blasting through her body, destroying her organs with shock waves. She swallowed and began walking again.
As they neared the building, she asked, "Where is this place?"
No one answered. None of the mercenaries showed any sign of emotion. Their faces and posture implied nothing except confidence in their right to kidnap her and Turner. Sam gritted her teeth. They did their jobs damnably well.
The building had no windows or ornamentation. As they reached its closest wall, a lamp came on under the overhanging eaves. The steward pressed his thumb against a panel and waited while light scanned his eyes.
Seams formed—and a door silently slid open.
The steward motioned Sam forward, but this time she balked, an instinctual reaction, one that happened before her mind caught up with her reflexes. "What is in there?"
She expected them to threaten her with their guns. Instead the steward was unexpectedly solicitous. "Don't worry. You won't be hurt."
Turner spoke as if he were gritting his teeth. "Depends how you define 'hurt.' "
The steward considered him as a race car driver might consider a sleek new car with design problems. "You have caused Charon a great deal of trouble. I would suggest you don't anger him further." No trace remained of the sympathy he had showed Sam.
None of the other mercenaries spoke, but they had all raised their guns. Sam didn't want her actions to cause Turner harm. She took his arm. "Let's go on in."
He didn't answer, but he did walk forward with her, his jaw set. They stayed close together, surrounded by the mercenaries. Sam felt trapped in a cage of armed, hostile forces. Turner took her hand, clasping his fingers in hers. She squeezed his fingers.
A corridor stretched out in front of them, lit here but reaching into darkness. Gold metal paneled its floor, walls, and ceiling, glimmering, beautiful but stark in its lack of adornment. Her running shoes squeaked on the floor. The hall was wide enough for six people to walk abreast, but they went in a cluster, the steward and Raze first, then Turner and Sam, and the pilot in the rear. No doors broke the walls on either side, but Sam had no doubt they were there, just hidden. Charon would want them as confused as possible; the less they knew, the easier it would be to keep them secured here.
The ceiling glowed above them as they walked and dimmed after they passed. The corridor seemed to go on forever, farther than was possible given the size of the building. She didn't think they were underground; the floor didn't noticeably slope. When she closed her eyes and relied more on her sense of balance, she wasn't certain they were going in a straight line. This was all another way for Charon to keep them disoriented, unable to get their bearings.
This endless corridor might have affected someone else, but Sam had seen such tricks before. The glimmering walls were holo screens that projected images. It didn't surprise her that their guards didn't let them close enough to touch any surface; what they felt probably wouldn't match what they saw.
Finally she stopped. "This is stupid. If you all like walking in circles around a holo track, go ahead. I'm going to wait here until you're done with this game."
The steward considered her. He seemed more fascinated than anything else. "I suppose I could threaten you with my gun to get you moving."
"Yeah, you could," Sam said.
His mouth quirked up. "Should I?"
"You should take us home."
"I don't think so." He unhooked the mesh glove from his belt and pulled it on his hand. Then he moved away from them. When he spoke into its comm, his voice was too low to overhear. After only a few moments, though, he came back to them, again with that maddening smile of his. "All right, Sam. Here."
She didn't like the way he watched her. "Here?"
With no warning, the walls melted around them. Then they were standing in another corridor, one with similar walls—except this one curved to the right until it disappeared from sight.
"Well, look at that," Sam said. "What a surprise."
Turner turned in a circle, looking around. "How did you know it was fake?"
"It's a cheap trick," Sam said.
"Hardly cheap, I assure you," the steward said.
Sam raised her eyebrows at him. "Maybe you're an illusion, too. Or maybe you're Charon."
"You flatter me." Dryly he added, "And insult Charon." Then he motioned her forward.
They followed the corridor only for a short distance before the steward stopped. Although Sam didn't see him do anything, the wall in front of him faded away into a rectangular archway. Beyond it, an office gleamed with white walls and carpet, and glass furniture. Glow-tiles on the ceiling filled the room with light. Despite Sam's intent to remain cool and collected, the sight rattled her. Someone had gone to a great deal of expense to create this strange hallway and imposing office.
As they entered the office, she memorized details. A white Luminex console stretched the length of the opposite wall. No one sat behind it. The room had a lot of empty space. The rounded white couch and armchairs glimmered with indistinct holo patterns that shifted as she moved, creating an ethereal quality as if they were scintillating clouds. The tables sparkled and their edges broke light into colors. She would have bet diamonds were embedded in those edges; a prism wouldn't split this diffuse light so well.
"How gaudy," Sam said. It wasn't; the gorgeous room with its subtle display of wealth impressed the hell out of her, which made it all the more intimidating. Trying to cover her apprehension, she said, "So where is our host?"
Turner stood next to her with his jaw clenched. Raze and the steward flanked him, both taller and more muscular, pulse rifles in hand. They menaced without saying a word. Turner looked terrified. Sam wanted to reach for his hand, to offer support, but the steward stood between them, deliberately, she thought.
The pilot went to the console across the room and leaned over a comm there, his lips moving, though Sam couldn't hear him. She looked back the way they had come in time to see a door slide across the entrance, its surface matching the walls so well that no seams showed when it finished closing. Their prison was complete.
"Is this Charon's office?" Sam asked Turner.
"I don't know." He folded his arms and rubbed his palms along them. "I've never been here before."
"What happens now?" she asked.
The steward motioned at the pilot across the room. "He's talking with Charon. We wait until he's done." He indicated a couch against the wall to their left. The long table before it was glass, with chrome legs and prismatic edges. "Please be comfortable."
