Hide and seek (3 page)

Movement caught her eye. The main lock at the entrance of the hotel opened, and for a moment a group of tourists was silhouetted against the lobby, laughing soundlessly inside the pressure tube. They milled about briefly in drunken confusion and then found an intersection that led toward the lower town. She turned away, but not before she saw the hotel manager follow them out.

Wolfgang Prott was a man Lydia loathed, an unctuous charmer who had the good sense to stay away from the local women but was rarely without a tourist lady on his arm. His romances lasted about the length of the average tour package.

It was a small town, Labyrinth City, and the people who lived here knew each other too well. They tried to laugh it off, but sometimes it was hard to do what you wanted to do or had to do, with the whole planet looking over your shoulder.

Dare Chin regained his office and keyed his commlink for patrol headquarters. He intended to take no chances–his first priority had been to let Morland know he was under surveillance, but that was only partially true; now Chin was going to try to bully or cajole the local patrollers into actually providing decent protection for the plaque until Morland was safely off the planet.

He’d tapped in two digits of the three-digit code when he heard something downstairs.

 

Chin left the patrol code unkeyed and walked quickly back down the hall toward the stairs. He went down the steps slowly, as silently as he could, hoping to catch Morland off guard.

 

Stepping into the hall from the bottom of the stairwell, he brought himself up short, surprised by what he saw. He opened his mouth to speak–

 

–but Dare Chin had already spoken his last words.

An hour passed. The sleepy town grew quiet. Jupiter was still bright, but Mars Station had set beyond the eastern horizon. No one was looking out over the Labyrinth when the moon Phobos crept over the rim of the town’s sheltering arch, following Mars Station in its track across the sky. No one was there to see the streak of white fire that leaped from the clifftop above.

PART ONE
ENTERING THE LABYRINTH
I

In the night country there are no sure identities, no trustworthy coordinates, no breakable codes. . . . The woman’s dream was the same dream of swirling that had overcome her so often before, but she had never dreamed it in this form. Black wings were beating, beating, inches over her head; they went around like spokes in a wheel; they bore down upon her and simultaneously threatened to suck her into the center point of their turning.

In the darkness at that turning center, eyes were staring, hands were reaching, mouths were calling:
“Linda, Linda . . .”

 

She thrashed and struck out, but she was mired in some viscid invisible fluid, some ethereal muck that rendered her strongest efforts feeble, her quickest motions slow.

 

“Linda!”

 

She knew that she was losing the struggle, going under–and she cried out.

 

The sound of her cry awakened her.

She found herself naked in hot darkness, wrapped in a clinging shroud. A man was pressing himself against her, pinning her arms against the bed, crushing her, lying across her with his own nakedness. She bucked and squirmed and cried out again.

“Linda, wake up. Please wake up.”
His words battered her. “It’s a dream. It’s only a dream.”

 

All at once she fell limp and silent. She knew him.

 

And a moment later she remembered approximately where she was, on the still-accelerating ship.

 

“Are you all right?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely.

 

He released her wrists, lifted himself, moved his weight to crouch beside her on the bed. “Can you tell me what . . . ?”

 

“Don’t call me Linda.” Her voice was empty, drained of strength and emotion.

 

“I’m sorry. I was asleep. You started hitting . . .”

 

“Linda is dead.”

 

In his silence, his refusal to reply, she read contradiction: no, Linda was not dead– –but she was lost, and until she was found again she was better considered dead.

The woman peered at the man’s face in the darkness, seeing him better than he could see her. To him, in the blackness, she was an immediate construct of memory, a familiar form, a warm smell, sweet textures under his hands, but to her the pinprick light on the cabin wall, gleaming red beside the commlink, was enough to lacquer his smooth-muscled skin with a faint ruddy glow. She saw his eyes gleaming in the night. The smell of him was like spiced bread, rich and comforting–

–and arousing. With the involuntary return of heat to her body came, in a rush, the full memory of the night.

