Daylight Runner (23 page)

The panel was two meters square and trembled when he moved. The flimsy construction was one of an array that stood out on thin arms from the wall of the building. They descended the wall in a spiral that complimented the architecture's helical structure. The arm holding this panel creaked ominously.

He could hear men's voices from the control room above him. It would not take them long to check over the balcony wall and find him. His first instinct was to help Cleo and Smith, but he would be no good to them against a team of Clockworkers. Their best chance was for him to escape, to survive. How did the Clockworkers get here before Mercier? He had to get away and find some honest cops. The gantry crane was just out of sight beyond the roof. He had to move now.

As he shifted his weight, the panel tilted farther and he only just grabbed the edge of it in time as he flailed with his legs for purchase. Gasping desperately, he stretched out, and his feet found the arm of the panel alongside, and he reached out for the aluminum frame from which the arms jutted and pulled himself under it. One glance down told him he should keep his eyes to the wall, his stomach attempting to hide up between his lungs.

“He's gone! He must have fallen,” he heard someone shout. “Don't see the body, though.”

Dangling precariously, he started to work his way along like an ape, swinging from one arm to the other, following the sloping curve of the frame around the building, struggling under each panel arm that blocked his way. Minutes later he was around the other side of the building, his arms feeling as if somebody were trying to pull them out of his shoulders.

He was perplexed to find a rope dangling out in front
of him. Looking up, he realized it was the very same one that the Clockworkers had come down on. The shooters in the crane could still not see him beneath the solar panels. Two floors down, and not three meters over, was a walkway connecting the building to the crater wall.

“Ah, crap!” he grunted. Letting go with one hand, he stretched out, grabbed the rope, and pulled it toward him. Bracing his feet against the wall, he shoved himself out, but as soon as he released his other hand from the frame, he started to slide, and the rope started to burn his hands. He tried to squeeze harder, but the plastic rope was thin, impossible to grip. A scream erupted from his mouth as he forced his hands to clench tight, feeling the rope tear through his skin. He fell too fast, but his push had sent him out over the walkway, and he landed hard on its floor, his butt taking most of the impact. The automatic in his jacket pocket fell out and skittered toward the door. He lunged after it, but just as he did so, he saw a man and woman through the glass door, running across the foyer toward him.

Sol staggered to his feet, wincing as he pushed off the ground with his burned hands. His butt felt as if he might have broken something, but he willed himself on, breaking into a run. The door slid open behind him, and he barely made it to the end of the walkway and around its support pillars as silenced gunshots sent bullets buzzing past him.

And so he found himself running again, his hands
pressed to his sides to try to ease the intense pain in his palms and fingers. Down the empty promenade balcony he sprinted, darting past shocked individuals staring at the now-empty screens. Finding an entrance to a stairwell, he pushed through the door and scrambled up the steps. Behind him, from beyond the doorway, a taunting voice called out to him.

“Where are you going, Solomon? There's nowhere left to run!”

He was halfway up the flight when the lights went out and he was enveloped in darkness.

T
HE MAN HIT
C
LEO
hard across the face with the back of his hand, splitting her lip. She fell against the dead instrument panels, hurting her ribs. Getting to her feet again, she spat blood and glared defiantly at the Clockworker.

“How many others are involved?” he asked again.

“It was just us,” she rasped. “That was all it took.”

“Where's the boy gone?”

“I don't know.”

He slapped her again, snapping her head to the side. She sniffed as she felt blood drip down her left nostril. She ignored the blood, determined not to cry.

“Where were you going to go after you got away?”

“We didn't expect to get away,” she said with a tight throat.

“Where's Maslow?”

“He's dead. He died of gunshot wounds after he made the recording.”

Off to one side, Vincent Schaeffer was standing in front of the blank monitors. His plump face with its long white sideburns was burning with fury. “Can't you get anything?” he snapped.

The man sitting at the desk was one of the day controllers that Smith had forced out of the door before he'd sealed it. He was trying to restore any kind of function to the banks of equipment so that they could counteract some of the damage done by Maslow's broadcast.

