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"Running is easy, hiding is hard." — Grandfather Twofeathers
At some point, Logan decided his nostrils must have died because he no longer smelled the sewage. Up ahead, a different light pattern was visible, which turned out to be a circular junction. The walkway coiled around a vertical tunnel that plunged deeper into the sewer system and also climbed to who knew where. No way was he going farther down into that noxious pit, and he silently thanked the poor city workers who had that job. Most of the maintenance was robotized now, but knowing how well technology worked, there would undoubtedly be situations where someone had to "get their hands dirty."
A series of metal rungs set into the old brickwork ran both up and down. There was no sign of anything at the top, but he was willing to risk disappointment to avoid going deeper. He grabbed the first rung, his hands slipping on a greasy layer of filth coating the cold metal, and hauled himself up.
As he climbed, his legs slowly turned to jelly. He stopped briefly, hanging on to the rungs for a break, but it made it harder to get moving again. His eyes watered from the exertion, or perhaps his sense of smell was returning. Whichever it was, he didn't see the roof until his head collided with it. The impact caught the same spot the peach cans had hit earlier, and he scrabbled to hold on to the ladder.
Grabbing the rungs with a death grip, to stop from plunging into the noxious river of sewage, he waited until his head stopped spinning, then cautiously looked at the roof. A wave of relief hit him as he saw dim metal edges outlining the underside of a manhole cover. Using the last of his strength, he reached up and pushed.
It didn't budge. Not so much as a millimeter.
He tried again, putting more weight into it, but nothing happened. He searched the edge for a latch, though why anyone would lock access to prevent someone leaving the sewer was beyond him. He didn't find anything and hammered his fist against the cover.
Logan looked down into the murk below and shivered. "I guess it's onward and downward."
He didn't move immediately—not relishing venturing deeper into the tunnel system, especially as there was a real possibility of getting lost in there. Presumably the sewers emerged somewhere, but where and how long it would take to find the exit was anyone's guess.
He reluctantly lowered himself to the next rung down, momentarily blinded as the metal cover above him opened up and a shaft of piercing light filled the passage like a wide laser beam.
"Come on, Logan. Get out of there." Samara was looking down at him.
"Thanks. Believe me, I've had enough shit for one day."
"Jesus, I never realized you were such a wimp."
She stepped back from the hole as he clambered out, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light levels. He jumped as she hit him with a hose of freezing water, but at least it was clean. They were in a bare concrete box, lit by two sorry-looking strip lights set into the ceiling behind wire shields. Judging by the hose, and the fact that the floor was angled to channel water into a central drain, it was designed as an access point to the sewer. Though the heavy blocks of concrete forming the walls and surrounding the double doors at one end had a look of grim functionality far beyond any typical maintenance needs.
"Why won't you leave me alone?"
Samara peeled off her fatigues, showing no embarrassment. There were several scars on her arms and legs, including a large one running diagonally from her shoulder all the way to her hip. Some he'd seen before, when he'd cleaned her up after finding her in the mud near Pasto, in the Central South Alliance. He'd been working on an irrigation project at the time. Muscat enforcers had caught and almost killed her, torturing her for details of her operation. While feverish, she'd revealed she was a SecOps operative.
"Haven't you done enough to me?" She opened a large green locker set against the wall, pulling out a dusty plastic-wrapped packet and tore it open to reveal a set of functional coveralls.
"I'm not the one who tried to blow you up, remember?" Logan pointed to the locker. "Is there a set in there for me?"
She jerked the zipper closed and picked up her guns. "Help yourself."
He shivered inside his wet clothes, and it was becoming obvious that the hose blast hadn't eradicated the smell completely. There were a number of shelves inside the locker, each containing a stack of the plastic bundles arranged in a variety of sizes. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this, but it seemed too elaborate to be something even a compulsive security freak like Samara would arrange.
