Killing Time Read online

  Had it been the guard’s body she’d targeted, it would have completely disintegrated—just as John Price’s had done.

  Sensibly accepting this warning, the guard Farkas dropped his automatic and raced for the exit. Once he was gone, the woman pointed her weapon in the air, shifted her shapely weight to one side, and smiled at Kuperman and me.

  “Doctors,” she said with a nod. Then she touched the high collar of her bodysuit. “It’s all right,” she said, looking at the ceiling. “I’ve got them.” Turning to us again, she nodded toward the hole in the wall. “I hate to rush you, Eli, but—”

  “Rush me all you want, Larissa!” Kuperman shouted, bolting for the broken wall and then leaping through it and into the metal doorway beyond. “Hurry, Dr. Wolfe!” he called once he was safely aboard what I now realized must be some sort of vehicle or vessel.

  “Yes, do hurry, Dr. Wolfe,” the woman said, approaching me coyly. “My brother’s been anxious to meet you—and so have I.” She studied my face and smiled in a puzzled, slightly amused way. “You’re not quite as attractive in person as in your author’s photo, are you?”

  Still stunned, I could only say, “Who is?” which prompted the woman to laugh delightedly and seize my hand.

  “Can you make the jump?” she said. “Or do you want us to maneuver closer?”

  I shook my head, finally getting a grip on myself. “I can make it,” I answered. “But what—?”

  “The jump first,” she answered, pulling me at a run toward the hole in the wall. “After that, everything will make a lot more sense!”

  And with her delicate but strong hand holding mine, I leapt out over the narrow corridor of open air beyond the prison wall, leaving the world and reality as I had always known them behind me forever.

  C H A P T E R 7

  It was cold inside the vessel, a chill made all the more cutting by its contrast to the muggy Florida night and the stale closeness of the visitors’ room in the prison. Even before I’d straightened up after landing on the gently heaving deck of the ship, I began shivering; and just as I became aware that I was, the same hand that had guided me through the jump began to rub my back.

  “Bit of a shock, isn’t it?” said the young woman Eli Kuperman had called Larissa. I stood and looked into her enormous black eyes, which formed such a distinct contrast to the oddly beautiful silver of the hair above and around them; already a bit smitten, I could only nod agreement to her assessment. Unspoken curiosity must, however, have been all over my face—why, I was thinking, would anyone capable of building such a vessel choose to exist in such an uncomfortable atmosphere?—because the woman quickly went on to explain: “My brother’s gotten closer than anyone to creating super-conductors that can operate at living temperatures—but we still have to keep most of the ship below forty-five Fahrenheit.” She tucked her remarkable weapon into a holster that was slung on her left side, gave me that bewitching smirk, then looped an arm through one of mine. “You must try to stay warm, Dr. Wolfe . . .”

  Before I could find the words to ask just where we were, Eli Kuperman stuck his engaging, bespectacled face between us, grinning wide and then tugging at one of the men in coveralls who’d been waiting in the hatchway during our escape. The second man’s face was nearly identical to Kuperman’s, although he wore steel-, rather than tortoiseshell-, rimmed spectacles: this, apparently, was the archaeologist twin brother of whom Max’s Internet search had failed to produce any mention.

  “Dr. Wolfe,” Eli Kuperman said happily. “I see you’ve met Larissa already. And this is my brother, Jonah—”

  Jonah Kuperman extended a hand, his manner every bit as engaging at his brother’s. “Dr. Wolfe, it’s a pleasure. We’ve been looking forward to your coming. Your book’s been all the talk aboard ship for the last few weeks—”

  “And back there,” Eli said, indicating the two men farther along the corridor, “are Dr. Leon Tarbell, the documents expert”—I shook the hand of a small, wiry man in his middle years, whose red eyes glowed hot even when he smiled—“and Professor Julien Fouché, the molecular biologist.” At that a well-built, gray-bearded man of sixty or so stepped forward, causing my heart to skip one or two beats: an understandable reaction on meeting a man who not only was one of the seminal minds of our era but was supposed to have been killed in a plane crash four years earlier.

