Monica followed Paul down the corridor. The floor was tiled with white ceramic tiles, the suspended ceiling clad in white acoustic tiles and lighting panels, and the walls either side were made of thick clear glass. To her right were rows of black servers, like library-book stacks, though these were all black and sleek and lit up with blue LEDs and labeled at each end with NASA logos.
“This is NASA’s Advanced Super-Computing Division,” Paul said, walking slowly and holding his pistol ready, as though waiting for another threat to emerge like the guy with the shotgun who had blasted Kent away as soon as he’d opened the airlock. “Their Pleiades system is in the top five most powerful super-computers in the world.”
“And they have Jasper in control of it,” Monica said, walking close to him.
Then, ahead, two figures emerged.
“Guns, now,” a deep voice said.
As they took another pace forward Monica made out her brother, next to a man dressed in the same black paramilitary gear as the others, and the same full-face ski mask. The man was holding a pistol to her brother’s head.
“Drop the guns!” the guy said.
Paul bent down and put his gun to the floor then raised his hands.
Monica held her pistol steady. She remembered how her father had taught her and her brother to shoot a 9-millimeter when they were kids. Like pointing your finger at the target, he’d said. Point and shoot.
•
Walker stood. There was no sign of Jasper. He went to the console where Jasper had been seated. There was no pistol there. No weapon.
The screens were all running data that meant near to nothing to him.
He looked around the room. Nothing much of any use. On the desk opposite was a small tool-pouch. He took two small screwdrivers, put one in his back pocket and another in the palm of his hand. He slid off his boots, then crept from the room, his footfalls silent on the tiled floor.
•
“Monica,” Jasper said, the gun to his temple. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
Monica held the pistol steady. The 9-millimeter Sig was similar to the Beretta she’d learned to shoot with, but a little bigger and more plasticky. It had a three-dot sight system, and she lined them up at the head of the man who was pointing the pistol at her brother. They were maybe twenty paces down the hall. The target was small, his head partially obscured by her brother’s. She knew she could not guarantee the hit. Her finger pressure increased on the trigger.
“Mon,” Jasper said. “Please. Put the gun down. No one has to die here.”
Monica kept the pressure up. The man holding her brother was taking half-strides toward them, narrowing the distance, increasing her chances of a shot.
“Please,” Jasper said, his shoulders hunching. “Put your gun down. Please? There’s no need for that. We’re going to walk out of here—it’s nearly over. See? We can walk out and go home and go see Dad. Make things right. I—I can make things right. Once this is done—you’ll see. I promise. I’m . . . I’m—I’m sorry, Mon. Okay? Please . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Monica’s hands started to shake and tears ran down her face. She saw Paul watching her and nodding, and she lowered the pistol. He took it from her trembling hands and placed it on the floor, then stood up and held her.
The guy took the gun from Jasper’s head.
Jasper smiled. Then, he reached into the back pocket of his orange jumpsuit and pulled out a pistol of his own, pointed it at Paul and walked toward him. “Now, it’s time that you did the job you’ve always been preparing for.”