A Deepness in the Sky (56 page)

Smith began, "If they were killed one by one, pieces of them sent back to us..." Her voice faded. "You're right about Pedure. She would understand how things work with Sherkaner and me. Okay, I want you and Belga to—"

One of the desk phones chattered, an in-building direct line. Victory Smith flicked a pair of long arms across the table and grabbed the handset. "Smith."

She listened for a moment, then whistled softly. "Theywhat ? But... Okay, Sherkaner, I believe you. Yes, Jaybert was right to pass it on to Underville."

She rang off, and said to Thract, "Sherkaner's found the key. He's deciphered last night's radio intercepts. It looks like the cobblies are being held in the Plaza Spar, downtown."

Now the phone by Thract went off. He stabbed the Public On hole, and said, "Thract here."

Belga Underville's voice sounded faint and off-mike: "They have? Well, shut them up!" Then louder: "Listen, Thract? I've got my hands full down here. Now I get a call from your techie-freaks saying the victims are being held on the top floor of the Plaza Spar. Are you cobbers for real?"

Thract: "They're not my techs. It's important intelligence, Colonel, wherever it came from."

"Damn, I already had a real lead. The city police spotted a silk banner snagged on the Bank of Princeton tower." That was about half a mile from the Plaza Spar. "It was the jacket fabric that Downing described to us."

Smith leaned close to the mike, and said, "Belga, was there anything attached? A note?"

There was an instant's hesitation, and Thract could imagine Belga Underville getting her temper under control. Belga didn't mind complaining to her fellows about all the "bloody stupid technology," but not with Smith on the line.

"No, Chief. It was pretty well shredded. Look. The techs could be right about the Plaza Spar, but that's a busy place. I'll send a team to the lower floors, pretending to be customers. But—"

"Good. No alarms; get in close."

"Chief, I think the tower where we found the banner is a better bet. It's mostly vacant, and—"

"Fine. Go after both."

"Yes, ma'am. The problem is the city police. They went off on their own, sirens, everything."

Last night, Victory Smith had lectured Thract on the power of local police. But that power was economic, and political. Just now she said, "They have? Well, shut them up! I'll take responsibility."

She waved to Thract. "We're going downtown."

THIRTY-ONE

Shynkrette paced about her "command post." Talk about luck. This mission had been designed as a hundred-day lurk-and-pounce. Instead, they'd bagged their targets less than ten days after insertion. The whole op had been an incredible combination of happenstance and screwup. So what else was new? Promotions came from pulling success out of real-world situations, and Shynkrette had survived worse than this. Barker and Fremm getting squashed had been bad luck and inattention. Maybe the worst mistake had been leaving the witnesses—at least it was the worst mistake that could be laid on her own back. On the other hand they had six children, at least four of them the targets. The getaway from the museum had been smooth, but the airport pickup fell through. The Accord's local security was just a little too quick—maybe again because of those surviving witnesses.

This office space ringed the Plaza Spar, twenty-five stories up. It gave an excellent view of city activity, except directly below. In one sense, they were completely trapped here—who had ever hidden by sticking themselves up in the sky? In another sense—Shynkrette paused behind her team sergeant. "What does Trivelle say, Denni?"

The sergeant lifted the phone from his head. "Ground-floor lobby is about average busy. He has some business visitors. An old coot and some last-generation cobbers. They want to rent office space."

"Okay. They can look at the third-floor suites. If they want to look at anything else, they can come back tomorrow." Tomorrow, Deep willing, Shynkrette and her team would be long gone. They would have been gone last night, if not for the storm. Kindred Special Operations could do things with helicopters that the Accord military had never imagined....If good luck and competence held another day or two, her team would be back home with their prize. The Kindred book of doctrine had always been big on assassinations and decapitating strikes. With this op, the Honored Pedure was writing a new and experimental chapter. Deep, what Pedure would do with those six children. Shynkrette's mind shied away from the thought. She had been in Pedure's inner circle ever since the Great War, and her fortunes had risen accordingly. But she much preferred doing the Honored's fieldwork to being with her in the Kindred torture chambers. Things could get so easily...turned around...in the chambers. And death could be so slow there.

