Conscience of the Beagle (19 page)

LOOKS LIKE
a
rat hole. ECCLESIASTES 6 beside it, painted a fiery warning red. God, I don’t want to go down there.

Vanderslice rubs his hands together. “This is what it’s all about, isn’t it? The real spy game. Danger. Not knowing what to expect.” Sounds like envy. Doesn’t he realize? No one’s better at the game than Colonial Security. No one.

Round ceiling, steep steps. And the dark. It’s hot in the suit. Softgun holster is tight around my thigh. Sweating, but my fingers, my back, are ice. Beagle doesn’t look like himself. Looks almost dangerous. Tight shiny suit and that helmet. But not dangerous enough.

A cartoon mouse hole. Down it, a magic door to Earth. Down it, Reece.

I brought the knife just in case. Not really Reece. But scares me like that. A little knife. Three inch blade. Easy to hide, so Beagle can’t find it.

Instructions. Damn. Vanderslice has been giving instructions and I’ve missed
—

“ . . . nothing gets outside the suit once you put the visor down. Not body sounds, not heat. You can talk to each other through the headsets. The suit has its own air supply. The low-friction boots won’t leave infrared.”

“Been shopping again at one of your anti-terrorist conventions?” Beagle. Flexing his gloves. Smiling. How can he?

There’s a line of sweat above Vanderslice’s lip. His eyes are too quick. Laugh too sharp. “Great places, those conventions. Lots of toys. These are hard suits by the way, besides being slippery. So if it gets into hand-to-hand combat, you’ll have the edge.”

Beside the wall: ECCLESIASTES 6. Above the hole: DOWN.

“Good luck, Major.” Hand shoved at me. Vanderslice. I want to grab him. Pull him in with me. Show him what fear’s like.

Too late. Beagle starts toward the tunnel. My feet moving me. Taking me

DOWN

He’s switched on the Glo-Lite. No time now. Behind me, Vanderslice, his men. Faces somber. Want to grab hold, so the dark won’t suck me inside.

Ceiling. Three inches above the top of Beagle’s helmet. Stairway. Gloomy intestine of a place. Unused, musty smell. And below . . .

Don’t look. Watch Beagle. One turn. Another. Leave the bright and enter cramped dusk. Not as bad as I thought. Like twilight. Cold blue Glo in Beagle’s hand. Our shadows dance on the walls.

Fourth turn. Air basement-cool. Cave-clammy. So dark ahead that dots swim in my eyes. Stop that. Watch Beagle.

Catacomb. A grave. Refuse of construction, like priest’s skulls. What if there’s an earthquake? We’d never get out. Trapped. Like the people in the subway.

“We’re almost at the bottom.” Beagle. Speaking quietly.

Picked up my fear, even though I’m a step behind. Hears my rapid breaths.

One more turn. An echoing, black expanse. Ecclesiastes 6 maintenance area. Christmas tree bank of lights. The brain of the section’s superconductor. Huge room. Black corners too far away, beyond the reach of the Glo.

“Here.” Beagle turns right.

I hurry. Walk at his side. Shoulder to shoulder. Twilight. Not so bad, but . . .

Too quiet. Can’t hear his steps. There he is. Walking beside me.

“The entrance can’t be in the superconductor areas. They’re checked once a month. If we find it, it’ll be in one of the passageways.”

The only sound is Beagle’s soft voice, the rasp of my breathing, and the faint drip-drip of water. Wide tunnel; high ceiling. Shoes so slippery that I have to step carefully: toe first, then heel. But not as bad as I thought it would be. I can do this. Just have to remember not to look ahead, that’s all.

The tunnel widens, and there’s a recess in the wall. A body-stowing place. Wait. Something’s in there. A heap of dusty clothes. Corpse-yellow face. Gaping mouth . . .

“Far enough.” Beagle stops and lifts the Glo. “You feeling okay?”

Just a tarp. That’s all. “Yes.”

“Because I’m going to turn off the Glo.”

Didn’t think my heart could beat faster. The light’s gone. There’s no up. No down. Where’s Beagle? Where did he go?

“Put down your visor. Dyle! Listen to me! Put your visor down!”

Gasp and swallow darkness. Cramp in my chest. Heart attack. That’s what. Christ. A heart attack. Die here in the
—

Something clips me in the eye. A click.

