Evil Triumphant Read online

  From the table before him he picked up a three-foot-long section of fiber-optic cable slightly thicker than his thumb. “Had I known what was really being done, I could have laid out the dimensional gate easily. This fiber-optic cable can be manufactured with the circuitry already burned into it. All we need to do is lay it out, hitch up some lasers to power it, set coordinates through a computer, and we’re done.”

  I felt a shiver run down my spine. “That seems too easy.”

  Nero shrugged. “Manufacturing the cable is, to be certain, easy. You’re still going to need your construction folks to clear a space for it. They’re also going to have to make sure you have a stable area for your computer control and laser hookups. That should not take that much time, actually, and that, too, is an easy part of the operation.”

  I nodded and walked over to the table where the cable had pinned down some blueprints and several messy piles of notes. “The tough part is finding a place from which we can harvest the energy necessary to power the gate. The one here required everything Phoenix could put out and one of the seasonal lightning storms.”

  “Two ‘AA’ batteries will not be sufficient, I fear.” Loring slipped one set of plans from the bottom of a pile and slapped it down on top of the whole confused mess. “Windmills are fairly inexpensive, in terms of labor, to set up. We can also use some solar technology, but that will be tougher to build. Given that Fiddleback will prove a lot of mindless workers, we can actually consider things like diverting a river or creating a crude dam, but installing turbines to make use of the hydroelectric power created will not be simple.”

  I frowned with irritation. “Well, we knew that power would be the key problem. Not having to worry about building a circuit means we can devote more of our resources to setting up power stations. Still, the proto-dimension that is likely to be very generous with extra energy is unlikely to be all that habitable, and that means transporting energy across the dimensional barrier.”

  Nero blinked a couple of times. “True, though hydroelectric might be the way to go. I will start a survey of out-of-service power plants from which, if needed, we might be able to borrow turbines.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “Good. Speaking of surveys, how goes the effort to locate Ryuhito?”

  His frown did not instantly reassure me. “It is going, but not as well as I might have hoped. The EEGs the Japanese supplied me were sleeping EEGs. This means I can only detect Ryuhito when he is asleep. If that Mickey Farber’s description of Pygmalion’s headquarters is true, we can infer a faster timeflow than there is here. In that case, Ryuhito’s sleep periods will be shorter than normal.”

  “Leaving you to find a needle in a haystack.”

  “Not quite that bad. Once the scanners have a probable match, I will double-check it, then work with Crowley to convert my coordinates into something he can use to scout things out.” Nero smiled confidently. “And the Japanese have begun to assemble the computer equipment we are likely to need to build our controller. Because the last one employed slices from my daughter’s brain to control it, we’re working with a parallel processor design that may turn out to be rather revolutionary. We’re using a software model to project a cognitive network and then burning boards and chips to approximate that template.”

  “That is perfect.” Because the previous unit had been damaged and dismantled after Fiddleback’s attempt to enter Phoenix, the computer to replace it had to be built from scratch. Not only did we not know how Fiddleback had managed to build the machine, but we never even considered using the chip substitute that worked naturally for the Dark Lord.

  A knocking on the office door brought me around to face the door. Sinclair opened it and walked through. “Hope I’m not interrupting, but I thought you’d want the news straight away. Good or bad first?”

  “Good, I guess,” I answered as I turned one of the wingback chairs near my desk around.

  I sat, and Sin appropriated the other chair. He nodded at Nero, and they exchanged greetings. I sensed a great deal of friendliness between them, which I put down to their having a mutual enemy in Sin’s father, Darius MacNeal. I was pleased they liked each other because they would have to work more closely together than any other members of my team. Nero Loring would plan our assault base, and Sin would coordinate the forces that would make it a reality.

