Seven years she had waited for this day. Seven years. And now, finally, she had come of age. Today she was her own woman, free to choose for herself. But what did that mean—what point had it—if she could not be herself?
Smiling uncertainly, Jelka nodded to her image, then, steeling herself, knowing what lay ahead, she turned and went to the door.
THE MASKED MAN stood in the doorway, a big "scattergun"—one hundred and eighty rounds in its snakelike spiral chamber—leveled at the servants who lay bound and gagged on the stone floor of the pantry. Their eyes watched him fearfully as, from other parts of the Mansion, strange voices called back and forth. They had seen the symbol on the chain about the men's necks—the cross within the circle—and feared the worst. If these were Hand members, then they were dead . . . sooner or later.
Outside, in the main house, masked men went from room to room, checking they were empty. Finally, one of them came down the main steps and went over to a man who sat on the low wall by the drive and snapped to attention in front of him, bowing his head.
"He's not inside, sir. He must have gone."
Von Pasenow stared at his lieutenant, then shook his head. "He's here. He has to be here. What about the dome?"
"It's locked. If he's in there—"
Von Pasenow stood, angry that he had to do the thinking for all of them. "Well, unlock the fucking thing! He's in there. He has to be. He can't be anywhere else, can he? We've watched the transit all day, and there's no other way out. So get to it. Use cutting tools if you have to!"
"Sir!" The man bowed and backed away, then turned and hurried back inside, calling men to him as he went.
Von Pasenow glanced at the timer inset into his wrist then swore. Twenty minutes . . . Twenty fucking minutes! They were supposed to be in and out in ten, taking Kim with them. But now . . .
He growled with frustration. Staying here was the last thing he'd wanted. They had to get Kim out of the dome and quickly, otherwise they could be into a siege situation, and who knew where that would lead?
Fuck you, Knut Tolonen! he thought, kicking at the gravel angrily. If the shit hits the fan, you can take the blame for this! Yes, and explain it to your precious daughter!
He had tried to talk the old man out of it, but it had been like talking to a statue. Tolonen was obsessed with keeping Ward and his daughter apart ... by any means, it seemed. But he hadn't counted on this.
He watched as two of his men hurried down the steps, carrying a laser cannon.
"Beinlich!"
His lieutenant reappeared in the doorway. "Sir?"
"Drug the servants, then get all but four of your men to the gate. I want to be out of here as soon as possible."
"Sir!"
Von Pasenow let out a breath. Security, when they came to investigate this, would know this wasn't the work of the Black Hand, if only because the Hand left no survivors. But then they were never meant to think that. They were meant to think this was industrial—that Kim had been kidnapped by one of SimFic's major rivals. The make of drugs would be one clue—throwing suspicion on MedFac: suspicion which would be fanned by a whispering campaign over the next few weeks.
Yes, but it won't work. It won't keep your daughter from marrying Ward. Not if she really wants to.
In fact, it might even backfire. Like that whole business with sending her away to the Colonies. If what he'd heard was right, she had spent most of her time pining for the Clayborn.
No. There was only one sure way to keep the two apart, and that was to kill him. But as Tolonen wouldn't go that far ...
He shrugged, then walked across to the dome. When he'd taken on the job, he had known very little about Ward, but scanning the files he had come to respect the young man, Clayborn or not. In that regard he didn't share the view of most of the Above. What did it matter where a man came from? It was where he ended up that counted. Too often in his life he had had to put up with assholes who were his superiors merely through connection. It was nice to come across someone who had risen, like himself, through merit.
If it were he and not the Marshal whose daughter was in love with Ward, he would have given the match his blessing. After all, Ward was one of the richest men in City Europe. And this Mansion . . . He nodded to himself, impressed. No, he would have had no qualms about a daughter of his marrying a Clayborn. Not if the Clayborn were worth six hundred million yuan.
By the time he got there they had set up the laser and were already cutting into the steel outer door. There was the sweet smell of burning in the air. He put up a hand to shield his eyes against the glare, then turned, looking back at the great House.
No ... no qualms at all.
SLOWLY, CAREFUL NOT to make a noise, Kim edged farther into the darkness, wriggling his whole body forward a fraction at a time, his head forced to the side by the narrowness of the space between the ceiling and the floor. The light was just ahead of him now, and he could hear the murmur of voices down below. If he was right he was directly above the kitchens. On the far side there was a service hatch, leading down. If he could somehow twist about and get into it.
He rested, inhaling the warm scent of the new pine floor he'd had put in only a week ago. If he hadn't watched them—if he hadn't witnessed how they'd laid the narrow planks—then they'd have taken him for certain. In all probability he would be dead by now, and Jelka . . .
Jelka would have been widowed before she was even married.
He closed his eyes, wondering what was she doing at that moment. Was she dancing? Was she in the arms of some young soldier, twirling around the ballroom, spiting him, angry with him for not being there—thinking he'd let her down?
He pushed the thought away, then began to edge forward again. It wasn't far now. Another ten minutes and he'd be there. Just another ten minutes.
And if they set the house on fire before then?
"Kim?"
He froze, his eyes searching the darkness in front of him. Then, with a jolt, he realized that the voice had come from inside—from the implant in his head.
"Who is it?" he whispered.
"It is I," the voice answered. "The Machine."
Kim felt a chill go through him. He had not known that it had access to the implant. Always, before now, he had spoken to it in the air—insisting on it. But all the while it had been in there—silent, observant, like a ghost inside his skull.
"What do you want?" he said, the words so soft, they were barely formed—yet it heard him perfectly.
"You must go back. Now. You must make your way back to the room you were in when they came."
"But they'll find me."
"No. There are only two of them in the House now, and they are in the control room."
"Then they'll see me."
"No. For there will be nothing to see."
"Ah . . ." He understood. It was talking about manipulating the images on the screen—of showing an empty room when the room was not empty.
"Who are they?" he asked.
It was silent a moment, then. "You must start to go back. There's little time. She will be here very soon now."
Kim tensed. "Who?"
"Jelka . . . She's coming for you."
"No." He said it slightly too loud, then repeated it more quietly. "No. She mustn't come. They'll kill her."
"Only if they see her. And even then ..."
"Even then what?"
It ignored his question. "You must begin. Now;. The rest Fit see to."
"Machine?"
"Yes?"
"Make sure nothing happens to her."