  “It can’t be,” I whispered, shaking his big, very vital hand. “You—you’re dead!”

  “Not so dead as all that,” Fouché answered with a gruff laugh. “A necessary ruse to explain my sudden disappearance. My work with Malcolm and Larissa was becoming quite exclusive, and uncomfortable questions were being asked—”

  “All right, gentlemen,” Larissa said. “You’ll have time for mutual admiration later. Right now we’d better be on our collective toes.” The others nodded and began to move purposefully away. “Prep the turret, Eli!” Larissa called after them. “I’ll be right up! Leon—we’ll want full power for combat maneuvers!”

  Leon Tarbell’s head reappeared for an instant. “ ‘Combat,’ Larissa?” he asked with a knowing look. “Don’t you mean evasive maneuvers?”

  Larissa smiled deviously, and then Tarbell dashed off, looking for all the world like one of Satan’s merrier minions.

  As the men moved to attend to their tasks, each of them began shouting orders and answers, the whole producing an excited and exciting chorus such as might have accompanied the launch of an old seafaring ship. I turned when I heard a slight hissing noise and saw the doorway through which we’d jumped being sealed from above by a hatch that moved quite smoothly, especially given its considerable speed. Once it was in place, some gentle lights came up along the base of the corridor, revealing a surprising sight: rather than the usual plastic and polished metal that one was accustomed to finding in high-tech environments, the walls of the passageways were lined with fine wood paneling, and in every third or fourth panel hung a small painting, elegantly framed and subtly lit.

  My mouth fell open. “Beautiful,” I whispered.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Larissa answered in a charmingly self-involved way, looking down and running her hands along her hips and thighs. Her face dropped a bit when she glanced up and saw what I meant. “Oh. The ship.” She took my hand again, and we started down the corridor. “Yes, that’s Malcolm for you—he adores the incongruous.”

  “You’re not exactly what I would have expected either, Larissa—that is, if I may call you—”

  “You may,” she answered, striding purposefully along. “Larissa Tressalian, to be exact. You may also remark on the lovely sibilance of the name, through I warn you, it’s a pretty stale line.” For an instant I attempted to determine why her name, while indeed pretty, had a familiar ring to it; but then I was distracted when she touched the collar of her bodysuit with her free hand, indicating that she was receiving another communication. “Yes, brother dear? . . . Yes, I’m just taking him to his quarters to—freshen up . . .” She looked at me in a way that seemed more than a little suggestive; then she suddenly turned away, standing still. “Where? . . . Land and air units? . . . All right, I’m on my way to the turret.” When Larissa looked at me again her expression had changed: the coy cat had become a gleeful predator. “Freshening up will have to wait, I’m afraid, Doctor.” She gripped my hand tighter and broke into a trot. “A different sort of amusement’s been lined up!”

  C H A P T E R 8

  We proceeded along the narrow passageway to an intricately carved and richly carpeted wooden staircase. As we climbed the stairs, the humming of the ship’s propulsion system—driven, as Larissa had just told me, by superconductive magnetic generators capable of producing unimaginable (not to mention clean) levitating and propulsive power—began to soften, and I could feel that we were moving forward. There were occasional dips and swells in the motion—not unsettling but noticeable—and when we reached the upper deck, I found myself facing a round transparent panel in the fuselage or hull. Looking
out, I saw that we were traveling about a hundred feet off the ground, hugging the contours of the suburban landscape like some enormous cruise missile.

  Larissa tugged at my arm. “No time for astonishment now,” she said, pulling me forward along the passageway. “There’s a small task force of local and state law enforcement on the way, and the federal boys won’t be far behind.”

  “But,” I stammered as we reached a ladder that led up through the ceiling of the passageway, “you’ve only got this one ship, can it really—”

  Larissa spun around and put a finger to my lips, her eyes now positively shimmering. “Take a peek up there.” She indicated the ladder, and I ascended.