  Sin settled himself in the chair and kept a blue leather binder in the lap of his green-and-yellow checked golfing slacks. “Good news is that I just finished talking with the chief financial officer for Decca Construction. We’ve got an agreement to provide equipment and supervision for most of the stuff we need done. I’m meeting Scott at the Tournament Player’s Club for 18 holes tonight, and we’ll ice the details then. Getting Decca is a real coup because they’re the aces at doing high-tech work well and quickly. Moreover, they’ve worked with the Japanese on some international projects and have experience in working in isolated locations.”

  I smiled. “Well, then, if we have them, our problem with construction expertise is over. That was very good news. So good, in fact, that I’m afraid to ask about the bad just in case it matches up.”

  Sin laughed deep in his throat. “It’s not that bad.” He tossed me the blue binder he had brought in with him. Stamped in gold foil on the front of the blue leather cover I saw the Build-more logo and the title “Andean Computer Center: A Proposal.” Opening the binder, I saw a great deal of information about Build-more and pictures of past projects. The computer-generated sketches in the back looked professionally prepared, and the cost quote came over a million dolmarks under what I knew we had budgeted for our forward base.

  Sin watched me expectantly. “The Andes site was the project we floated past Case when I made the pitch to them. Obviously, my father has moles there that feed on the specs and bids for prospective projects.” “It appears your father wants our business.” Sin nodded. “He does indeed. The blue leather binders only go out to impress important clients. Of course, it’s not like he needs the work. He’s got some hush-hush project going on in Nevada, and that’s sucking up most of his crews. Chances are, if we went with his bid, he’d subcontract it out to others, then make a profit based on the kickbacks he got from the subcontractors and suppliers he used.”

  “Your father knows how to make money.”

  “Yeah, give him a penny and Lincoln will be cleanshaven when my father spends it.” Sin shrugged. “I think you can just ignore the offer, of course, since we never invited them in on the bidding. He wants this job because he wants to control me through you and because he wants to be connected into the Japanese market more fully.”

  “You’re right, I could ignore it.” I got up and walked around to the chair behind my desk. I hit a button on the desktop, and the unmistakable sound of a phone dialtone filled the room. A keypad came up on the computer screen, and I tapped out the number on the first page of the proposal. The connection came through quickly and an alert voice answered, “Build-more, Mr. MacNeal’s office.”

  “Please inform Mr. MacNeal that Michael Loring is calling for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Muzak came out through the phone’s speakers, and it proved sufficiently annoying to make Nero Loring look up. He and Sin shared a puzzled glance, then both of them looked at me when the music died and the phone clicked.

  “Darius MacNeal here. Did you like our proposal, Michael?”

  I nodded unconsciously. “I am quite impressed. By the way, I have you on the speaker. My uncle Nero Loring is here, as is your son, Sinclair.”

  “Hello, Nero. Enjoying your retirement, I hope?”

  “Fun and games, Darius, fun and games.”

  Sin took notice of his exclusion from greetings, and I would have relayed his response, but explaining certain hand signals over the phone ruins their silent eloquence. I managed to keep from laughing at his antics and flipped open the proposal Darius had sent over. “Darius, the proposal you provided comes in at a price that would save
me over a million dolmarks.”

  “I know.” I heard a hearty chuckle from the other end of the line. “When do we start?”

  The confidence in his voice made me smile more broadly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, I’m refusing your offer.”

  “What? You can’t.”

  “Oh, I can and, in fact, I am. You have in your employ a group of sociopathic white supremists who killed the wife of a friend of mine, wounded him and have all but incited race warfare down in Eclipse. You have also been a colossal bother to Sinclair, and he, too, is a friend. Moreover, you’re a dictatorial asshole with delusions of adequacy.” I snapped the proposal shut. “Frankly, sir, I wouldn’t let you build me a sand castle out of warm spit and used cat litter even if you offered to pay for the construction.”

  “You have no idea to whom you are speaking, Loring!” Darius MacNeal shrieked through the phone. “I am not a man to be trifled...”

  I hit the phone icon and the dial tone filled the room before I shut off the speaker. “You can’t please everyone all the time, can you?”