Tearing open a pack in the right size, Logan noticed a faded FEMA print on the plastic. That explained a lot—the tunnels and rooms must have been constructed as an emergency shelter. Although history wasn't his strong suit, everyone knew about the reign of terror perpetrated by the President of Hatred and Lies who led the long-gone USA into a series of wars. The conflicts eventually bankrupted the nation and led directly to the Collapse. FEMA had something to do with Internal Security—though security was a strange word to use for an organization that preyed mostly on its own citizens. He turned his back as he wriggled out of the sodden clothes.
Samara's harsh laugh bounced off the concrete walls. "Don't worry. You've got nothing I haven't seen before, and nothing I'm interested in."
"That goes both ways."
"What does your wife see in you?" She moved to the door at the far end and pulled on the handle. A metallic groan attested to the fact that it hadn't been used for some time.
Logan hurried to finish dressing and followed her. The room on the other side was dark, the painted concrete walls chipped and fading. A bitter cloud of dust trailed them—kicked up from a layer under their feet at least a centimeter deep. Sitting like an ancient skeleton under one of the dim lights was a solitary chair, the fabric rotting away and hanging like strips of desiccated skin from the metal framework.
"This place isn't exactly hospitable," he muttered, not expecting a response.
"Feel free to climb back into the sewer."
Samara pulled out a small flashlight and pointed it into the gloom. The beam seemed to die in the general murkiness, but as she cast it about, Logan spotted a series of alcoves along each wall, some empty but others stacked high with yellowed boxes all bearing the FEMA stamp.
"I'm surprised the NeverSees haven't looted this place."
She strode forward, partially disappearing in a cloud of dust. "Many of these shelters probably have been. But they stay away from this one."
"Why?"
"How the hell would I know?" She turned left into another section. "They're a superstitious bunch."
As they walked toward the wall at the end of the room, Samara ran her flashlight over it and muttered something Logan didn't catch. It was a plain old piece of dusty concrete, like the others. Then she reached out and her hand appeared to penetrate the wall, as though sinking deep into the slab. The concrete flickered, then revealed a thick steel door secured by a heavy-duty security lock. In contrast to the age of everything else, the lock looked new and well maintained.
"How did you know about this?" He examined the door closer. "That thing is coded to a specific handprint and has built-in countermeasures. Better keep away from it."
She ignored him and wrapped her hand around the sensor handle.
"Don't, it'll—"
It beeped and she released the lock. "You're right again."
So, she'd known the door was there. This was her fallback if her base was compromised. Her attitude was annoying, but he needed her if he was going to get anywhere. Samara flicked a switch by the entrance, and the room beyond was bathed in a yellow light. Unlike the FEMA-marked supplies, the ones here weren't old. Military hard-shell cases lined the walls, and rows of crates dominated the middle of the floor space. He wasn't sure what was in the boxes but guessed she had enough firepower to equip a small army.
"I thought you'd given up your military collection."
"This is basic survival gear."
He surveyed the assortment of weapons, ammunition, and explosives and raised an eyebrow.
She pulled a smaller box over to a table in the corner and opened the cover, revealing the panel of a military-grade comms unit. In a few seconds, it was up and running, and she keyed in a message, before turning to Logan.
"Willt and Barriger have been with me since I found them living on the streets eight years ago. If anything's happened to them, I'll take it out on you."
Logan slumped in a corner, the bare concrete rough against his hands. He watched while she kept her eyes on the comms unit. "Who are they?" he asked, keeping his voice low.
She glared at him momentarily, then looked away. "We served together."
There was something in her voice Logan recognized. It spoke of loss, far greater than anyone would normally experience in a lifetime. As if her world had been destroyed countless times, something he'd felt since the Corporates had first invaded Kwelengsen. He grabbed the nearest case to use as a prop to help him up and noticed a square coded badge on its side: a pattern of regular triangles in light blue, yellow and magenta mixed in with saw teeth of black—surrounded by a black box. He'd seen something like it before but couldn't remember where.
He stood and examined the other boxes. Each one had a similar sticker. The pattern varied, but they were all broadly similar. "What are these?"
Samara didn't look up. "What?"
"These markings."
She glanced at where he was pointing. "Old style MilSec inventory labels."