Shynkrette moved from quarter to quarter, scanning the streets with a reflecting magnifier....Damn, a police convoy, emergency lights blinking. She recognized the special gear on those trucks. This was the police "heavy weapons" team. Their great success lay in scaring criminals into surrender. The lights—and the sirens she would surely start hearing in a minute—were all part of the intimidation. In this case, the police had made a very large mistake. Shynkrette was already running back around the ring of offices, pulling her little shotgun off her back as she ran.

"Team Sergeant! We're going upstairs."

Denni raised his head in surprise. "Trivelle says he hears sirens, but they don't seem to be coming this way."

A coincidence? Maybe the police had someone else they wanted to wave their guns at? Shynkrette balanced in a rare moment of indecision. Denni held up a hand, continued, "But he says he thinks three of the oldsters have left the sales tour, maybe gone to the washroom."

So much for indecision; Shynkrette waved the sergeant to his feet. "Tell Trivelle to melt away,"if he can. "We're into Alt Five." There was always an Alternative Plan; that was a grim joke in Special Operations. They had had some warning. Very likely they could get out of the building, melt into the sea of civilians. Corporal Trivelle had less of a chance, but he knew so little it wouldn't matter. The mission would not end up an embarrassment. If they took care of one last piece of business, it might even be counted a partial success.

As they raced up the central stairs, Denni was pulling down his own shotgun and combat knife. Success in Alt 5 meant taking a few minutes for a little detour, long enough to kill the children. Long enough so it would look really messy. Pedure apparently thought that would screw someone's head on the Accord side. It sounded nuts to Shynkrette, but she didn't know all the facts. It didn't matter. At the end of the war, she had helped massacre a sleeping deepness. Nothing could be uglier than that, but the stolen hoards had financed the Kindred's resurgence.

Hell, she was probably doing these children a favor; now they would miss their date with Honored Pedure.

Through most of the morning, Brent had lain flat on the metal floor. He looked as discouraged as Viki and Gokna felt. Jirlib at least had his hands full trying to comfort the two babies. The little ones were totally and loudly unhappy now, and wouldn't have anything to do with the sisters. The last time anyone had been fed was the previous afternoon.

There wasn't even much left to conspire about. By morning twilight, it had been obvious that their rescue flag was gone. A second attempt tore loose in less than thirty minutes. After that, Gokna and Viki spent three hours wrapping the play twine in intricate patterns through the pipe stubs above the room's only entrance. Brent had been a real help with that—he was so good with knots and patterns. If anyone unfriendly came through that door, they would get a mawful of unpleasantness. But if their visitors were armed, how could it be enough? At that question, Brent had retreated from their arguments, gone to splay himself out on the cold floor.

Above them, a narrow square of sunlight crept foot by foot across the high walls of their prison. It must be almost noon. "I hear sirens," Brent said abruptly, after an hour of silent sitting. "Lie down close and listen."

Gokna and Viki did. Jirlib shushed the babies, for what that was worth.

"Yeah, I hear them."

"Those arepolice sirens, Viki. Feel thethump, thump ?"

Gokna jumped up, was already racing for the doorway.

Viki stayed on the floor a moment longer. "Bequiet, Gokna!"

And even the babies were quiet. There were other sounds: the heavy thrum of fans somewhere lower in the building, the street noise that they had heard before...but now the staccato sound of many feet, running up steps.

"That's close," said Brent.

"Th-they're coming for us."

"Yes." Brent paused, in his usual dull way. "And I hear others coming, quieter or farther away."

It didn't matter. Viki ran to the doorway, hoisted herself up after Gokna. What they planned was pretty pitiful, but the worst and the best of it was that they didn't have any other choice. Earlier, Jirlib had argued that he was bigger, that he should swing down from above. Yeah, but he was only one target, and someone had to keep the babies out of the line of fire. So now Gokna and Viki stood against the wall, five feet above the doorway on either side, bracing themselves against Brent's clever ropework.

Brent rose, ran to the right side of the doorway. Jirlib stood well off to the side. He held the children tight in his arms, and didn't try to quiet them anymore. But now, suddenly, they were quiet. Maybe they understood. Maybe it was something instinctive.