  Sin and Nero laughed aloud, and I joined them. Sin shook his head. “I imagine my father’s blood pressure is somewhat higher than the DOW index right now. He’ll like the hang-up the least.” Standing, he moved over to where he could look at the Build-More corporate citadel to the north and west. “I’d bet we’ll see a chair heading out through his window in about four seconds.”

  I shrugged and stood. “I’ll have to listen to it on the news, I’m afraid. I have that radio show shortly. How many positions will we have to offer?”

  Sin concentrated, then nodded. “Three hundred, give or take. We’ll hire based on experience and their ability to see things in proto-dimensions.”

  “Three centuries it is.” I gave both men a confident smile. “You’ve got things under control, and I thank you. Who knows, we might actually be able to succeed after all.”

  Despite the calendar indicating the summer giving way to autumn, the blast-furnace of Phoenix still raged on. Despite that, I wore a light jacket over a dress shirt, tie and a casual pair of slacks. Because I was going to be on the radio, I felt no need to dress up fully, but I still wanted to project an image of corporate respectability. The shirt, tie and dark pants did that, while the wind-breaker made me a bit more casual and made spotting my Kevlar vest a tad more difficult.

  The radio station, KTAR, sat at 3rd Avenue

  and Osborn. The station occupied the upper floor of the four-story building, which put it on the level with the upper roadway that ran beneath the Frozen Shade. Because it was located just beyond the western edge of City Center, the fastest way to get to it was to take the maglev in from the Lorica tower, head across the center and walk the half-mile to the station on the upper roadway.

  I met Natch at one of the western exits from City Center. She normally dressed to hide her femininity, which was not a bad thing given the generally lawless nature of Eclipse. That meant she wore oversized clothing that looked older, including a black leather jacket she appeared to live in no matter how hot the world below Frozen Shade got.

  The Natch I met at City Center had changed her wardrobe rather radically. She wore a light blue suede skirt and matching jacket over a white silk blouse. The western-cut jacket included fringe on the arms and across the back. She wore some leather boots that matched her skirt’s color and rose above the mid-calf hemline. The boots had inch-thick heels, but avoided the styling that would have designated them cowboy boots.

  She had also made herself over. Her hair had been gathered back into a pony-tail and secured with a light blue bow. Delicately applied cosmetics sharpened some of her features and made her look even more exotic than usual. She wore a small squash-blossom necklace and a pair of star-shaped turquoise earrings that had diamond-chips imbedded at each of the star’s five points.

  She blushed at my silent nod of appreciation. “I’ve never been on radio before. I....”

  I held up a hand to stop her. “You look fantastic. It may only be radio, but it’ll come across, I’m sure.”

  Natch smiled timidly. “Rajani picked out the clothes. Jytte did the make-up and stuff.” She glanced down for a second. “Even Bat liked it.”

  “Of course. He’s no fool.” I held the exterior door open for her. “We better get going or we’ll be late.”

  “Right.”

  Natch preceded me out into Eclipse. Walking along on the up-street, we got a good look at the city below us. Lit largely by neon and the old-bone light of weak headlights, Eclipse looked unreal. We could see people wandering around and even hear gunfire in the distance, but pace of life looked torpid. The aimlessness of the people and the dull randomness of sounds made Eclipse lifeless and artificial.

  I saw Natch shift her shoulders and read a mixture of disgust and fear leap off her like an electric arc. “What is it, Natch?”

  She shrugged and refused to look at me. “I’ve always hated the people who I saw up here. I always thought they looked down on us Eclipsers because they were just stuck-up no-brains. But from up here...”

  I nodded. “It’s true, from up here Eclipse is not a nice place. Down there it’s even worse, but from here there is enough detachment that you can really feel the impact. What is important for you to remember is that we’re working against the forces that keep people down there.”

  Her blue eyes bright in the half-light, Natch glanced over at me. “Think that will make a difference, Caine-man? Even dressed like this, I was on my way to being hassled before the guards let me into City Center. I showed them the Lorica ID you got for me and suddenly it was ‘Ms. Farrell this and Ms. Farrell that.’ The corps have the power and they aren’t giving it up easy.”