“The explosion knocked out a lot of the electronics; I'm doing my best,” he retorted. “What was all that about, anyway, sir? That guy made some serious charges.”

“Shut up! Just do your goddamned job and get us back online.”

The controller had one of the panels open, trying to close some of the fuses. There were a few clicks, and then some of the monitors fizzed into life. They were displaying the feed from the cameras on the streets in the city center, showing people milling around, shouting and arguing.

“Christ, they're still there,” Schaeffer growled. “This is turning into a goddamned mess.”

As the power from the city's movement dwindled and died, the Heart Engine's movement started to stutter and
become erratic. Without external power from the Machine, the Heart Engine was slowing. The city's lights dimmed and flickered. Still, the crowds did not move. They waited in front of the screens, waiting for more, wanting answers. This sudden stall was more than the damaged, abused Machine could withstand. Its batteries holding onto the scantest electrical charge, the Machine's Heart Engine ground to a halt. Every electric light in the city went out. Every electrical device went dead. With the dome covered, there was no sunlight for the solar panels to supplement the power. No electricity to open the valves allowing water to flow through the hydroelectric generators. Even the majority of the gas lamps fizzled out, their pumps dead. Here and there, battery-powered emergency generators hummed into life, but their temporary existence barely registered in the dark, quiet city.

In the control room of the Communications Hub bathed in the low emergency light, everybody was working their jaws, putting their hands to their ears, puzzled by a strange new sensation. Cleo felt it like a yawning emptiness. For the first time in her life, there was complete and utter, aching silence. The ever-present rumble that underscored their lives—the sound of the city—was gone.

“Good God.” Schaeffer stood on the balcony, gaping out at the black landscape before him. “The…the fools. The goddamned fools! They've let the Heart Engine die.”

He looked at the four Clockworkers who stood around
him, then at the controller staring impotently at the blank screens.

“For God's sake, we need to talk to them! There'll be panic…chaos! Get us online before they go berserk. We have to…we have to get it started again…. We can't…There'll be riots.” He faltered, looking from one face to the next.

“There's nothing we can do.” The controller sighed resignedly. “We have no power.”

Glaring over at Cleo, Schaeffer snarled like an animal. “You stupid, stupid bitch! You've…Do you know what you've done? We're about to be made
extinct
because of your goddamn mindless…stupid stunt. We're all going to freeze!”

Cleo ignored him, gazing dispassionately at the men around her. None of them seemed to know what to do. Brushing past the one who had been interrogating her, she walked out to the balcony. Schaeffer was crumbling.

“Some of us can survive. Maybe a few years…maybe,” he babbled to himself. “We have the weapons; we can fight off anybody who tries to stop us. Seal off a small section, stockpile the last of the food. There has to be something we can use as fuel…things to burn. If we can find enough things to burn…”

All his power and influence came from his control of the Machine. That had changed now. Cleo stood beside him and looked out over the city. She felt unnaturally
calm, as if she was waiting for something she knew would happen, but she had no idea what or when. There was nothing for her to do but wait. Beside her, Schaeffer began to hyperventilate.

 

The goggles needed some kind of light to pick up and enhance, but in the stairwell, there was almost none. Probing with outstretched hands through the darkness, Sol found the door at the top of the stairs and pushed it open, wincing as his shredded hands left blood on the handle. For a moment, he was silhouetted against the faint light outside, and a bullet smacked off the door frame by his head. He ducked through, hearing footsteps hurrying up the stairs after him. He closed the door behind him, hoping that the darkness would slow down his pursuers, and ran on.

Sprinting headlong through the gloom, he looked around, disorientated. Out over the rail to his left, the city was cloaked in black, as if covered in shadows, and it took him a moment or two to realize what had happened. Everything had stopped moving. Ash Harbor was dying.

“God Almighty,” he said, panting. “This can't be happening….”

They'd never considered that the Machine might already be so weak. Without realizing it, they had dealt the final blow to the dying city.

“Sol!” the voice shouted from back in the gloom.
“There's nowhere to go! Make this easy on yourself. Give it up, kid, and we'll get it over nice and quick.”

