Paradigm (29 page)

They sat for a moment as the wind jounced a particularly large tumbleweed across the highway and onto the hard ground where it caught on the stump of an old fence post.

“So,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

Sam thought about arguing, insisting that he could do this on his own, but he knew it was pointless.

“You go back to Bast,” he said. “I hobble along later. Assuming the Vega makes it. You let me in. I swipe the box. We run away.”

“Brilliant. You totally missed your calling. One of the great military strategists of our lifetime…or possibly not.”

“So what’s your idea?”

“I go back first. When you get near, dump the car. Follow the city walls around until you reach the general store called Kate ‘n’ Al’s. Go down to the basement, there’s a tunnel that leads into the city and comes out beneath the baker on the main plaza. Wait for dark, then come to the DETH building. Go up to the roof. I’ll loosen the grate on the HVAC vent. Make your way to Bast’s office. I’m guessing that’s where the box’ll be. Get it and leave the same way you arrived. If all goes well, I’ll join you outside tomorrow morning. If not, I’ll find a way to break you out.”

“That’s exactly the same as my plan!” said Sam, grinning. “Just with more details.”

“We ought to get going.”

Sam stood up, walked to the edge of the plateau and gazed across the dessicated vista. Somewhere out there, beyond the yellow murk, there was an ocean. The widest in the world. And beyond that, other lands, other peoples.

“Alma…I think Matheson may have been right.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I was thinking about the things I can do, the pulse, the thing with the fish toxin, the machines, the plex. I get that they’re probably all inherited abilities, passed down from Mutha, and I guess there could even be more stuff that I don’t know about yet.”

“True. And your point is…?”

“Well, Mutha will be even more powerful, won’t it? It’ll be able to do all those things and more. It’s practically running the entire planet from hyperspace. Without Mutha everywhere would be like the Wilds.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“No, it wouldn’t. But if it’s that powerful from hyperspace, how powerful would it be if it was able to be there and here at the same time?”

Alma hesitated for a moment, but Sam could see that she understood.

“Go on,” he said. “Say it.”

“It would be a god.”

Sam smiled thinly and turned back to the vista below. It was beautiful in a severe, stripped-back way. The bare bones of a landscape that had once fed a nation.

“What do you want to do?” asked Alma quietly.

“If…if everything goes wrong and it gets in…into my head, I want you to stop it. Do you understand?”

“Yes. But you have to be sure.”

“I am sure.” He turned back and smiled at her. “As sure as I’ve ever been about anything.”

“Okay,” said Alma. “If I have to do it, I’ll make it quick. You’ll never know.”

Sam smiled.

“Thanks. Wait…won’t the vents be alarmed? There’s no way Bast would—”

“Yeah, they were,” said Alma, standing up. “It was kind of a project of mine the last time I was there. No cameras, no motion detectors. The video in the security room is running on a loop. I wanted a bolt-hole just in case things went tits-up. Right. I’ll see you there.”

“Yeah.”

She looked at him, as if expecting him to say something else, but the moment was gone almost as soon as it appeared, so she flashed her sideways smile, turned around and marched back to the campsite. A few moments later Sam heard the Norton fire up, then roar away from the river and up to the highway. He watched as she vanished into the wavering dusty heat, wishing that he had said something, done something. If she had been an ordinary girl, like Mary or any of the others he’d met, he would’ve known exactly what they wanted and what to say. But Alma wasn’t like them. She was something wild and rare, unpredictable yet reliable, tough and gentle at the same time, and he didn’t want to mess up. He didn’t want to say anything else that was stupid or ill-considered or ill-timed or just plain idiotic. He wanted to be with her.

He sat on the hill, watching the dust cloud become a pin-prick on the horizon and then disappear completely. It was a surprise, this feeling. Now that he’d allowed himself to have it—to admit to it.

He wanted to be with her.

And he would wait as long as it took.

Unless he got killed first.

Which was much more likely.