  Above was a circular space about fifteen feet in diameter, not unlike the turret of some fantastic tank, except that its shell was transparent. There was an enormous gun fixed in the center, on which was mounted an empty seat. To one side of the turret was a bank of tracking equipment, before which sat Eli Kuperman, carefully monitoring the many readouts. Glancing at the gun again, I noted that it looked somehow familiar; in fact, it seemed a giant version of Larissa’s sidearm.

  “They’re both rail guns,” she said, again reading my face as she climbed up, squeezed tight against me on the ladder, and drew out her smaller weapon. “It’s a simple concept, really: the projectiles are propelled by completing a circuit between two conducting bars, instead of by a gas explosion. The electromagnetic field behind the projectiles multiplies the acceleration—you’ve seen the effect. Now, then—” She reholstered her weapon and gave my face a last touch. “I could stay here talking killing power with you for hours, but Malcolm really is anxious to meet you.”

  “Look, Larissa,” I said, her closeness making me comfortable enough to reveal how uncertain I felt. “What is all this? Why am I here?”

  She smiled gently. “Don’t worry. All appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, you’re in one of the last sane places on Earth. And you’re here because we need you.” She slipped by me into the turret, settling into the seat on the big rail gun. “Just keep going forward—you’ll know the right door when you see it.”

  Eli Kuperman turned, his face all business. “The first of them are moving in fast, Larissa.”

  Larissa gripped two hand controls in front of her seat. “Better get going, Doctor,” she called to me with another smile. “I’d hate to take your head off so early in our—acquaintance.”

  She tilted the controls to the left, and suddenly the entire floor of the turret began to rotate; in seconds it would close off the hatchway in which I was standing. I scrambled below, landing on the corridor floor with a jarring bump. Then I pushed on forward, past more wood paneling, more paintings, and more doorways, until I arrived at a portal that I took to be the one of which Larissa had spoken, as it was more elaborate than the rest and bore a legend painted in elegant gold and black:

  MUNDUS VULT DECIPI

  I ran through the medical Latin I’d learned years before, but to no avail; and so I was left with nothing to do but head on in and meet my host, a prospect that I found not a little daunting. Given the vessel I was in, the sister I had met, and the actions for which I knew he was responsible, I calculated that this Malcolm Tressalian—and again there was something very familiar about the name—must be an intimidating, perhaps overpowering, character, both physically and personally. But the encounter was now inevitable, and so I resignedly knocked on the door and stepped inside.

  The nose of the vessel was a conical superstructure sheathed entirely in the same transparent material I’d seen in Larissa’s turret, and the three levels of the space it housed—an observation dome up top, a helm and guidance center in the middle, and a small conference area below—were connected by bare metallic staircases. In fact, the fittings generally were in the high-tech mode I had originally expected to find on boarding; but coming as it now did on the heels of the rather anachronistic decor outside, the style was unexpected and even jarring.

  The doorway through which I’d come was to the rear of the nose’s control level. Though there was little to see by, I could tell that there were two men sitting before the guidance panel, and beyond them the decaying malls and decrepit housing developments of suburban Florida spread out before us. I began to move forward with trepidation; and then the man on the left spoke, cheerfully enough but without facing me:

  “Dr. Wolfe! Excellent, you managed to escape Larissa—which is far more, I suspect, than our pursuers will do.”

  And then he turned, or rather the entire seat he occupied did: for it was in fact a wheelchair, one that even in the near darkness I could see contained not the formidable physical specimen I’d anticipated but a frail, somewhat pitiable form that did not seem to match the vibrant voice it produced.

  “I suppose I should offer you some melodramatic welcome,” the voice continued in the same amiable tone. “But we’re neither of us the type, eh? No, I suspect that what you’d really like is some answers.”

  C H A P T E R 9

  “My name’s Malcolm Tressalian—did my sister manage to relay that much to you, or have you endured uninterrupted flirtation since you came aboard?”