Oh. There. In front of me. Orange and red pumpkin. Like Halloween, only . . . Beagle’s face.

“What’s the matter with you?” Beagle’s voice. Close, tinny and in stereo.

I’m trembling. Whooping. Sweat rolls, but my hands are ice. Have to get. Have to get air. Reach for my throat, but . . . What is that?

“Dyle? Stop scratching at your visor.” Beagle pushes my hands away. “What’s going on?”

“Heart.”

“It’s not a goddamned heart attack. Dyle? You hear me? You’re hyperventilating. Stop it.”

Can’t stop.

Orange face close to mine. Hand over
—
God. His hand over my air intake. Smothering me. It was Beagle. All the time. Beagle. Not Szabo.

“Lie down. That’s right. Slow breaths,” he says. “Even breaths.”

It was Beagle. He killed Szabo. I fumble for my knife. Too late. And hands too cold. Can’t hold on.

“Stop fighting. Christ, Dyle. Just lie still.”

The pain eases.

“Good. That’s it. That’s right. Slow, even breaths.”

Tired now. So tired. Maybe I’ll just lie here. Maybe if I’m very still it’ll all go away. After a few minutes he lifts his hand from my air intake.

“Jesus God, Dyle. Don’t scare me like that.”

His concerned face, a radiant heat about him. A ruddy halo of flame. He’s not working for them. Of course not. Never was. And . . . Wait. What’s that? Flicker on his forehead. On the left. A bright yellow pulse.

“You okay now?”

“Head’s yellow.”

“What?”

“Your left side. Yellow.”

A blaze in the right cranium.

“Moved.”

“Where?”

“Your right.”

“You sure?”

What could that be? “Yes.”

“Shit. I bet you can see me thinking. Left side’s the Hoad Taylor half. Right side the mechanics. Expensive damned infrared. Listen. Don’t get excited. I’m going to put my own visor down. Hold onto my arm. Just hold onto my arm, okay?”

Beagle winks out. The room whirls.

“Incredible. You can’t even see our footsteps. You notice that?”

Can’t scream. Not with a mouthful of dark. Then . . . that’s better. See it now. One dull spark.

“I turned on the Glo. You can lift your visor.”

Frantic. Grapple for the fastener. Click as the glass slides up. Twilight again, blue and eerie.

“We got the big guns, Dyle.” He laughs. “Pretty Boy came through with the goodies.”

He puts out his hand. I grab it, but it’s too oily. My fingers slip.

“Slick suits. Infrared. The whole bag of goodies.”

I get up and we’re walking again. Toe, heel. Slippery shoes and if I forget, I’ll fall. Beagle will leave me behind.

How far now? Beagle’s moving too fast, and I wish he’d slow down. Tunnels. More tunnels. A recess with construction debris in it. That’s all. Piled there like a . . .

We walk. It’s hard to keep my balance. The back of my thighs burn. But not too bad, though. Twilight tunnels, all the same. Hypnotic, after a while. Toe, heel. But then a scalding pain up my calf.

“Wait!” He’ll leave me.

But he turns. Thank God. He stops.

“Wait a minute, Beagle. Let me sit down a minute.”

“Okay.”

I sit on a lump of Permacrete. Beside me, a sack. Purple letters: GOD’S HOLY ORDNANCE, INC. What if I’m too tired to get up again?

Beagle’s against the other wall, a useless alcove by him. A recess so deep, so black that not even the Glo can reach the end.

That’s strange.

“Is that an alcove? Or another tunnel?”

Beagle turns. “Dyle! Put down your visor. Go ahead, damn it. I’ll keep the Glo on.”

I slide the glass down. There’s the waning August moon of Beagle’s averted face, the ember of the Glo, and . . . wait. There’s a neat red road, too. It leads into the alcove and stops dead.

“Creep paint,” he says. “So old I nearly missed it. Must only be a few fractions of a degree above the temperature of the tunnel. When it gets old like that, the top layer slows and starts to cool.”

I raise my visor fast. Cold tunnel air hits my face like frost. That blackness at the end of the alcove. Not depth. The absence of light.

“Lower your visor.”

He turns off the Glo and everything disappears. The alcove. Beagle. Me. Darkness pounces. I slip my visor down and I’m all right. There’s that red road again.

