Choices (2 page)

She tried to stand. Dr. Lang pushed her down, trapping her against the cold steel.

“Stay still, Maura. This is meant to protect you. My trials with inanimate test subjects have resulted in—damage.”

Oh, sweet heaven.

Swallowing, she nodded.

“Good girl.”

He strapped her right wrist, then leaned in and cinched the airplane style belt at her waist before he laid her bag in her lap.

“Prepare yourself, my dear. It’s time.” She met his eyes, the fevered excitement scaring her. “This is going to take you where I’ve only dreamed! I wish I could go with you—but of course I will be missed.”

He straightened, sweat streaking his face. Maura no longer had the capacity to sympathize.

“Please—don’t do this.” Her pain-scraped whisper barely reached her own ears. She watched him close the thick glass door, flinched as each latch snapped shut. He made his way to the console, leaning against it as his fingers pushed buttons, pulled levers, bringing the machines around him to life. “Dr. Lang—”

Darkness swallowed the booth. Before she could open her mouth to scream the wall in front of her exploded with blinding gold light.

“Relax, Maura.” His voice bounced off the glass, artificially deepened by the speakers. “The light is your doorway. Welcome it, let it envelop you.”

The light wasn’t cooperating. It hovered, sharp and chilling. The air around her became restless, icy gusts tugging at her, like powerful, invisible hands.

“Dr. Lang—damn it—let me out of here—”

He talked over her panicked demand. “I can restart the transport once per day. Listen to me, Maura—for three days, at the same time, the same entry point, you’ll have a ten-minute window. I’m already anticipating your triumphant return.”

His voice faded into the background as the wind focused, shoving her, binding her arms, trying to drag her out of the restraints. She screamed—and it broke apart on the light, as if that throbbing expanse of gold were solid.

The heavy straps trapping her wrists snapped apart like thread. Her bag flew out of her lap, hovered in front of her for a long moment. Then the light pulsed.

The bag disappeared, swallowed by greedy fingers of gold. Maura clutched at the steel chair as the wind tore away her last restraint, dragging her to the light. She managed to hang on with her left hand—and let go when the chair ripped itself from the floor.

It spiraled, caught by the wind—then flung itself straight at her. Trapped in the invisible grip, she couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. The chair hit her dead on.

Agony blinded her. Impact pitched her backward—through the cold light and into nothing.

* * *

P
ain jolted Maura awake. After a long, blank moment of memory lapse everything snapped into place. She jerked upright—and doubled over when her head threatened to explode.

Once the pain finally subsided, she took in a shallow breath and eased herself up, carefully stretching her good leg across the floor. What was left of the chair stuck out from the opposite wall, a bizarre, disquieting sculpture.

Damage, he said—what an understatement.

Scanning her surroundings, she saw nothing but white—walls, floor, ceiling, unrelieved, and more disquieting than the mangled steel.

Letting out a shaky breath, Maura rested her aching head against the wall, soothed by the contact with something solid.

Dr. Lang actually did it.

She closed her eyes for a moment, flinching as every separate pain in her body clamored for attention. Then she pushed through it and did a cursory examination.

Her head throbbed every time she moved, or breathed, but beyond the injuries she’d acquired trying to escape, she seemed unscathed—a surprise, given the condition of the chair. She hesitated when she reached her leg. Hidden by the ragged folds of her skirt, it still burned, under the ointment and bandage. Just the thought of touching it left her nauseous.
Later—I’ll deal with it later.

She crawled to her feet, inching up the length of the wall. Her sweat-damp blouse clung to her as she eased the strap of her bag over her left shoulder. She tried to ignore the weight dragging at her—any one of the items she dumped in the bag over the past weeks could save—

Shutting down that thought, she turned, clutching the wall, and a small, square panel caught her eye. It broke the pristine surface of the wall she’d been leaning against, dead center, a good half foot above her eye level. Grey buttons underlined the tiny label. She braced her hand, stretched up to read it.