Chapter 30

S
am couldn’t have put
Bakersfield City on a map, but as the old Vega chuntered down the highway, there was no mistaking its location now. The great black plumes of smoke curling into the yellow skies could be seen for miles, and the swarm of helicopters buzzing and strafing made it clear exactly what was going on. Sam smiled—apparently the people of Bakersfield were giving Carolyn Bast and her banker friend, Dustin Farmer, a bit more trouble than they had anticipated. There could be little doubt about the ultimate outcome, but Sam was pleased to see that not everyone bowed to Bast’s will, and that the banker was going to have to spend a lot more money than he anticipated before he’d be able to get his claws into Peterson Oil’s holdings.

Of course, the minor war had reduced traffic on the highway to practically nothing. Between the turnoff for Bakersfield and the customs gate the only other vehicle Sam saw was a small donkey cart loaded with barrels.

The customs gate was different too, the guards had lost their swagger, and both looked nervous, as if they were afraid the war might spread in their direction. They barely glanced at Sam’s fake subcut ident and rushed him through the gate as quickly as possible before retreating into their guardhouse and slamming the door.

Sam drove to the great outlands of Century City and up the hill to the observatory. He parked the Vega beneath some trees and sat on the hood, gazing out across the wasteland of half-derelict buildings and roughly constructed huts. The black towers of Century City gleamed in the distance, a constant reminder to the outlanders that they would never be quite good enough, and that their lives would be a never ending round of scrabbling for food and fighting to keep a roof over their heads, punctuated only by the occasional mind-numbing digivend hit…when they could afford it.

Sam knew that, compared to some of the alternatives, his life had been a good one. He had lost his parents, but at least he’d had some time with them, and they’d taught him how to survive on his own. More than that, they’d taught him how to enjoy the things he had and not to take anything too seriously. True, they hadn’t been totally upfront about what he was, but he was sure that they would have got around to it, if they’d lived. For a while, back in the house in San Francisco, he’d felt betrayed by them. But if Elkanah had been wrong to pursue the research, at least he realized it in time to get his son out of harm’s way.

Only now Sam was going to put himself in harm’s way on purpose. He lay back and looked up into the trees. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze, their green lattice making the jaundiced clouds look almost beautiful. The scratching feeling at the back of his head had started again, and with it the familiar dull ache in his temples, but he was getting kind of used to it now. He closed his eyes and thought about the Rovers. At seventeen they were old. Most of them were dead well before they hit eighteen. By their standards he’d lived a pretty full life. It was all relative.

Vincent had told Sam he probably only had a year or so left. But his life, too, had been one of adventure and incident, and there was no bitterness or resentment at those whose years stretched on for decades longer. The world was what it was and Vincent was comfortable with that. It was the way his world was supposed to be. Sam wished he could feel the same way, but he wanted more. He’d always wanted more and always been told that things would never change.

Yet Nathan had said the lake was losing its toxicity. Sam opened his eyes. So maybe it wasn’t all irreversible. Maybe one day the blue sky would return and maybe, just maybe, when night fell, the same sky would be full of glittering stars.

He jumped off the hood of the car, took one of the last remaining green pills and drove down the hill. It was a few hours before dusk, but there was something he wanted to do first.

That, and he anticipated some problem getting access to the basement at Kate ‘n’ Al’s. If someone like Alma marched in and demanded the use of your basement, self-preservation would tell you to do exactly what she said and ask her if she’d like a snack to ease her on her way. But Sam had never found it quite so easy convincing people to do stuff.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. There was no Kate or Al at Kate ‘n’ Al’s, just a short, hungry-eyed man with grey skin and the jitters, who showed Sam the way after the exchange of a couple of coins, both of which Sam was sure would end up in the digivend outside before the hour was up.

The tunnel was nothing like the one in San Francisco. It was high, old, and well-traveled, lined with a mixture of brick and rubble, and lit by small motion-control lights that clicked on as he approached and off as he passed, so he was in a constant bubble of light as he made his way into the city.

After about fifteen minutes, he came to a battered plywood door that creaked open and led into a storeroom full of bags of flour, yeast and nuts. Sam could hear the shop above, bustling with customers. He took a deep breath and marched up the stairs and out into the small bakery, warm from the ovens and smelling deliciously of bread. The owners ignored him and continued serving customers, so he threw a coin onto the counter, picked up a Danish, and sauntered out into the street.