They were two days out from Earth on the speeding ship, en route to Mars. They had played just-friends at first, but once they had gotten to know the ship and its crew they no longer felt awkward about being by themselves–though it took her longer than it took him to relax her innate shyness–or about taking time to be alone together. After dinner in the wardroom that evening, after the ship’s clock had turned the corridor lights low, they had disappeared into her narrow cabin. The crew had taken care to pay no attention.

They had begun to pick up the fallen threads of their renewed acquaintance where they had been forced to drop them more than a week before. Here, they were alone, unrushed, unreachable, with no obligations, and with all the momentous events that hung over them held in suspension until the day, almost two weeks away, when the ship would reach its destination.

She thought she might love him. He already claimed he loved her. She loved his kind of loving: sensitive, understanding beyond even his intimate knowledge of the facts–after all, he had known her since they were children–at once intelligent and sympathetic. But his loving, his desire for love, was insistent too, and physical.

At first it had seemed as if their lovemaking would be as easy and natural as if they had never stopped being with each other, as if they had always lived together. A few minutes after they had closed the cabin door behind them, all her clothes were fallen to the floor, and all his had fallen on top of hers, and they had stretched their slim hard bodies beside each other on her narrow bunk, unmindful of the crowding.

Something she could not define was wrong. She hesitated. Responding, he paused. She felt the effort it required of him, as intensely as if she were him–what it required to restrain the hot urgency that so easily slides into mindless need. His love was before his need, but the need was strongly there. And she wanted him, too; her body had wanted his, especially and only his. . . .

When she tried to move toward him again she was seized with sudden pain. Its cause was not apparently physical; it had nothing to do with him. But it had manifested itself below the pit of her stomach–a cramping, seizing abnegation. “I . . . I can’t . . .”

 

“Can’t?”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“If this isn’t . . . I mean, just tell me . . .”

 

“Something’s wrong.”

 

“Are you all right? Should I call someone?”

 

“No. No, stay here. Stay with me. It’s better now.”

 

He had stayed with her, eventually curving his arms and legs and the length of his body around her as she faced away from him, nestling into her as she rested in his embrace–

 

–while she wept silent tears. And when finally she fell asleep he stayed awake, surrounding her in her sleep.

 

For an hour or more black unconsciousness settled over her. He slept too, relaxing his hold on her. Then the dream started. . . .

 

Now she was awake again, awake and full of fear and desire. “I don’t think I want you here,” she said to him. “I can’t be myself with you here.”

He was still for a moment, unmoving. Then he swung his legs over the side of the canvas bunk and stood. “As you say–Ellen.” He stooped to pick up his shirt and trousers from where they lay discarded on the floor.

“No, I . . .” Her head was spinning. “I didn’t mean it that way. . . .”

 

“What did you mean?”

 

“Something . . . in me . . .” Fragments of speech fell from her lips, unconnected. She pushed herself to say what she resisted acknowledging, even to herself. “I’m afraid. . . .”

“Of them?” “No. Yes, of course.” She hesitated. “Yes, I’m afraid of them, but that’s not what I meant, I meant that . . .” She forced the truth out. “I’m not human. I’m afraid I’m not human anymore. That’s what I think.”

He sat on the bed and reached a hand to touch her shoulder. At his electric touch she began to cry. She leaned into his chest and let his arms go around her shoulders, and she cried with sudden apprehension of the depth of her loss–the loss of her parents so long ago, the loss of herself, the loss of everyone who had tried to love her.

She cried a long time before she fell asleep for the second time. He laid her gently back on the bed, lifted and smoothed the tangled sheet, and let it settle over her. He sat beside her in the darkness, holding her hand.

They did not sleep together after that. She said little to him when they met in the small confines of the ship, and she spent her time reading obsessively, reading the files of the current case, listening and viewing and reading what the ship’s library had to tell her about their destination and, having finished everything pertinent to her assignment, reading everything else the ship had in its files.

She did not ask him what he found to amuse himself. It was hard to bear his disappointment, his hurt and defensive looks.