LAVATORY CONTROLS

Maura closed her eyes. Dr. Lang nearly killed her trying to get her here, and she ended up in a bathroom.

She touched the button marked EXIT—and jerked her hand away when a female voice filled the cubicle.

“Please step to your right. When the door opens, exit into the corridor and join the lines in the terminal. Please do not interrupt the flow of traffic through the terminal. Please stay in the lines until you reach the outer gates.”

The wall to her right split horizontally, without her moving.

“Thank you for using San Fran Land, Sea and Air. Please exit now.”

She swallowed her instant opinion of San Fran Land, Sea and Air. At least she was in the same city. And corporate dealt with their customers at the same moronic intelligence level.

The reality she had been avoiding finally caught up. Outside that doorway lay an unknown world, where she would have to survive the next twenty-four hours.

She took a careful breath, tested the weight on her right leg. When it didn’t collapse under her in screaming protest, she limped forward, through the open jaw of the door.

And froze.

The corridor looked at least half a mile wide, stretching as high above her. People shuffled past, trapped in orderly lines. Too many people—more than she had dealt with in three years. She pressed herself against the wall, feeling lightheaded.

They marched past her, their excruciatingly neat, drab clothes almost vibrant against the empty white walls. Not one of them talked, or even looked at each other—but their gaze slid over Maura, with a disturbing sense of longing, of anger, of unknowable need.

She swallowed, unnerved by those covert stares. Her bloodstained, sapphire bright blouse stood out against the pristine wall like a jewel in the snow.
I’ll just stay inside this nice, safe cubicle until Dr. Lang brings me back—

She turned around—and her heart skipped as she nearly ran into the closed door. When she tried to open it, she found—nothing. No button, no sensor. Waving her hand in front of the door, around it, did nothing.

Worse yet, her door looked exactly like every other door, stretching endlessly to either side of her. If she left now she’d never find this again. Panic roared through her.

She reined it in, focused past the vicious ache in her head, and stared at the blank door. Even the smallest mark would stand out— She dug into her bag with clumsy fingers as the solution struck her.

Whispers stirred the air behind her; the sotto voce chorus scared her far more than the previous silence, drew unwanted attention to her. Dangerous attention.

Come on—

Her fingers finally touched what she searched for—and with that touch came the soul-aching memories of that last, joyful day. She pulled out the bottle of burgundy nail polish; the last thing Mom bought for her three years ago now became her lifeline home.

Inching down the wall, she tried to bend her right knee as little as possible, froze when the movement drove through her head. Once the desire to throw up, then pass out faded, she closed shaking fingers around the bottle, fumbled off the tapering lid, and painted a small but visible circle at the bottom left corner of the door.

Please, God, let this be here when I come back.

She closed the bottle, levered herself up and glanced at the hands on her watch. 1:00 pm. Figuring—praying—she had only been out for a few minutes, she decided she would just come back early, and hang around, hoping a madman’s half-assed machine opened the doorway home—

Okay—just don’t go there.

She would deal with it, when the time came. For now, all she had to do was stay inconspicuous until the same time tomorrow—

Footsteps approached from behind, coming at her fast. She turned—and froze, her heart pounding.

A figure in head to toe black stalked toward her. He looked like an earthbound Norse god, all rage and fire, dark blonde hair sweeping back from his shoulders. Every muscled inch screamed Authority.

Maura pushed off the wall. Her head throbbed, and the bottle of nail polish slipped out of her pain-numbed grasp, spinning across the marble floor. Headed straight for him.

Panicking, she retreated, her leg shrieking in protest. She moved to the endless lines, slipped between two of the silent automatons.

I can’t hide—he’s already seen me—

She stepped out of line and kept moving, in the wide space between, drawing more unwanted attention. Her skin twitched, waited for strong fingers to seize her. When nothing happened, she gathered her courage and risked a backward glance.

He stood beside the marked door, gaze on her, the nail polish in one hand.

Oh God—

Stop it—just get yourself out.

Her body forced a slower pace, yelled at her over the fading adrenaline. When her breathing evened out, she finally noticed the air. Public places always smelled of something—greasy food, stale reconstituted air, unwashed bodies. But here it smelled—empty.