"Inventory labels?"
"Yeah, you know... they scan them, keep track of supplies. Some people seem to find that kind of thing appealing."
Logan managed to get his fingernail under the corner of a label and tore it off the case, then walked over to her. "I've seen the design before."
"SecOps still uses them in some circumstances." Samara's face was impassive, but there were hints of a pained expression.
"Dollie had one tattooed on her wrist. How come?" Before Dollie married his long-time friend Joe, she'd been in a relationship with Samara.
"She liked the design. I don't know, I guess she thought it was fun. Her sense of humor can be a little obscure."
"Why don't I believe you?"
"If you must know, she got it to copy mine." Samara rolled up the sleeve of her coveralls and held out her arm. Sure enough there was a two-centimeter square on her wrist with the same type of colored pattern. "It's the sort of thing lovers do."
The comm-set chirped several times. She turned back to it and played with the controls. "That was Barriger—they're safe. Lucky for you."
Logan knew something about inventory tagging. As an engineer, it was part of his job. Tags were used to identify and track equipment easily, and also to aid in investigations when things went wrong. If the parts could be identified easily and a pattern established, it could shed light on a disaster. It might be a grisly fact of life, but such markings would be useful for soldiers in combat. But he was fairly sure Dollie had never been in the military. Unless...
"Damn! She was part of your collection?" Joe had once visited Samara's lair and told him about her curious hoard of militaria, including some items that were best described as sick. "That was why you were interested in her?"
Samara was silent for several minutes, and when he looked closer he saw a tear wander down her cheek.
"That's how it... started," she said. "I found references to the project in various files. MilSec was researching the creation of a new type of special soldier—the best of both worlds you might say. With the strength and endurance of a man and the emotional intelligence and adaptability of a woman. Initially, I thought nothing had gone beyond the feasibility study phase. Then I realized it had progressed, and they'd Geneered a prototype before the program was canceled. I tracked the clues until I found her."
"Where is the local slave market these days?" Logan spoke through gritted teeth.
She jerked upright, her eyes angry. "That's not how it was."
"How do I get out of here?"
She sat up. "I thought you needed help."
A sour taste filled Logan's mouth and he swallowed hard. "I'll find another way."
"There's no way you can get to the PAC with your security level. Not unless you're a shape-shifter who can change his DNA."
"That's not your concern anymore." Logan opened several of the hardened cases and found a flashlight in the third one. "Just point me toward the exit."
Samara stood, running her fingers though her drying hair. "You realize I could send you the wrong way and you'd die of starvation before you found your way out?"
"Forget it."
Logan stepped back through the door and looked both ways. Their footprints were clearly visible in the chalky dust on the floor. He started walking in the opposite direction.
"You'll never get out that way," Samara called, her voice already fading with distance.
He had no idea how he was going to do it, but he'd have to find an alternative. A corridor branched off left, and he followed it, flicking the flashlight beam ahead of him.
"Logan?" Her voice was faint. "Wait, I'll help."
He stopped. He didn't have much reason to trust her. She might hand him over to the authorities, or sell him into slavery for that matter. Unfortunately, she was his only real chance. He sighed and backtracked. Samara was still busy with the comms unit. Logan didn't know what she was doing, but she appeared to be accessing different networks and sending out messages.
"Promise me one thing." She didn't look up.
"What?"
"You'll never tell Dollie about this."
"Why would I want to upset her?" Logan paused. "But perhaps you should."
She shook her head. "Getting to the PAC and up Tali Panjang won't be easy. Without proper travel papers you can't use any official routes, and I'm not sure how much of my old network still exists."
He wondered how she knew the local name for the PAC Elevator. Most people either used the general term, or if more precise identification was needed, they might call it the Bengkulu Elevator, named for the city where the ground station was located. Though after the destruction of the High-Rig, it was, in fact, the sole operating space elevator. "What are the options?"
"It depends what my remaining contacts say. I can't promise it will be good." Her face was grim. "Either way, we can't stay here for long. In a few hours, someone young and eager will think of using penetrating radar to check for survivors and they'll find the access point."
