Trickster. Part 29

Unfortunately, Martina had no way to test this particular theory until she actually put her plan into motion. Her heart climbed into her throat as she casually undressed down to her underwear and then, as if bored while waiting for the tub to fill, she picked up a bar of soap from the sink and toyed with it. Whimsically, she drew a smiley face on the mirror and made faces at herself. Then, with a light laugh, she scribbled over the mirror with soap until the whole thing was completely blocked out. Just playing around. No harm here. She set the soap down, crossed to the half-full tub, and opened the drain without turning off the water. With a hard swallow, she picked up a can of depilatory cream, propped one foot on the side of the tub, and spread some of it on her leg.

Then she waited.

Her mouth was dry and her hands shook. If this didn't work, if she got caught, she had no idea what would happen to her. Martina doubted it would be pleasant. They wouldn't kill her--she was too valuable for that--but a lot of brainwas.h.i.+ng methods were less . . . genial than those which the Deltas currently used. There was also the very real possibility that even if she got out, she would find herself with nowhere to run. As Keith had pointed out, this could be an asteroid or a station or an installation in the middle of a desert. And what about her shackles? They might shock her into insensibility the moment she crossed the threshold. Still, she had to try, had to find out.

A sound reached her ears over the noise of running water. The main door to her quarters had opened.

"h.e.l.lo?" came Delta Maura's voice. "Alpha?"

"I'm in here," Martina called through dry lips.

Delta Maura entered the bathroom, her green robe and wimple rustling in the thick steam. Her face was serene, as usual, but her eyes went straight to the mirror. Martina suppressed a grim smile. Her theory had proven correct. Delta Maura had been sent in to unblock the camera. If there had been another camera in the room, or if Martina had been wrong about the mirror, the spies, whoever they were, would have simply continued watching.

"Is there a problem, Delta Maura?" Martina asked. The running water was loud, and she had to raise her voice.

"What did you do to your mirror, dear?" Delta Maura said.

Martina laughed. "Just playing around. Didn't you ever draw on the mirror with soap when you were a kid?"

"No."

"It's a pretty design, I think. Look, you can still see the bird."

Delta Maura turned to examine the gla.s.s. "Bird? I'm afraid I don't--"

Martina clocked her with the can. Delta Maura collapsed. Martina caught her and lowered her to the floor. Quickly she undressed the woman and shrugged into the voluminous robe and wimple.

Under the robe Delta Maura wore a belt with a small computer box on it. Martina gasped in recognition--a master unit. Master units controlled slave shackles. With trembling fingers, Martina found the tiny key and pulled it away from the unit. A lead wire stretched with it. Martina touched the key to her wristband. It fell open and dropped to the floor. Quickly, Martina touched the key to her ankleband and released that as well. She stared down at the naked skin left behind. The wristbands had been part of her life for over fifteen years, and now they were gone.

Martina shook herself. This wasn't the time for rumination. It was time to leave. At the last minute, Martina remembered to grab the gloves--and she found Delta Maura's keycard. Martina rolled her eyes. She didn't need the one she had found at all. On the other hand, it had given her the idea to escape in the first place. Finally, Martina took Delta Maura's earpiece and slipped it on.

"You can't leave the mirror like that, you know," Martina said as she worked, imitating Delta Maura's voice and praying that the running water would keep a listener from noticing the difference. "We'll have to clean it off."

"I'm almost done over here," she answered in her own voice. "Can you help me?"

Delta Maura's voice: "Well, all right. But let's move it along."

Gritting her teeth to keep herself from grunting, Martina heaved Delta Maura's limp body into the tub. The strain pulled at her back and arms, and she was sweating in the thick, steamy air. Eventually, Delta Maura slid home, with only the top of her head showing above the tub's rim. There was no danger she would drown, since the water was running down the drain as fast as it came in. Martina dropped a towel over her shackles lying open on the floor, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up a washcloth and wiped the soap off the mirror, starting at the top and working downward. She kept her head lowered, pretending to keep her eyes on her work but actually using the wimple to hide her face from the camera. Then she turned back to the tub.

"That's enough water, dear," she said above the noise. "When you finish, go straight to bed."

She reached down, shut off the water, and strode quickly from the room.

"So that's the entire plan," Gretchen said. "Glad you saw fit to enlighten us five whole minutes before we get to work."

"This isn't a good time to argue," Lucia said. "We have our jobs to do, and we need to do them so we can get those people out."