Once again, the plaza was heaving with humanity—workers on their way home or meeting at restaurants and bars, tradesmen hawking their wares from carts and barrows. Everywhere, noise, activity, and affluence.

Sam walked to the parking lot and took the stairs up to the fourth floor.

And there it was.

Gleaming like a ruby and crouching low to the ground like a cat.

The GTO.

He ran a hand along its length, examining every inch, afraid of an unfamiliar dent or scratch, but it seemed that Nathan had taken good care of it. He tried the door. Locked of course. He glanced around to make sure no one else was there, then shimmied under the chassis. There was a second set of keys there. Or, at least, there was supposed to be. He’d stashed them back when he’d first won the car, but hadn’t needed them since, so there was every chance they might have shaken loose in the ensuing years. They hadn’t.

He slid out, opened the door, got behind the wheel, and breathed deep.

Home.

He turned the key and was surprised when the great engine roared to life. The cigar lighter was still there. Why hadn’t Nathan taken it?

Sam turned the engine off and listened, half expecting the jack-booted feet of Bast’s thugs to come pounding towards him. But all was silence. He removed the lighter and looked in the back seat. The gun was where he’d left it. He checked it. Still loaded.

He got out of the car and stood back. He wanted to remember every detail. No matter what happened in the next few hours, he wanted to be able to close his eyes and see it again.

He locked it up, put the keys and gun in his pocket and headed down the stairs. Darkness was closing in fast and the feeble street lights had come on, lighting latecomers home before the power to most of the city was turned off for another nine hours. He walked quickly back to the plaza, through the financial district and out to the imposing offices of DETH, Inc.

By the time he got there, the lights had been cut and even the hotels and other businesses with private generators were plunged into stygian gloom. Sam checked his pocket watch. It was at least three hours earlier than last time.

He looked out toward the oil fields and the great refinery. The place was lit up like an old fashioned Christmas Tree, pumping out fuel around the clock. It seemed even Carolyn Bast was having trouble keeping up with the demands of her little war.

The DETH offices were unaffected, however, so Sam kept as far away as possible while he carefully made his way around the building to the service ladder that led to the roof. The ladder had been securely locked, but now the lock was merely cosmetic—held in place by some kind of putty.

Once again, he found himself marveling at Alma’s ability to get things done.

He removed the lock, climbed up a couple of rungs, then turned and stuck it back in place, before continuing the rest of the way to the roof. He kept low and moved quickly over to the vent. Like the lock, it was just lightly held in place. He removed the grate, climbed inside and pulled it into position. Then he turned and listened.

He’d taken the green pill because it not only seemed to stop him hearing Mutha, but also prevented the great plex from hearing him, and the longer he could stay under the radar the better. The downside, of course, was that he couldn’t hear anything in the vent.

There was nothing for it but to slide through and hope that he took the right turns, so he began to ease his way along, stopping at every grate he came to and listening for anything that would tell him where he was. After about fifteen minutes of this, he finally heard something, but it wasn’t good.

It was a faint moan. The kind of noise a body makes without its owner being aware of producing the sound. A small, desolate, totally despairing murmur.

Sam followed the sound, but the grate over that room was closed tight. There was another a little further along, however, and that one was open—he could see the pattern of light on the inside of the vent.

He crawled over and found himself looking down into a large office with wooden furniture, leather chairs, and a huge muthascreen. Papers and maps littered the desk and a half-drunk glass of something amber-colored stood near a stack of files. It had to be Bast’s office.

He listened. Not a sound. Not so much as a breath.

He tried the grate. It was fastened tight, so he began to loosen the screws from the inside. There was no way of preventing the first one from falling and bouncing onto the carpet below, but he was able to squeeze a hand through and catch the other three, before lifting the grate out and dropping lightly onto a tall credenza and then onto the floor.

