Silver Eyes (17 page)

“I'd be happy to. But wouldn't you rather call them yourself? If you give me a moment, I can get you their number.”

The chip was screaming with urgency already. “I don't have time.” My hands slammed the door, and I blocked off all thoughts of my parents and Dr. Hatcher's amazing offer. I donned the headset and started the engines, overriding the preflight checks.

“Please set course,” the computer said.

“Quito, New Inca Republic,” I told it. “Maximum speed.”

The Spacers' power base was in space. They would want to get Timothy off-planet as soon as possible, which meant the beanstalk, which meant Quito.

The beanstalk was an incredibly tall, thin tower stretching 35,890 kilometers from Earth to space. Elevators in the beanstalk used pulleys and counterweights to transfer goods into space without having to burn up the huge amounts of fuel needed to boost rockets out of Earth's gravity.

The beanstalk had to be built along the equator so as to be in geostationary orbit with Earth, just like a satellite. The UN had chosen to build the beanstalk in Quito because the city was close
to the equator and several miles above sea level.

While the aircar lifted off and flew under AutoPilot, I tried to place a call to President Castellan. All her calls, though, were being shunted to security—meaning Anaximander and Eddy. I hung up quickly.

The clock read 11:20
A.M.

It was a four-hour flight from Tucson, Arizona, to Quito, and the Spacers holding Timothy had at least half an hour's head start. I took the aircar off AutoPilot and used the override to break the speed limit. The aircar's UN identification kept Air Traffic Control from doing anything more than complain. When I got tired or hungry, I let AutoPilot spell me for fifteen-minute breaks while I drank bottled water and ate some doughnuts I found in a paper bag.

I wanted to call beanstalk security to tell them to watch for Timothy and his kidnappers, but I lacked the authority. Beanstalk security would want confirmation from Anaximander or Eddy, and my Loyalty chip insisted on handling things quietly, on not telling people about Eddy's guilt.

At 4:41
P.M.
Central Standard Time, the clouds parted suddenly to reveal the city of Quito, formerly in Ecuador, now part of the New Inca Republic. Quito lay in a narrow valley on the lower slopes of the Pichincha volcanoes. On my left, I could see the beanstalk bisecting the blue sky. Like Jack's beanstalk it was very tall and thin, only it ended in a space station at the top instead of the Giant's garden.

The beanstalk rapidly grew into a solid pillar on
the horizon. Its great shadow stretched out for miles. The uneven ground and varied heights of the buildings made it appear to ripple, the world's largest sundial.

Because my aircar was marked UN, Traffic assigned me a primo parking spot close to a motorized walkway. At its base, the beanstalk was close to a kilometer in diameter in order to anchor the weight of the tower.

Before I disembarked, I searched the aircar. I scrounged up a uniform with UN insignia, handcuffs, and three Knockout
medi-patches.

Once I passed through the security checkpoint, I began to scan the crowd around me for someone carrying a gun. I didn't want to shoot anyone, but the Spacers holding Timothy hostage weren't likely to hand him over to me if I just said please.

I followed an armed security employee down an Authorized Personnel Only hallway. My UN insignia allowed me to get close to her without arousing her suspicion. I pretended to be in a tearing hurry. As I passed her, I brushed her bare forearm. She didn't even notice me attach the Knockout patch. Ten seconds later I turned back and disarmed her unconscious body where it lay in the hall.

Before tucking the gun into the small of my back, I examined it. From a lecture of Anaximander's, I identified it as a “softgun.” The gun itself was made of regular metal, but it fired special bullets that could damage flesh but not pierce walls—a necessity in the fragile environment of space.

Clock ticking in my head, I slipped back into
the crowd, praying that Timothy and his kidnappers had not yet arrived.

The beanstalk had three elevators: a large freight elevator, a passenger express elevator, and a VIP luxury elevator, which took a more leisurely trip up, slowing when requested so that the VIPs could look down on Earth from above.

So as not to be conspicuous, I joined a line of about thirty people waiting for the next passenger elevator to the top of the beanstalk. They stared at a rapidly descending red dot.

I searched the crowd for Timothy or Zinnia or anyone with silver eyes.

The elevator arrived. I stepped casually out of line, as if I was waiting for someone who hadn't yet arrived. Passengers disembarked through a door in the back of the elevator while more passengers entered from the front. The elevator consisted of a chain of five cars instead of just one. Once one car was filled, the next one slid up and was filled.

Even so, I judged that the chances of two or three people getting a car to themselves were zero. It would be virtually impossible to take a hostage up in one of the passenger cars without a bystander noticing something amiss.

Which meant the VIP elevator. It waited patiently, its sign reading Reserved.

A code was required to open the doors, but my borrowed UN insignia got me past it. I entered.

