“Sir, thank you, sir.”
“Take off your damn helmets before you pass out,” he added before we left. “See, I don’t want to be bothered. If they bring you back here when you pop a vein from running all day in those things, I will be bothered. Where’d you serve?”
“Army, sir. One hundred—”
“Ah, forget it, then. Run on, rook,” he interrupted and leaned back again.
So we did. Only slower. To get to the dormitory we needed to take a branching hallway on the right, I recalled from the map, but we must have passed a dozen of them on the way up and I had no idea which one would lead us to our destination. I considered taking every single branch until we found the correct one, hoping that none of them could be as long as the main. Even if they weren’t, that would take time. Iris didn’t have time.
There was a whistle like a bomb in a movie, and a voice thundered inside our helmets. Radio was back.
“Attention all security personnel,” it demanded. “We have a code Black. I repeat, code Black. Those not specifically reassigned by their direct commanders are to return to their posts immediately. Your squad leaders will brief you.”
The radio went dead again. Nothing had visibly changed — the guards still moved about like before — but I knew soon it would not be the case. Soon the hallways would be empty. There was no way to search every side corridor without getting noticed. We had minutes, maybe seconds to find the right one.
“Think it would arouse suspicion if we asked for directions?” Paul asked in between breaths.
I figured it was a rhetorical question. Other than that, I didn’t have an clue about much of anything. We passed by the first corridor branching off to the right without stopping. Another one opened shortly, and we almost bumped into a squad of guards filing out of it. There were murmurs, but otherwise no reaction from them. No bright ideas either, aside from, “That could have been it.”
If ever there was a good time for some telepathic guidance, I thought, it was now. Instead, as we were about to pass by the third corridor, a familiar sound reached me. I only realized I was hearing it once we were past the opening in the wall and the sound abruptly cut off. I halted so abruptly that Paul ran by me and had to double back about thirty feet. As I turned around and went back to where the side hallway began, I saw the squad we had passed trotting in our direction.
“What the hell are you doing?” Paul hissed when he caught up to me.
“This is it,” I told him and ran into the side passage, which at once began to curve to the left. I didn’t know if the sound I heard would qualify as telepathic guidance. After all, it was a sound. But it was a sound Paul couldn’t hear for some reason.
“How the hell do you figure that?” he demanded as he followed me.
“I hear him,” I replied, adding before he could ask the obvious question.
“I hear Dr. Young chanting.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
When he detected the lone Seeker on the hill to the left he knew immediately who the Seeker was and that he, the Messenger, might not deliver another one. His instincts practically screamed at him to drop the disguise on the spot. Before the Seeker could move into position. Because then none of the tricks would work. Not even fighting would work. He had seen from the Guard’s formation that they intended to capture him. They would not allow him to be killed in battle.
True, there would be five dead humans if he revealed himself that close to the compound, but they were humans, no matter how important. He was important. If he was captured today it would all be a waste. His sacrifices would go to waste. And not just his. There was no telling how many rebel Sobak would fall. Maybe all of them.
Yet he hesitated. Let him just make a move, half a move, he thought, keeping the same pace. The slightest motion and I’m gone. Sorry, Luke, Iris, I rather liked you guys, but…
But the Seeker, inexplicably, stayed put. A moment later the Messenger and his escort were out of reach. So certain he had been of the Seeker’s impending attempt to intercept him, to revenge his fallen partner, that when it didn’t happen, he almost missed a step. Not now, he told himself. Can’t think about it now. When four of the Guard pursued you, a missed step was as bad as an unforeseen Seeker cutting off your escape. He forced the Seeker out of his mind and continued on, curving his rout gently to the right, away from the city.
They sent four — half of the Guard — after him because he killed a Sobak. Had they known who he truly was, they would send all of them. There would be ships circling above for support. Sometimes it’s good to be dead, he reflected. Of course, in mere minutes he, the Messenger, would be resurrected.
Those minutes passed with the Guard methodically gaining ground. He fought for scraps of time, increasing his pace ever so slightly. Someone else might have gotten suspicious. The Guard simply adjusted, compensated and continued to gain.
They almost had him now. He felt them shifting, coming around for the final maneuver. The chase had moved to the roofs of the Southwestern suburbs that flew by under his feet. Chicago receded behind him and to the left. The city that had been a good tomb to him; the city he was not likely to see ever again. But he had never been one afraid of change. That’s how he had died. That’s why he’d stayed dead for so long.
Thinking like a human again. Long? A couple of years’ time, barely that. Long time on Earth, though. Compared to that time, the minutes he had managed to collect from the Guardians were like a human’s lifespan compared to a Sobak’s. Seventeen earth minutes here, fourteen back. Meager thirty one total. Nothing for a Sobak. However, the time he’d won wasn’t for a Sobak. A human might be able to do something with it. Would have to be able to. It was all he could give. The chase was over. Half a minute more and he would be inside the Guard’s Square. It was time.
He dropped the disguise.
He heard their recognition, their outrage, the realization of their mistake. Instantly the formation was forgotten. The Guardians came on in a rush, as desperate as it was futile. In a bit of un-Sobak-like, human immaturity, he turned to face them, hearing again their sudden hope.
Then he leapt backwards. Forty miles backwards. He saw their flailing, receding forms as they jumped after him and soon landed. No one could move like the Messenger. The winged shoes, he thought to himself amusedly as he landed, turned and leapt again, heading straight south. Whatever came next, his task was done here. He had given Whales half an hour. It better be enough.
As for him, now they knew. Next time they wouldn’t be unprepared. But it felt good to be alive again. No wonder humans made so much fuss about resurrection, he thought. Resurrection was… fun.
In the narrow hallway by the cell’s door six guards — the prisoner security had been tripled, rather than doubled here — kept the small talk to a minimum. They paced silently, leaned on walls, checked their weapons and stretched, directing occasional glances towards the curve, beyond which the hallway eventually joined the main. Other than that they gave no indication of anything out of the ordinary happening.
Stone, the ex-mil Unitman, didn’t blame them. Sure, Code Black was serious enough business, especially with that car bomb going off up by the gates and somehow knocking off power, but there were forty-six guards presently on the floor, and underground levels had been built to limit hiding places. A patrol was bound to spot the intruders sooner or later. Chances were they would never make it to the dorms. If that bomb was supposed to be a distraction, Stone thought grimly, the amateur fools were about to find out just how poorly it worked.
Still, he made himself look vigilant, barking orders and gesturing every now and then, in case someone was watching.