  “Yes—I mean no—I mean, she did—”

  Tressalian laughed and rolled closer to me, his face becoming fully visible for the first time. “You must understand that she almost never takes any interest in men—but when she does, my God . . .” I smiled at this statement, though I was paying more attention to his face than to his words. The features were not unlike Larissa’s—handsome in a fine-boned way—and the hair was the same silvery color. The eyes, however, were quite different, being of a peculiarly light, rather otherworldly blue. Yet there was something far more important than any of this in the face, a look I had seen many times in children who’d served harsh prison terms, as well as in schizophrenic patients who had lived for too long without treatment:

  It was the imponderable depth brought on by compressed, relentless mental and physical torment, a brand as unmistakable as any birthmark.

  “And I do apologize,” Tressalian continued amiably, “for the way you were brought aboard.” As he said this he shifted into position to try to stand up, something that he apparently felt it was important to do at that moment, given the pain that it evidently caused him. He reached for a pair of aluminum crutches that were mounted on either side of his chair, clipped them to his upper arms, and then managed to get to his feet. I didn’t know quite what move to make to assist him, especially since I guessed that he desired none; and indeed, once upright he looked very pleased that he was able to approach me and shake hands on his own. “However,” he continued, “I’m sure you appreciate that we couldn’t just leave you behind to suffer a fate like Mr. Jenkins’s.” His expression grew earnest. “I trust Eli expressed his condolences—let me add my own. It was a sickening thing to do, even for that unkillable beast we call Central Intelligence.”

  “Then it was the government,” I said quietly, Max’s face flashing across my mind for an instant.

  Tressalian nodded sympathetically. “The pair of you were getting too close on the matter of John Price’s death.”

  “The matter of his death?” I asked carefully. “Or the matter of the images he’d tampered with?”

  Tressalian’s smile returned. “The two are one, Doctor—surely you’ve guessed that much. Your death, however, would have caused an inconvenient public stir. Still, had you persisted they would almost certainly have found a way to quietly eliminate you.”

  “But why?” I asked involuntarily. “What the hell is going—”

  I was cut off by the man seated at the piloting console, who spoke in a steady yet forbidding tone: “Larissa’s preparing to engage. They’re within range, and she’s routed helm control to the turret station.”

  Tressalian sighed, though his concern did not appear deep. “Well, Colonel, since that leaves you with nothing to do for the moment, come and meet Dr. Wolfe.”

  The man at the now-usurped
guidance panel stood up, and even before he turned I could see that he had an eminently military bearing, one that was complemented by a high-collared suit of clothes that was really more of an unembellished uniform. When he did turn it was in a quick, wheeling motion, and what I saw next caused me to take in a quick and rather rude gasp of air.

  Heavy brows loomed low over penetrating dark eyes amid the deep brown skin, and the jaw, had it been any more set, might well have shattered; but what prompted my extreme reaction was the sight of one of the most horrific scars I’d ever encountered, running the length of the right side of the head, tugging at one eye and pulling a corner of the mouth down into a perpetual frown. A streak of snow white followed the line of the scar up into the otherwise jet black hair.

  “Dr. Wolfe,” Tressalian said, “this is Colonel Justus Slayton.”

  “Retired,” the colonel added in that low, almost ominous voice that made it plain I’d be well advised to tread carefully during any contact with him.

  I did. “The same Colonel Slayton,” I asked, offering a hand, “who almost changed the course of the Taiwan campaign?” That seemed to take just a bit of the steel out of the man’s demeanor, and he actually accepted my hand, encasing it in his own with a force that was impressive.

  “No one could have changed the course of that campaign,” Slayton answered. “My men and I were a token resistance—sacrificed animals, nothing more.”

  “Offered on the altar of expanded trade with the commu-capitalists in Beijing,” I agreed with a nod. “Still, you put up a hell of a fight.”

  “Excellent again, Doctor,” Tressalian said. “Not many people understand the facts of that campaign. What you may not know about the colonel, however, is that after being wounded on Taiwan he became one of the Pentagon’s top men in weapons development. That, of course, was before I persuaded him to—”