Most of the elevator was taken up by a large lounge with a transparent wall, a number of leather couches, and a small bar with drinks in squeezable bulbs instead of bottles and glasses.
The discreet metal railings and brackets on the walls, floor, and ceiling puzzled me until I remembered that the top of the beanstalk was a space station with zero-G conditions. The handles were for people to hold onto in the absence of gravity, and the brackets were to hold things in place—not so important going up, but vital on a trip down.

Sure enough, one of the digital displays along one wall counted down the decreasing gravity as well as the time to go to reach the top, and the speed and altitude of the elevator.

The second room was a conference room with table, swivel chairs, a smaller window, and various communication devices.

The third room was a lush bathroom done in peacock blue. Discreet instructions on what to do if you felt light-headed, nauseous, or claustrophobic were printed by the mirror.

All three rooms were empty. For lack of a better choice I hid in the bathroom.

Ten minutes later I heard the doors open. I longed to be able to see. Had Timothy and the Spacers entered or some innocent business executive? I heard a few taps and the sound of something being snapped into gravity brackets. Rianne's wheelchair?

I had my softgun out in case anyone went to the bathroom, but the door stayed safely shut.

“Walk carefully,” a female voice said—Rianne. “Don't try anything. One touch of the poison patch on your skin and you're dead. Mike, secure Timothy to a wall.”

Until I heard her voice I hadn't really believed it despite the “special pickup” Seth had ordered, but
it was true. Tiny, disabled Rianne was a Spacer and a kidnapper. I shook my head. Bizarre.

No wonder she hadn't known how to deal with Timothy's crush on her.

“I don't understand.” Timothy's voice had the heaviness of someone who had been betrayed again. “When I saw you just before they hit me with Knockout, I thought you were another hostage. Why are you doing this, Rianne? Are you a Daughter of the Stars?”

“No,” Rianne said. “I'm a Spacer.”

A beat. “How much ransom are you asking?”

“No money, just that SilverDollar sign its ownership of the Martian mines and space station over to us. You'll be free soon. Think of it as a holiday,” Rianne said, voice brittle.

“What if they won't agree?” Timothy asked in a dead voice.

“They will if they know what's good for them,” Rianne snapped.

I quietly opened the bathroom door and peeked around it. Timothy's hands were free, but his foot was cuffed to a wall bracket. Mike stood beside him, and Rianne gripped Timothy's arm, poison patch ready.

“Don't do this to me,” Timothy begged Rianne in the same dead voice. “I can't take it again. Don't turn me over to them. I'd rather die.”

The conviction in his freckled face made me shiver.

“Don't talk like that,” Mike said sharply. “The Spacers won't hurt you. You might have to spend a few boring months playing VR games and watching TV, that's all.”

Timothy shook his head.
No, no, no.
“The last time I was kidnapped I spent six months in a gray room with four silent movies and a solitaire card game that never let me win. Six months of never hearing another human voice. Six months of silence.” He clutched his ears as if blocking out screams.

My heart chilled. Damn Eddy to hell for helping this happen. Determination grew inside me, unprompted by the chip. I could not allow Timothy to be held for ransom again.

“Food just appeared every morning. I stayed up several times to try to catch them—even just a glimpse of hands—but they always waited until I was asleep. That was when I realized they had cameras, that they were watching me.”

I flinched. When Mike and I had grown up in the Historical Immersion Project there had been secret cameras watching us. Now I understood the sleeping bag and pillow in Timothy's closet and his dread of people looking at him.

“That's not going to happen this time,” Mike said firmly. “You'll be free in a week at most.”

Timothy shook his head. “This time won't be any different from last time. The negotiations will bog down. Rianne, please promise me something.”

Rianne said nothing.

“Please hold me on Mars and not in space. It used to drive me crazy knowing that the only thing on the other side of the wall might be vacuum. That if I escaped I'd die. I used to fantasize that I was on Mars, even though I knew the ship hadn't accelerated for long enough to reach Mars.”

Rianne looked uneasy. “What difference does it
make where you're held? Mars doesn't have a breathable atmosphere.”

“I know. But I'd rather die on Mars. Please, Rianne.” Timothy looked haunted, and I began to understand where Timothy's obsession with terraforming Mars had come from.

“Stop talking about dying.” Mike looked freaked out. “Rianne, tell him he won't be isolated. Tell him he'll be held on Mars.”

“He'll be treated with the same compassion SilverDollar treats the Spacers,” Rianne said, defiance stamped on her face. She knew it wasn't the promise Mike had asked for.

Mike started to pin her down. “And what does that mean?”

Timothy interrupted. “Will you stay with me? Mike? Please?”

Mike flinched. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

Mike opened and closed his mouth, searching for the right words.