  “Just remember, Natch, information is power. We know the forces that prop things up.” I smiled. “We eliminate those forces, and we can make changes. Three months ago, Fiddleback controlled Lorica. Not so, now. Change won’t be easy, but it will be possible.”

  Our conversation died as we came to the KTAR building. Darkened, bulletproof glass doors barred us from entry. I hit the button beside the speaker built into the wall and, as per the instructions on the panel, held it down until someone answered it. While waiting, I noticed off to the left and above the door a surveillance camera.

  “Yes?” asked an androgynous voice.

  “Michael Loring and Natasha Farrell for the 7 o’clock show with Charles Goyette.”

  “I’ll buzz you into the lobby.”

  A buzzer sounded, and hatch pulled the door open. We entered and saw one security guard in a glassed-in booth. Two others armed with shotguns flanked a metal detector. We both walked through it without triggering the device and entered a lobby in which every single person I saw had a pistol strapped to their hip or in a shoulder holster. They all appeared quite at ease with the weapons, and the station had a wall full of plaques boasting about how KTAR’s staff regularly won the local media marksmanship contests. Beside it, a display case showed some trophies, and behind the largest of the shooting cups I saw a dusty, gold-plated microphone on a stand denoting an excellence in broadcasting award.

  Natch and I exchanged glances, and she seemed amused by the discomfort I was feeling. Seldom since finding myself in Phoenix had I been without a gun of some sort on my person. Being in a situation where I was unarmed while all others around me were wearing guns openly did not make me feel at ease. Still, I sensed no anxiety from the guards or people passing back and forth through the lobby, so I assumed they were all well acquainted with their weapons and, therefore, less likely to go berserk and start shooting.

  A tall, broad-shouldered, solidly built man with dark hair, an open face and broad smile came out of the corridor on the left side of the lobby. He wore jeans and a green sweater, with a Bianchi shoulder holster and Colt 1911A1 tucked into it. I could tell by the tab on the clip shoved into the pistol’s butt that it was a 10mm conversion, not still in the original .45 caliber. That meant in th
e big man’s hands, recoil would not be a factor and the added clip capacity would be a plus.

  “You must be Michael Loring.” He offered me a hand and shook with a strong, dry grip. “And you’re Natasha Farrell. I’m Charles Goyette. Come on into the studio and we’ll get you situated.”

  He led us to a security door and punched a combination into the lock. We followed him through that down a Corridor and past a bank of monitors carrying news from the four major stations in Phoenix. Halfway through the newsroom we turned right, and after a short walk through a dark corridor we entered the studio to the left.

  Charles slipped behind the control desk and pointed me to the chair opposite him. He put Natch on my right so we both could face him. Beyond her, a huge picture window opened out onto Eclipse. Behind us, a glass wall let Charles look on into the operations room where his broadcast engineer and a member of the news team were working to produce the newscast droning on in low tones in the studio.

  “Just pull the microphones toward you. You want them at mouth level, about two to three inches from your lips. You’ll need your headphones when we take callers.” He shuffled some notes and glanced at the computer monitor to his left. “This should be a good segment, so I expect the boards to light up. We’ll be on a seven-second delay, so if something slips out, we’ll get it.”

  He handed each of us a preprinted card. “Study this and sign it. It’s just a precaution, but we have to do it to stay legal.”

  I took it and flipped from one side to the other before reading. The back had a map of the station and a red line running from the studio to an emergency exit. I assumed, before I started in on the text, it was a fire prevention card detailing the escape route, but the text proved me wrong. It read:

  In accordance with the Gwyn-Rogovitch ordinance (Phoenix Municipal Code 23-491-020-01), I, the undersigned, have been informed of the evacuation route in case of an armed incursion of this broadcast facility. I certify I have no firearms on my person and all combat will be left to the staff and security personnel to handle in the event of an incursion.