They weren't shooting. They couldn't get a decent shot at him in the murky shadows. Slowing down, he trod softly, making no sound, trying to keep the pillars in the center of the wide balcony between himself and his hunters. Reflective signs on the wall told him where he was. The top floor, little more than half a kilometer from the daylighters' depot. They would help him get to the police.

“Come on, kid.” A woman's voice this time. “We've sealed the place off; you're not getting out of here. We'll find you eventually.”

They're mad, he thought. The Machine was lying still below them, and they were still worried about catching him. As if he mattered anymore. He wanted to yell at them, telling them how insane they were, but any sound would help them to find him. Was the air getting colder already, or was it just his imagination? How long would it take for the whole city to freeze over?

He saw movement ahead of him and heard the electronic voice of a radio. Darting into an alcove, he peered out. Another three figures, carrying flashlights, swept the shadows ahead of him. Another hundred meters and they'd be on top of him. Sol looked back. He could hear footsteps closing on him from behind. He had seconds left.

Farther ahead, the wall curved around, and he could see a number of doors. He recognized one of them. It led to the maintenance depot, where he and Maslow had gone out on the dome. It was a way out, but only as far as the Arctic temperatures outside. Maybe he could make it to the daylighters' depot that way. But they would anticipate that; the Clockworkers would wait for him at the other entrances. It was too late for the police now. He would run toward the daylighters because it was the only option left to him. But the maintenance depot was the only way out. Sol swore: he'd have to charge right at the Clockworkers to reach the door….

Don't think. Run. His running shoes squeaked on the floor as he took off. They spotted him almost immediately, raising their weapons. He was twenty meters from the door.

“Don't shoot!” he cried. “I give up. I can take you to Maslow—just don't kill me!”

“Slow down, kid,” one of them called. “It's over. No more running.”

Sol turned and shoulder-charged the door. It crashed open, and he slammed it shut after him, even as the shots punched through it. There was a bolt on it, and he pushed it home, then bounded down the corridor to the door at the other end. It was locked, and he already had his lock-pick out, fumbling it into the keyhole. Two gunshots blasted away the bolt in the far door. He felt the lock click,
and shoved the door open, kicking it closed as he slipped in. There was a heavy steel cupboard beside the door, and he pushed it over, barricading himself in.

There were eight safesuits hanging on the rack. As shoulders started hitting the door, he pulled one down and sat on the floor, gritting his teeth as his sore backside made itself felt. He hurriedly kicked his shoes off and slid his legs into the trousers, and then the boots. Shrugging his shoulders into the sleeves, he did up the triple seal and pulled up the hood. He switched on the power unit, saw it was only half charged—it would have to do—and pulled on the mask.

He grabbed an ice ax, threw the other suits onto the ground, and smashed the power unit on each one with the ax. Then he pulled on his gloves, took up a second ax, and strode over to the airlock.

“Damn.”

There was no power. He would have to open and close it manually. The door behind him was starting to give way, the cupboard shifting on the floor. Breathing hard behind the mask, he cranked the wheel on the wall that opened the airlock door until it was just wide enough to admit him, and then he squeezed inside. The inner door had to be closed before the outer door would open. It was a safety feature. He cranked the door closed again and strode to the other end. He was turning the wheel for the outer door when someone knocked on the glass of the
door behind him. He glanced around but kept spinning the wheel.

A man's face stared through the glass. The man drew his finger across his throat.

Sol got the outer door open far enough, then slipped through, leaving it open. They would have to crank it closed again before they could get out. It was a clear, crisp morning outside. A heavy fall of snow covered the dome, and the bright sun on the snow would have blinded him had it not been for the protective tint in the mask's smart-lens. He should have used one of the ice axes to block the outer door so that it couldn't close, preventing them from using that door. But he didn't. He should have started running for the daylighters' depot, less than half a kilometer away. Instead, he dug the axes into the hardened snow and started climbing the dome. He climbed as far as he could before the first of the Clockworkers came through the airlock door. Then he turned around and looked down the slope, waiting for them.

If he was going to die up here, running away would not be his final act.