"Pick a gun." She pointed to the crates. "This isn't going to be easy."
*
"There's only one way out of the USP," Samara finally announced.
"In a box?"
After working at the comms unit for over an hour, she walked to the far corner of the room and came back with a can of peaches. "Want to split it?"
Logan shook his head. He liked the flavor, but the slimy texture bothered him. He stood and stretched awkwardly—sitting so long had left him stiff—then checked the crate of peaches to see if there were any other options. At least half of it was filled with the same fruit. There were some military-style food packs, but he'd suffered those for too long in the caves on Kwelengsen. Finally, he settled on a can of self-heating beans and cracked the activation tab. Thirty seconds later, he was digging out mouthfuls of the bubbling mix with a compacted-paper spoon.
"Every official exit port is monitored. You won't make it past the first level of security." She munched on a peach half. "Even with all my gear, I couldn't get you through a DNA scan."
Logan slumped, guilty over the loss of her base of operations. It was embarrassing, especially as he'd tried to throw the authorities off the scent. Although there was nothing he could do about it now.
"We leave in thirty minutes," she said.
She went through several boxes picking out different supplies. One was full of old-style coins, most silver but many gold. He looked closer, surprised at the anachronistic wealth.
"Are those Double Eagles?"
Samara flipped one to him with a casual flick. "Straight from McShane's coffers."
McShane had been the last president of the United States. She hadn't caused the country to break up, but was entirely unable to prevent it before she was assassinated only six months into her term. One of the few things she was remembered for was her bid to stabilize the currency by returning to a gold-based standard, resulting in the minting of millions of dollars in gold and silver coins.
"I thought the McShane Millions vanished."
Samara looked at Logan like he was in fifth grade. "They did."
She filled two heavy-duty belts with a mixture of the coins, along with the usual plastic credit chips, and threw one to Logan. "Put this under your clothes and don't let anyone know you're wearing it. Strictly for emergency use. You have any USP cash?"
He nodded, humbled at the thoroughness of her preparations for dealing with an emergency.
"We can use it here, but it's useless once we cross into the Alliance. And no cards anywhere."
"The Alliance?"
She sighed. "To travel to PanAsia we need to get to a neutral airport without going through security. It means we have to go through MusCat territory. They don't recognize USP money or credit. In fact, they don't recognize the USP exists. So we need something we can use within their borders."
Logan strapped the money belt under his coverall feeling a little uncomfortable. Not with the weight, but rather the idea of heading into MusCat territory.
"You look like your pet beetle died. Worried about the Muskies?"
The honest answer to that was "yes." Logan had never been there, but he'd heard plenty of stories of how they treated Nations people. He wasn't sure how he'd cope with a bunch of religious zealots ruled over by a dictatorship dedicated to wiping the USP off the map and "restoring" its former greatness through conquering the enemies of the one true god.
"Don't worry. They're people like anyone else for the most part." Samara grabbed a couple of boxes out of another case and pulled out something that resembled a gun with a short barrel. "Turn to your left."
There was an intense stab of pain behind his ear. "What the hell?"
"Sub-dermal comms pickup. I'll have the same." She injected herself with the gun from the second package. "We'll be able to keep in touch if we get separated. Tap to activate it."
Logan fingered the painful area and found a small bump.
"It toggles on and off. To save power and reduce the chance of detection they don't broadcast full-time."
"What's next? A wristwatch with a built-in EMP device, and a pair of shoes with rockets in the heels?"
"No. But you can have a suicide pill if you want."
She rummaged around, pulled out a gold wedding ring, and popped the center up to reveal a small pill concealed inside.
A few weeks ago he might have considered it, but he hoped things had changed. "No, thanks."
She laughed for the first time. "You're safe. That's IBIX—a temporary Performance Enhancer. Swallow it and you'll get around two hours of faster movement, quicker reaction times, and vastly improved stamina."
"Sounds useful."
"It is. Until you crash."