Maura may have landed in the same city, but it was definitely not home.

A break in the walls finally appeared; two soaring, arched gates, spanning the width of the terminal. She pushed forward, relief and exhaustion fighting for control. Agony beat them when a piercing alarm screamed through the terminal.

She covered her ears, locked her knees, and found herself surrounded by scared, agitated people instead of drones. Their suddenly human reaction jumpstarted her dread. The same female voice replaced the alarm, smooth and monotone as white silk.

“Please remain where you are. Authority Officers are en route. All citizens standing inside the red quadrangle will be searched for contraband. Please open your bags. Cooperation is mandatory. Any attempt to refuse or flee will be regarded as treason.”

Maura swallowed and looked down.

The floor under her feet was red.

“Please remain where you are. Authority Officers will arrive shortly. Thank you.”

She closed her eyes.

So much for inconspicuous.

Angry voices echoed through the terminal, coming from behind. Braced for the approaching disaster, she turned toward the source. And saw the man running straight at her, gaze on his pursuit—just before they collided with bone-jarring force.

Strong hands caught her when her knees gave way, her head threatening to explode from the impact. One hand moved up to cradle her cheek, his fingers cool against her skin. He tilted her head, and she met gentle, caramel brown eyes, his concern shadowed by the fear, anger, despair tangled in their depths. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

She took a shallow breath and nodded, immediately regretting the movement.

“You’re bleeding.” His deep, vibrant voice enveloped her, completely at odds with the leached-out surroundings. “Looks like it stopped for now, but you’d best get that treated.”

She reached up, found matted hair, the sticky trail that traced the side of her face. Her head throbbed in renewed memory of her dance with the chair.

“Thank you.”

The shadows in his eyes lightened. “My pleasure—and now I’m sorry that I have to leave.” A smile broke across his face, like sunlight in darkness, and faded too soon. “Those alarms are for me. Apathy makes a powerful barricade.”

Maura realized he referred to the people around them. Life radiated from him, made the shifting crowd robotic by comparison. That difference marked him, along with the kindness that eased her self-imposed isolation. She touched his hand.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Long fingers closed over hers, trembling. “Ah, sweetheart—if only I had the time.” The gentle eyes studied her. “You’ll be all right?”

“I think so.”

He pressed her palm to his chest. Maura felt the jumping beat of his heart.

“Keep yourself safe. Don’t let the—”

Shouts broke over them, angry commands crashing against frightened, pained replies. He glanced behind him, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he swallowed. Mink brown hair cloaked his shoulders when he turned back to her.

“Looks like they caught me up.” He freed her hand. “Take care, sweetheart. You never saw me.”

She smiled. “Saw who?”

Laughter burst from him, earned despairing, ugly, yearning glances from their audience. “You give me hope that we aren’t beyond salvation. Hold to your joy, beautiful. There’s so little in this dismal existence.”

With aching tenderness he kissed her bloodstained temple, stepped past her. And halted.

Maura turned, caught movement before he blocked her view. Unsteady hands cradled her face. When she looked up she saw defeat in his eyes.

“What is—”

“Tell Daniel I’m sorry.”

A high-pitched whine split the air. With a harsh gasp he slammed against her, his weight driving them to the floor. Maura screamed—in pain, in denial. She pushed hair off the slack face, searched for a pulse.

“No—please God, no—”

Unseen hands lifted the immobile weight off her, settled him to the floor. Maura pushed herself up and leaned over him, both hands framing his face. He opened his eyes, looked past her.

“Bad timing, old friend.” His eyes focused on her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Glad I met you . . .”

“Maura—my name is Maura.”

“Beautiful Maura.” He took in a ragged breath. “Run, Maura, before they come for me.”

“I’m staying, until I know you’re all right—”

“Protect her.” She realized he spoke to whoever crouched behind her, so close she could feel his body heat. She didn’t have to look to know it was him. “Don’t be letting Darwin—”