“Because he's in on it,” Rianne said cruelly. “He's not your friend, Timothy. He agreed to help me kidnap you for a price.”

T
IMOTHY LOOKED AT
M
IKE
with wounded eyes. “Is this true?”

In front of my eyes, Mike turned to stone. The process was subtle. I doubted that Timothy or Rianne saw it, but I recognized it. Mike was shutting down, entering survivor mode. “Yes.” His voice was brutally casual, hiding his emotions. Mike turned to Rianne, while simultaneously moving out of reach of her poison patch. “Speaking of our deal, it's time you coughed up.”

“Here they are.” Rianne looked annoyed. “Two identicards, one for you and one for Angel— although why I should help her after the way she screwed me today I don't know. Now I don't have an alibi.”

“You're just mad at her because you didn't figure out she worked for SilverDollar until I told you. You were starting to think of her as a friend,” Mike said. “And the mess today was your fault. If you'd told me what you had planned, I would
have made sure Angel didn't attend the awards ceremony.”

“If she didn't know who I was, why did she pretend to be a Daughter of the Stars and steal my spot?” Rianne demanded. “It was an idiotic thing to do.”

Steel infused Mike's voice. “She was trying to save you. You told her about your heart condition. What was she supposed to think would happen when gun-toting terrorists kidnapped you? The miracle of it is that her chip let her try to save you.”

“I can save myself,” Rianne said flatly.

Unexpectedly, Mike became amused. “I'm sure you can. Now, where's the rest of it?”

“You'll get no money from us,” Rianne said viciously. “The Spacers are poor.”

“But soon, thanks in part to me, you'll own a thriving mine,” Mike said. “Never mind, the money was a bonus. Where are the operating instructions for the Loyalty chip?”

“Here.” Rianne handed him a palmtop computer and a device that resembled a remote control. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather take Angel into space? We have qualified technicians who could remove her chip.”

Oh, Mike.
My heart melted. He was trying to save me.

Too bad it wasn't going to work.

“Not a chance,” Mike sneered. “What's to stop your qualified technician from reprogramming Angel instead of freeing her? I may not want to work for SilverDollar, but I don't want to work for you, either.”

I'd heard enough. It was time to make my move.

I stepped out of the bathroom, softgun in hand. “Drop it!” I yelled at Rianne.

She hesitated, then swore and let her poison patch fall to the floor. I kicked it away from her wheelchair, still covering both Mike and Rianne with my own weapon. “Both of you, against the wall.” They backed up. “Timothy, I work for SilverDollar. You're safe.”

Timothy said nothing, and I dared not spare a glance his way. With the poison patch out of the way, I wasn't very worried about Rianne; Mike was another matter.

He smiled at me and didn't back up. “It's about time you showed up, Angel. I was starting to get worried. You heard what Rianne said? She's a Spacer.”

“I heard.” I kept my softgun trained on him. “I also heard you selling out.”

To my surprise, Mike grinned harder. “Pretending to sell out. I told her you and I worked for SilverDollar and that if she paid me, I would give her inside information. She was supposed to tell me the Spacer plan to kidnap Timothy, but she was too clever for me.”

Mike's mixture of lies and truth made me issue a dry laugh. “If that's true, why didn't you tell me and Anaximander that she wasn't just a student?”

“What makes you think I didn't tell Anaximander?” Mike asked. “I didn't tell you, because I wanted to impress you when we reversed the sting. Obviously, I made a mistake.” Mike successfully danced around the edge of the volcano again.

I hadn't spoken with Anaximander recently.
Mike could be telling the truth. There was something else wrong with Mike's explanation, but I didn't allow myself time to think about it. I relaxed my grip on the softgun, no longer targeting Mike's leg.

“When did you figure out that Rianne was a Spacer?” I asked. “She has no Augments. What gave her away?”

“Her lack of Augments,” Mike said. “She has no Augments,
but she needs them.”

“Of course.” I felt stupid for not having seen it myself. “And who less likely to attract suspicion than a girl in a wheelchair?” I glanced away from Mike and saw that Rianne looked furious. Timothy had his eyes closed, pretending he was somewhere else.

“Exactly,” Mike said. “Now, would you mind putting the gun down? If you want, I'll swear under TrueFalse that I've acted loyally.”

It was the exact wrong thing to say. My chip pinged. “It's no good,” I told him. “The chip knows that the violet-eyed are immune to TrueFalse.”

The chip, the chip, the chip, the chip.
I hated it with a virulence that was silly considering it was an inanimate object. It should be the chip's programmers toward whom I directed my hatred—

—and that made me remember something else Shadow Angel had been trying to make me forget. Rianne had given Mike operational instructions for Loyalty chips. The money and identicards could be brushed off as a cover story to tell Rianne, but there was only one reason Mike could have requested the operating manual for my chip.