Most MilSec drug programs were classified, but there were always rumors, and sometimes some of the drugs slipped out into the public sphere, especially when students needed a "boost" close to graduating. While the ethics surrounding their use were questionable, no one doubted their effectiveness.
"It's precautionary. I don't expect to need it." She slipped on a matching ring, holding her hand up to show him. "Yes. We're married. For the duration of our time in the Alliance."
"What?" A surge of panic hit him.
"Calm down. MusCat women are only allowed to travel if accompanied by a close male relative—father, brother, or husband. The first two don't fit with our ages, so we're married."
"But..."
She held up a hand. "Don't worry, I've no designs on your body. MusCat law is a throwback to medieval times. If we mess up, we'll be in big trouble, and believe me, the USP won't lift a finger to help. But without me, you haven't got a chance of getting through."
What she said was true. MusCat society was a patriarchy, with many laws similar to some of the most extremist views in history. He'd learned about it in school civics classes, but it was different facing it in reality. He felt helpless and didn't like it. For the most part, he'd been a "take-charge" guy, the person making decisions, directing the flow of events around him—now he was reliant on Samara and her experience.
She pulled out another box and sprayed something on her head. In a few minutes, the white hair started to darken and soon looked like an entirely natural deep mahogany. She brushed her fingers through her hair, then shrugged. "The white would be a complete giveaway. Now help me with this."
Her words sounded strange and buzzed inside his head as they came through the implant. He also didn't see her lips move, which was disconcerting.
"Do you practice that?"
He'd spoken normally, and she winced. "It only needs a whisper. These things amplify like crazy."
"This" turned out to be a large case full of modern currency, into which Samara threw the remaining Double Eagles.
"I can replace the rest," she said normally, after turning her transmitter off. "But I need to be able to recover this later."
After they left the room, she locked the door and reactivated the holographic concealment field, leaving the wall looking like any other piece of dusty old concrete. The concealment wasn't perfect. There was a line in the dust that should have been piled against the "wall" but instead was brushed into an angle. A swipe of her foot spread it around, then they carried the case back to the sewer exit and opened the cover.
Muttered voices echoed down the tunnels, distant but closing.
"Shit." Samara spat. "Okay, Plan C." She closed the drain cover and locked it again.
"Will that hold them off?" It didn't seem likely if they were determined to get through.
"Probably not, but it will slow them." She grabbed her end of the case. "We need to move anyway, if we're going to catch our ride."
They shuffled through the hallway and turned several times. Logan staggered and readjusted his grip on the handle. They came to a steep concrete stairwell, and he had to call a halt temporarily. Despite the dank air, he was sweating, though Samara seemed unaffected.
"You're Geneered?" He leaned on the case, dragging in deep breaths.
"Of course." She shuffled from one foot to the other. "And you're out of shape. Your wife must be disappointed."
"She loves me for my mind."
Samara grunted and grabbed the case again. Logan picked up his end and they started up the stairs. At the top they passed through a door into a broader tunnel. The concrete here was cleaner and less stained, and running down the middle was a channel of water that looked pristine in comparison to what he'd seen in the sewer. Several river tributaries flowing through the area had been built over decades earlier to make way for expansion into the rural hinterland, and this must have been one of them. The case scraped noisily along the concrete floor as they dragged it to the water's edge. Samara checked something on it, and a light flickered momentarily.
"Remotely activated tracker," she said. "So I can recover it later."
"You think that will happen?"
"As long as you don't get me killed." She grabbed the case. "On three."
Logan helped her swing the case a couple of times, then on the third sent it sailing into the water. The splash echoed around the concrete walls, and the case vanished under the water, leaving barely a ripple to show it had ever existed.
"Won't they be able to find it with scanners?"
"Why would they look?" She moved off to the right. "Come on. We're short on time."
"Okay, but where are we going?" Logan stopped, breathing heavily. "What the hell do I call you anyway?"
She was already jogging down the walkway, but she called back over her shoulder. "Samara, or Sam works. Move. We've got less than forty-five minutes."