Sam kept her thoughts about Charon's "comfort" to herself. The mercenaries pushed Sam and Turner forward, so they all went to the couch. Sam sank onto it, and the cushions responded to her tension far more adeptly than her own semi-smart furniture. It still didn't help, though.
An armchair stood at the end of the couch, facing in. Turner sat down in it, his body so taut that Sam doubted the chair could make him comfortable, either. Seeing his haunted expression, she felt like a fraud. She had promised him refuge. But she didn't see what else they could have done. Contacting the NIA may have led Charon to them, but they would have been even more exposed had they spent hours on an unprotected highway driving the Lost Coast of northern California, with its plunging gorges, dense forests, and lonely cliffs.
"I'm sorry this happened," Sam said to him.
"It's not your fault," he said. "We're facing an expert. Maybe no one can outwit him."
Sam had no intention of giving up. "We'll see."
Raze and the steward took up positions on either side of the couch. Then the pilot came back and stood behind Turner's chair. All three guards waited in silence, imposing and solid, with no expression. Sam wished they didn't look so blasted effective.
With no warning, the wall behind the console shimmered and faded into a doorway. It was dark beyond, making it hard to see the person entering the room—until she stepped into the light. Black hair brushed her shoulders and her dark eyes slanted upward. She wore a form-fitting black jumpsuit that did nothing to hide her devastatingly well-toned figure. Her black knee-boots added several more inches to her six-foot height. The belt around her narrow waist glimmered with silver mesh-threads, and a pulse gun rode snug in a holster at her hip.
"Good Lord," Turner muttered.
"You know her?" Sam asked.
"Never seen her before." He looked alarmed. "Believe me, I would remember."
The surge of jealousy that hit Sam startled her; she hadn't realized she had begun to think about Turner as hers. More than anything else, that convinced her he was a man; she couldn't imagine any machine evoking such a powerful response in her.
The woman stalked over to them, cool and menacing. Sam stood up, feeling puny in comparison to this new phenomenon. As Turner rose to his feet, the woman looked them up, down, and over. She stopped on the other side of the coffee table and considered them with her hands on her hips. Her unusual height made Sam excruciatingly aware of her slight build and wild hair. She had nothing on this sleek, perfect person. She felt as if she were being judged and discarded.
"Are you Charon?" Sam asked.
The woman gave a husky laugh. "Not even close."
Sam wished she didn't feel so cold. "So when is he showing up?"
The woman shrugged. "If he wishes to come, he will. For now I am your host."
Sam looked her up and down the same way the woman had done to them, though she doubted she intimidated anyone, let alone this mercenary goddess. "Who are you?"
"You may call me Alpha."
"Alpha?" Personally, Sam thought someone this unique deserved a more original nickname than the first letter of the Greek alphabet. Maybe Alpha was an android, first of a series, followed by Beta, Gamma, Delta, ad nauseum. Sam had never heard of anyone building such a magnificent forma, though.
Alpha spoke to the steward. "I'll take the android with me. You stay here with Dr. Bryton."
"I'm not a goddamned android," Turner said.
Sam wished she wasn't so far from Turner. She felt small as they stood facing all these large, muscular people. No doubt the effect was intentional. Mental games had never worked well on Sam, but this was reaching even her limit. She was terrified they would end up dead. Or worse.
"Turner and I stay together," she said.
"Is that so?" Alpha smiled, her teeth glittering—literally. They had the same prismatic quality as the table. "Turner, don't be difficult. Charon could take you apart and put you together however he wants."
His gaze darkened. "I know."
"Then behave yourself and come with me."
He clenched one fist at his side. "No."
With surreal calm, Alpha drew her gun—and fired.
The bullet shattered the table in front of Sam and sent glass flying. She whipped her arm in front of her face, staggering as shards rained over her. The back of her calves hit the couch and her legs buckled, collapsing her onto the cushions. Alpha must have intended to hit the table; she couldn't have missed at this range.
Turner lunged toward Sam. "Get her a doctor!"
Alpha pointed her gun at him. When he froze, she said, "Stay put."
"A doctor?" Sam asked. Baffled, her heart racing, she rose to her feet. "Why?"
For some reason, the steward came over and put his hand under her elbow. She pulled away from him.
"She is a doctor," Alpha said, obviously amused. "An EI shrink, no less. You need therapy, Turner?"
He looked ready to strangle her. "Get help, damn it."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked. She meant to say more, but an unexpected dizziness stopped her. The steward tried to make her sit down and Turner gave him a murderous look.
"Everyone, stop." Sam's left arm had begun to hurt. She peered down—
Blood covered her forearm.
"Oh." Sam dropped onto the couch. Gashes covered her arm and she felt blood running over the skin. She suddenly thought she would lose her rushed dinner of hot dogs.
Carefully, with no sudden movements, Turner stepped over and knelt at her side on the couch. He took her hand. "Don't protest anymore. I'll go with them."
"Turner—" She stopped when he laid two fingers over her lips.
"I thank you for standing by me," he said. "But I refuse to be responsible for your death."
"They won't kill me." She meant to sound confident, but her voice wobbled.
He squeezed her hand, his gaze caressing her face, as if he would memorize it now, in case he never saw it again. "You've guts, Sam, but courage won't stop bullets. Promise me you won't challenge them."
Sam started to answer, but a wave of dizziness stopped her. She closed her eyes and sat very still, fending off the nausea.
When feet rustled on the carpet, she looked to see Alpha and Raze taking away Turner.