Kendi drummed his fingers on his knees beneath the galley table. Lucia had made her usual delicious spread of snacks, but he didn't feel like eating of it. Neither, he noticed, did any of the others.

"Just a minute," Ben said. "Kendi, you're planning to break into the research area alone?"

"The fewer to go in," Kendi told him, "the fewer to get caught."

"And killed."

"I'm Silent, Ben, and I can still work in the Dream. Do you honestly think they'd kill me? If I make a mistake, they'll probably just make me part of the Collection."

"That makes me feel so much better."

"And you'll be free to stage another rescue," Kendi finished.

"Sounds like fun," Gretchen drawled.

Kendi firmed his jaw. "I don't know why I'm trying to justify anything. This is the way it's going to happen, troops. You have gripes, take them up with Irfan."

"We'll do as you order, Father," Lucia said quietly. "We're just worried about you. Even Sister Gretchen worries, though she won't admit it."

Gretchen folded her arms. "The only thing I'm worried about is how much my part sucks."

Father Kendi Weaver adjusted his tool belt and shrugged within his blue maintenance uniform. Seemingly without a care in the world, he sauntered up the corridor that led to the Collection.

The corridor, an una.s.suming gray affair with no doors or windows, was deserted. The files Ben had copied from Roon's directory had indicated that although the Silent prisoners--Alphas, Roon called them--did not have a fixed schedule, most of the workers did. Only a skeleton staff remained on duty for eight of the station's twenty-four hours each "day," giving them some semblance of a diurnal cycle. It seemed most logical to strike when most of the staff were gone.

Interestingly enough, the files also indicated that the vast majority of the workers had no idea what sort of project they were working for. Only Roon, the department heads, another group called the Deltas, and a handful of security folk were in the know. The rest were corporate and blue-collar dupes who would probably lose their jobs when it was all over. But Kendi couldn't let himself feel sorry for them. Not where slavery was involved.

The first checkpoint was a heavy-looking door with a print scanner next to it. Kendi slotted his ID holocard into the key slot, then pressed his thumb to the plate. The plate glowed blue. Kendi held his breath. He knew very well that Ben had used Roon's access to upload a scan of Kendi's prints to the "approved" list, but there was always a moment when you wondered if there had been a mistake.

The lock released with a loud clunk clunk. Kendi pocketed the holocard Ben had forged for him and continued onward. His hands weren't even shaking.

The second checkpoint was exactly like the first, and admitted him with no trouble. The third checkpoint consisted of a plexigla.s.s door through which Kendi could see a pair of human guards watching a series of display terminals. Kendi slotted his card and submitted to the retina scan. Both guards looked up as the lock released and Kendi entered.

"Hey," he said.

The first guard blinked, probably checking the time on his ocular implant. "Late?"

Kendi shrugged. "I called in sick at first, but felt better later, so I decided to come in. You know how it goes--missed hours mean a smaller paycheck."

"I hear you," said the second guard, waving him on.

Kendi hitched his tool belt and moved more quickly, as if he really were worried about missing work time. He turned a corner and found a door labeled Lockers. Kendi went in.

The place looked like any ordinary place for changing and storing clothes. Gray tiles, benches, rows of black lockers. Deserted. Kendi tapped his earpiece. "I'm in."

"Are you logged onto the system as Mallory?"

Kendi left the locker room, and a transparent red arrow flashed across the bottom of his vision. It led him left, then straight, then left again. He kept his cap low. From time to time he pa.s.sed other people, all human, and all of whom ignored him. Eventually, the arrow took him down another empty hallway to a large lift. The arrow changed into a number 5. Kendi used his card to board the lift and pressed the b.u.t.ton for the fifth floor. Once the doors shut, he quickly shucked his coveralls, revealing a skin-tight black outfit beneath. Kendi replaced the tool belt around his waist and sprayed the coveralls. They disintegrated. Next he pulled a black mask and hood from the tool belt and checked the time on his ocular display. He nodded, satisfied.

It was time to make Roon pay.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"We are stuck with what we've lived through. The trick is to finish it with a flourish and an outrageous sense of design."

--Valeta Kalopolis, Ringmaster

Delta Maura's keycard opened the door with no trouble. The corridor beyond was empty--sleep cycle. Martina braced herself, then crossed the threshold.

Nothing happened. No shock, no pain, no alarms. She let out a small breath. Her shackles lay on the bathroom floor. There was no reason to believe anything would happen to her when she left her prescribed place, but a lifetime of conditioning could not be overcome in a few seconds of freedom.