“Game time. No lights.”

Beagle’s a silhouette against the red. I rise.

“Follow the creep paint. It’ll lead to the stairs. That’s how the Reece look-alike gets in and out. Tell Vanderslice to bring his troops.”

The road is a dull angry crimson. Down the corridor it fades. Fatigued, looks like, rather than distance. I want him to go with me.

“Go on, Dyle. You have to go.”

Have to. Or die. I think about that, and keep my head down. Watch the road, the dark fissures in the paint. Here and there fiery coals. Mesmerizing.

“Dyle!”

A shout loud in both ears. I stop. Nothing around me but black. Red at my feet. “What?”

“Off the paint!”

“What?”

“Off the paint! Now!”

Can’t leave the red. But I leave it, anyway. Walk until I bump the tunnel wall.

“You off it now? You in the shadows?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t move. Someone just came out the door and he’s headed your way. Dyle?”

I hear the anxiety, like a constriction in his throat. “What?”

“It’s a construct.”

Heart slams my sternum. Again. Again. So hard I feel my chest shudder.

“Stay out of his way. I’m tracking behind. Don’t go up against him. Dyle? You listening? Don’t try to stop him yourself.”

God. Can’t see. Can’t hear anything but Beagle’s voice.

“Don’t use your softgun!”

Black of the wall. Red road. Leads off to
—

“Dyle? Listen, goddamn it! Don’t use your softgun!”

There. Coming out of the gloom. Loose-hipped, world-beating walk. Golden in the dark. Oh, for the love of God. I understand what HF did to me. Why there were no DNA markers on the bomb casings. Why the holo never caught him. Earth only reconstructed the best. The most brilliant.

Beagle, two others. And Reece Wallace.

Thoughts spark the radiance of his forehead. Left hand thoughts. Human thoughts. Of course HF sent Reece to kill Lila. They knew he’d do it right. Is he happy? Remembering? My hand goes down. Down. To the softgun. Fingers grope until I touch the edge of the knife.

Walking past me. Doesn’t look. Bastard. Like I’m beneath his notice. Smiling. Like I’m not dangerous enough.

Orange gleam of Reece’s head and hands. Duller red where clothes soak warmth. Dark black of a duffel bag.

Three strides past I step out behind him, moving fast. Palm under his chin and I snap his head back. He drops to his knees. Flame across his forehead. Left side. Astonishment. The duffel bag falls.

Trying to get up. His eyes frantic with questions. I plunge the blade into his socket. A wrench of the knife and the eye pops out.

Can’t hear him. Feel him grunt. Does it hurt? Can anything hurt? Hands fumble on my arms. Slide off.

So damned strong. He twists. I hit the side of the tunnel. Scrabble up quick before he sees.

He whirls. Hand clamped to empty socket. Forehead ablaze. Single eye straining.

I circle. Lunge. Arm around his throat. Plunge the knife into the other socket. Blade snaps and can’t hold on. It skitters across the corridor. The eye drops to his cheek. Hangs by a wire.

Flings me off hard. The wall knocks the breath from my lungs. Hears me that time. Heard me fall. He leaps. We tumble into a pile of rock.

Beagle heard me, too. That explosion of air. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Can’t answer. Arms around my knees. Strong arms. Metal underneath. The suit starts to give. Going to break my legs. And what then? I claw at the rocks. Try to pull myself free. No use. Stronger than I am. Always was.

“Dyle! Goddamn it!”

He’s coming. I know it. But he won’t get here in time.

There. Touched something. Something big. Chunk of Permacrete. Turn and slam it into the side of Reece’s head. The blow drives him backward. Arms fall away.

Ragged triangular patch of scalp hanging. Bright hot metal of the skull beneath. He reaches for me. Misses.

I lift the rock. Bring it down. Metal bends. Hit him again. Feel the jolt up my shoulder.

Damn. He’s trying to get away. Tremor through his fingers. Shudder up his back. It feels so good. I sit back and watch him crawl.

He hits the wall and stops. Gropes. Drags himself, blind, down the corridor. One arm useless. Sparks like fireworks in the open brain. Too easy, damn it. He is dying too easy.

Rises to one knee. Sways. Right arm limp. Left brain dark ruby. All the Reece gone. What’s left of him struggles down the creep paint. Crimson friction behind him, like blood.