He stopped and listened, then moved quickly around the room, opening cupboards and drawers, anything large enough to conceal the box. Nothing. He sat in Bast’s chair and looked around the room. It had to be here. There was no way she’d keep it in her bedroom, not after he’d snagged the key from there last time.

He stood up and stepped back. Then looked down. His footfall had sounded different. He got on his knees and pulled the carpet away from under her chair. There it was—another Weldan safe.

He put his hand on the door. After the practice with the poker machines in Fresno it was almost too easy. A whirr, a click and the door was open. He pulled it back and looked inside. There were various papers, some gold, a tattered map…and the Paradigm Device. He removed the box, locked the safe and returned the carpet and chair to their former positions. But as he stood up he heard a hum.

He turned slowly toward the muthascreen. It was suddenly active.

A blue screen with four words in white:
Is that you, Sammy?

Sam moved swiftly across the room, hoisted the box onto the top of the credenza, climbed up into the vent and balanced the grate as best he could. There was no way to screw it back in place, but maybe it would buy him a little time. He began the long journey back the way he had come. All he had to do now was get across town and out. Once he had destroyed the box it wouldn’t matter how many locules were still alive, Mutha would be stuck in hyperspace where it belonged and he could go back to driving around the Wilds and maybe...

He stopped. Voices. Quite a lot of voices. He recognized a few, but one, quieter than the others, made his heart stand still. It was Alma.

If he turned to the left, he’d be on his way out, but the voices were to the right. He knew what Alma would say. She’d roll her eyes and tell him to stick with the plan.

He hesitated, then turned to the right and eased along as slowly as he could, hardly daring to breathe. Eventually he reached a grate. It was open. He peered through. It was Bast’s dining room. Setzen was there, as was Phyllida and the banker’s wife, Tiffany, though Dustin Farmer himself seemed to be absent. He leaned further in. There was Bast, in one of those deceptively feminine flowing gowns she seemed to save for these occasions, and sitting right next to her was Alma.

“It’s so lovely to have you back, Alma, dear,” cooed Bast. “Do have some wine. I just cannot believe I haven’t invited you to dinner before. You must have so many fascinating stories.”

Sam rolled onto his back. She didn’t have the razor blades woven into her hair, so she probably wasn’t armed either.

No,
he thought.
Please don’t let this be happening.

He lay there as the appetizer was served, then the soup, followed by steak. The aromas wound their way up and into the vent, as Sam racked his brain. There was a moment when he allowed himself to think that maybe it wasn’t anything, that Bast was genuinely pleased that her assassin had returned and the meal was perfectly innocent.

But Bast did nothing without purpose.

“Ah!” she said. “Here’s the fish. I do enjoy the fish course, don’t you? I know it’s supposed to come before the meat, but I prefer it this way.”

Sam rolled back again and looked down as the fish was placed before the guests. A part of him still hoped that Alma might get the same recipe as everyone else, a simple trout with white wine sauce. But the telltale scattering of herbs told another story.

“I’m afraid I’m not fond of fish,” said Alma.

“Oh, but you must try it, my dear. I think you’ll find this quite different.”

Bast patted her hand, but Alma pulled it away, glaring at the older woman.

“No.”

“Is that look supposed to scare me?” said Bast, her voice suddenly cold. “You
will
eat the fish, and I’ll tell you why…”

She leaned in and whispered something to her guest. Sam was waiting for the explosion that surely had to come. Alma was more than capable of creating mayhem without a single blade or gun.

But nothing happened. Instead, she just picked up her fork and ate.

The guests were silent for a moment, watching the girl.

Alma coughed a little, then sat back, her eyes glazed.

“There we go now,” cooed Bast. “That wasn’t so difficult was it? You feel much better now, don’t you?”

“Yes. I feel better.”

“Good. Please carry on eating, everyone. Alma and I are going to have a little chat.”

Phyllida giggled slightly and made eyes at Setzen, but he seemed bored with her and much more interested in the conversation at the other end of the table.

“You see, my dear, I simply cannot bear betrayal. I’m terribly forgiving about almost everything else, but betrayal is just too much. Isn’t that right, Setzen?”