Martina chose a random direction and went. The problem was, she had no idea where to go. She reasoned there had to be ways in and out of the place, though Martina had never seen them. She should probably avoid places she knew, since they'd be dead-ends. The kitchen would be a good place to start--food delivery had to come from somewhere. It might provide her an exit, if only she could find the place.

A sudden urge to go find Keith flooded her. She had a master unit. She could release his shackles and they could run together. A firm shake of the head forced the thought from her mind. Keith was lost to her. She would have to get out herself, then find a way to come back for him. And she would.

If she could get out.

Martina opened a door and found a concrete staircase. Up or down?

Down, she decided. Martina had always gotten the sense that the dumbwaiter in her room came from below, though she had never actually seen it move. In any case, it was something to go on.

She gathered the skirts of her robe in green-gloved hands and headed downward as quickly as she dared. Delta Maura's robe was wide for her and a bit short. Her footsteps echoed off the hard walls. The stairwell was warmer than the corridor, and it smelled like hot metal.

Martina jumped, but no one was there. The voice had come right into her ear. What had-- Delta Maura's earpiece. Swallowing hard, Martina whispered, "Fine. Sorry. I forgot to check in."

"I thought I might get something to eat in the kitchen," Martina said, still whispering. The voice of a whisper wasn't recognizable.

"Of course." Martina tapped the earpiece, ending the conversation. Her heart was beating so fast it made her eyes pulse in time with it. At least she had gotten a valuable clue--the kitchens were on a lower level than the person who had spoken with her.

One level down, the staircase ended. Martina found a door and opened it with her keycard. Voices raised in conversation greeted her. The large room beyond seemed to be an employee dining hall, with rows of long tables and low-backed chairs. Perhaps two dozen people ate from cafeteria trays. Two of them were dressed in green robes identical to Martina's. Martina's first instinct was to flee, but she forced herself to remain in the doorway. None of the diners took the slightest notice of her.

Martina took a deep breath and started across the room. Food smells washed over her and her stomach growled, though she didn't feel at all like eating. The kitchen should be nearby. Martina found herself keeping to the edges of the room. Stupid. Anyone who saw a Delta walking as if she belonged there wouldn't think twice. Anyone who saw a Delta trying to sneak about would get suspicious. Martina forced herself to stride openly and firmly. Silverware clattered against plates and people continued to talk. How long before the people spying on her room got suspicious about the bathtub? How long before they sent someone else to check? Martina didn't know.

One of the Deltas looked up, noticed Martina, and waved her over. Martina's veins hummed with adrenaline. She gave a little wave of her own, pretending to misunderstand, and headed for a large set of swinging doors on the other side of the dining room. Before she could hesitate and lose her nerve, she pushed through them.

On the other side lay an industrial-sized kitchen, with row of gleaming work counters, metal doors, shelves of utensils. White-clad workers chopped and mixed and stirred bubbling pots. The place smelled of cheap meat and tomato sauce.

"Is there something you need, Delta?" asked a voice at her elbow.

Martina stifled a shriek and put a pleasant look on her face. A balding, red-faced man was looking at her inquisitively. An enormous butcher knife gleamed in his hand.

"I'm just looking for the cargo lift where the food s.h.i.+pments come down," she said, trying not to look at the knife. "I don't come back here very often."

"Back there," the man replied, pointing. Then, with a disinterested air, he turned back to his cutting board. The knife made meaty thunks thunks.

Martina breathed an inward sigh at her luck. She hurried to the rear of the kitchen and through another set of swinging doors. Beyond them was a short hallway that ended at another lift, this one big enough to haul freight. It opened to her keycard, so she got in and checked the displays. The kitchen seemed to be in the bas.e.m.e.nt, as she had guessed. There were five floors above her. Which one did she need? Not the first floor--she had just come from there. She thought a moment. Exits were more likely to be on one of the extremes. Fifth floor, then. Martina pressed the b.u.t.ton. The lift came to life with a swooping noise that made her jump again.

After a long moment, the doors opened onto another plain corridor faced by several doors. No people in sight. Martina got out and looked for promising signs of an exit. None were in evidence. Martina ground her teeth in frustration. How the h.e.l.l was she supposed to get out of here? There had had to be a way. to be a way.

The doors slid shut and the lift dropped. Martina thought about calling it back again, then decided against. A stairwell should be nearby--there it was--and she could easily try another floor. Maybe the exit was in the middle, on the third floor? But what if-- The lift made a swooping noise behind her, and the display indicated it was climbing back up. It climbed fast, pa.s.sing the fourth floor and halting at the fifth.