In trying to save me, Mike had damned himself.

“Don't move,” I told Mike. “If you move I'll have to shoot you, and I don't want to.”

Mike stilled, but his eyes watched me every second. “Don't do this, Angel. If you take me in alive, they'll install a Loyalty chip in my brain and erase our memories.”

“They might not,” I said. “I'm going to go to President Castellan. I don't think she knows about the chips. Even if she does, she may let us go in gratitude for saving Timothy. Eddy—”

Mike cut off my explanation. “It's too big a risk. Leave me free in case President Castellan betrays you. Let me go.”

I believed as hard as I could that all Mike wanted was my freedom, not revenge on SilverDollar. It didn't work. “No go. I have to take you in.”

Mike paused. “And if I'd rather die than be turned into a slave like you?”

My mouth dried. “I'll try to wound you, but I might miss.
Please don't make me shoot you.
There's a good chance Timothy's mother will listen to us. If you're dead . . .” I couldn't complete the sentence; it was too horrible to think about. “Cuff your hand to one of the brackets.” I threw a pair of handcuffs at him.

He caught them but didn't put them on. “What if I don't believe you'll really shoot me?” Terrifyingly, Mike moved away from Rianne and
Timothy, taking a step closer to me.

I backed up a step, gasping like a beached fish. “Stop it! I can't control the chip! It doesn't care if you're dead or alive. I'll shoot you!” My finger tightened on the trigger, taking up the slack.

“Will you?” Mike took another step.

Another step and my back hit the wall. “Don't move! If you love me, don't move. Don't make me kill you.”

“You love me,” Mike said softly. “You could never kill me. I trust you, Angel. I trust you to beat the chip.” He came closer.

I couldn't stop myself from firing the softgun, but I stamped down hard on my instep, throwing off my aim enough that the bullet hit Mike in the arm, not the chest. He was bowled over backward. His hand clamped over his upper arm. Blood oozed between his fingers. He swore a blue streak but didn't scream.

“I told you the chip would make me do it,” I wailed. My arms were still locked in front of me in a shooter's stance. My gaze flicked to Rianne, and her chair stopped moving.

“But you didn't.” Mike lifted his hand to look at the wound. “I'm not even seriously injured. You just grazed me. You won against the chip.”

“Oh, no, you don't,” I said. “Don't even think of trying this again. I might—
might
—succeed in avoiding a kill shot a second time but never a third. And if I'm responsible for your death, poison will eat me up from the inside.”

Mike looked into my eyes for a long moment, nodded, and clumsily cuffed himself to a second wall bracket beside Timothy.

Timothy continued to ignore Mike and the rest of us, staring off into space as if he were already in sensory deprivation. If I hadn't been so worried about Mike, I would have worried about Timothy.

I pointed the softgun at Rianne. “Bandage him up.”

Rianne folded her arms. “Why should I? He double-crossed me.”

“Do it!”

Rianne wheeled herself over to him and used the sleeve of Mike's shirt to make a crude bandage. I winced every time she jarred his wounded arm.

“Why didn't you drug me and tie me up earlier, when you had the chance?” I asked Mike bitterly. “You had days to try to find operating instructions for the chip and deprogram me.”

“Arrogance,” Mike admitted. “I didn't think there was any point in escaping until we had what we came for, the money and identicards.”

“Okay,” I said to Rianne. “Your turn—”

And that's where I made my mistake. I grabbed Rianne's arm, and she exploded into action.

While I'd been confronting Mike, the elevator had continued to travel up the beanstalk. We'd reached zero-G, and Rianne no longer needed her wheelchair. Her weak legs were more than sufficient to move, and Rianne was a Spacer, born to zero-G.

Rianne pushed off from her chair, shoving me with her. I was so startled at finding my feet leaving the ground that I didn't react quickly enough and she knocked the softgun out of my hand. It went spinning off through the air.

My reflexes kicked in, but they were gravity reflexes. I lashed out with my left foot, but without solid ground to push off from, the movement was slow and awkward. Rianne easily sideslipped my foot, and, in horror, I felt my momentum drive
me forward past her so that my next slashes cut only air. I began to tumble. My hair haloed out from my head in all directions like a dandelion puff.

On one of my revolutions, I saw Rianne kick off from the ceiling, neatly changing direction. The economy of movement was beautiful to watch.

Although I was a quick learner, I didn't stand a chance against someone who'd dealt with zero-G all her life. My only hope was for Rianne to underestimate me. So, instead of executing a somersault turn and pushing off the wall with my feet the way a swimmer did at the end of a lap, I let myself smack into the wall. The impact stung my palms. I ignored the pain and grabbed one of the handrails. Once anchored, I clung there, looking around wildly, but making the amateur mistake of not looking up.