Through the wall, Viki could feel the running steps now. Two people. One said something low to the other. She couldn't hear the words but she recognized the leader of the kidnappers. A key rattled in the lock. On the floor to her left, Jirlib gently set the babies down behind him. They stayed quiet, totally still—and Jirlib turned back to the door, ready to pounce. Viki and Gokna crouched lower against the wall. They had twisted all the leverage they dared out of the twine. A final look passed between the two. They had gotten the others into this mess. They had risked the life of an innocent bystander to try to get out. Now it was time for payback.

The door slid open, metal slipping across metal. Brent tensed for a leap. "Please don't hurt me," he said, his voice the same sullen monotone as always. Brent couldn't act to save his soul, yet in a weird way that tone sounded like someone scared into abject mindlessness.

"No one's going to hurt you. We want to move you someplace better, and get you some food. Come on out." The boss kidnapper sounded as reasonable as always. "Come on out," a bit more sharply. Did she think she could bag them all without even mussing her jacket? There was quiet for a second or two...Viki heard a faint sigh of irritation. There was a rush of motion.

Gokna and Viki dived as hard as they could. They were only five feet up. Without the twine, they would have crushed their skulls on the floor. Instead, the elastic snapped them back, heads down, through the open doorway.

Gunfire flashed sideways, seeking Brent's voice.

Viki had a glimpse of head and arms, and some kind of gun. She smashed into the leader at the rear of her back, knocking her flat, sending her gun skittering across the floor. But the other cobber was a couple of feet behind. Gokna hit him in the hard of his shoulders, scrabbled to hold on. But the other bounced her off. A single burst of fire from his gun smashed Gokna's middle. Shards and blood spattered the wall behind her.

And then Brent was upon him.

The one under Viki bucked upward, smashing her into the top of the doorway. Things got very dark and distant after that. Somewhere she heard more gunfire, other voices.

THIRTY-TWO

Viki wasn't badly hurt, a small amount of internal bleeding that the doctors could easily control. Jirlib had taken a lot of dents and some twisted arms. Poor Brent was worse off.

When that strange Major Thract was done asking his questions, Viki and Jirlib visited Brent in the house infirmary. Daddy was already there, perched beside the bed. They had been free almost three hours; Daddy still looked stunned.

Brent lay in deep padding, a siphon of water within reach of his eating hands. He tilted his head as they came in, and waved a weak smile. "I'm okay." Just two split legs and a couple of buckshot holes.

Jirlib patted his shoulders.

"Where's Mother?" asked Viki.

Dad's head swayed uncertainly, "She's in the building. She promised she'll see you this evening. It's just that so much has happened. You know this wasn't just some crazy people who did this, right?"

Viki nodded. There were more security types in the house than ever before and even some uniformed troops outside. Major Thract's people had been full of questions about the kidnappers, their mannerisms, how they acted toward each other, their choice of words. They even tried to hypnotize Viki, to squeeze out every last driblet of recollection. She could have saved them the trouble. Viki and Gokna had tried for years to hypnotize each other without any success.

Not a single kidnapper had survived the capture; Thract implied that at least one had killed herself to avoid capture.

"The General needs to figure out who is behind this, and how it changes the way the Accord looks at its enemies."

"It was the Kindred," Viki said flatly. She truly had no evidence beyond the military bearing of the kidnappers. But Viki read the newspapers as much as anyone, and Daddy talked enough about the risks of conquering the Dark.

Underhill shrugged at her assertion. "Probably. The main thing for the family is that things have changed."

"Yes." Viki's voice cracked. "Daddy!Of course things have changed; how can they ever be the same?"

Jirlib lowered his head till it rested limply on Brent's perch.

Underhill seemed to shrink in on himself. "Children, I am so sorry. I never meant for you to be hurt. I didn't mean for..."

"Daddy, it was Gokna 'n' me who snuck out of the house—Be quiet, Jirlib. I know you are the oldest, but we could always tweak you around." It was true. Sometimes the sisters used their brother's ego, sometimes his intellectual interests—as with the Distort exhibit. Sometimes they simply traded on his fondness for his little sisters. And Brent had his own set of weaknesses. "It was Gokna and me who made this possible. Without Brent doing his ambush at the museum, we'd all be dead now."