Three nights later the dream came again. Even as she was in it she watched it as if from another persona, a newer, more hardened persona, and it seemed to her that what she was seeing was not a dream at all, but a vivid and true memory. . . .

There was a knock on the bedroom door
–her bedroom was in the gray woman’s house, a low brick house, prettily furnished, with a big yard and old trees, but for all its suburban charm it was inside the multiple fences of the compound in Maryland–and the knock surprised her, because the gray woman and the gray man never knocked, they just came in when they wanted to, caring nothing for what she was wearing or doing, making a point of her lack of privacy. She knew what brainwashing meant, and she knew that was part of what they had been doing, or trying to do, ever since they had taken her from her parents.

But now there was a knock. “Linda.” It was her father’s voice, and she could smell the warmth of him through the door.

“Daddy!” She jumped up and tried the knob–usually it was locked–and opened the door to reveal him standing in the narrow hall, small and tired, his brown tweed suit crumpled as if he hadn’t taken it off for days, his black hair streaked with more gray than she remembered.

He did not move, only stared at her. “Linda, thank God you’re safe,” he whispered. She threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Daddy.” She surprised herself by starting to cry.

 

He hugged her tightly a moment in silence before he whispered, “We have to leave right now, darling.”

 

“Can I bring . . . ?”

 

“No. Leave everything and come with me.”

 

She leaned back in his arms and turned her tear-streaked face up to him. The touch and smell of him alerted her that he was afraid. She nodded yes silently and stepped away, still clinging to his hand.

He led her through the darkened house. She saw the men in the shadows–at the front door, in the kitchen hall, beside the glass doors to the backyard–standing in brace-legged poses with pistols held high. As her father pulled her through the living room and toward the open glass doors he signaled to them, and they fell into step at their backs, covering their retreat with nervous glances.

A low black Snark crouched on the lawn, its twin rotors swinging quietly in whistling arcs, its twin turbines whispering through muffled exhausts.

 

Her father hesitated inside the glass door and then broke from the cover of the house and ran for the helicopter, tugging Linda after him. The men followed, moving out to flank them.

 

With her uncanny eyesight Linda could see in the night, could see the staring white face of her mother waiting inside the open side door of the chopper. She opened her mouth. Something was wrong. . . .

A hand yanked Linda’s mother aside. A man stepped into the chopper door. Linda heard the cough of the gun muzzle and the simultaneous screech of enfilading fire from above and behind her, saw the fiery streaks of tracers overhead.

She and her father had come half the distance from the house. The man in the chopper door was directing his fire not at Linda or her father but at the men who guarded them. There was at least one attacker on the roof of the house, at least one other in the trees. Caught in the crossfire–taken by surprise–the guards were falling.

Linda’s father had yanked her arm and sent her sprawling on the grass, diving and rolling after her.

But she was up and on her feet again before he came to a stop–
at the time she did not know she possessed the dense tissue knotted in her forebrain, but her separate persona, her new persona, who was watching this vivid dream, knew she possessed it; that knotted bit of brain kicked in to make the calculations and deductions; her right eye zoomed in on the man in the helicopter and saw his deliberate aim, tracked the trajectories from his automatic weapon, saw that he was carefully shooting around her, even at the risk of leaving himself exposed
–and she crossed the final few meters of lawn, under the whistling rotor blades, in a lightning sprint. Inside the chopper her mother was screaming with open mouth, but the words emerged so slowly that Linda could not hear them. The gunman turned away from his work in what seemed like slow motion, comically shocked to see Linda rushing at him.

His hesitation was his death. She caught him at the knees and knocked his weapon aside with a wristbreaking blow, and as he twisted in a vain attempt to avoid her, he put his head in the way of a bullet from one of the wounded guards and tumbled out of the chopper, lifeless. She had already memorized his appearance; now she could forget it.

Linda thrust at the person who held her mother, not hesitating at all when she recognized the gray woman who had been her captor, but launching her fist like a piston into the woman’s eye and sending her reeling back against the fuselage wall, stunned.