“Ha!” Moti snapped his fingers. “Well, it would appear Ms. Corina Shafer knows more than you think, Pema. She trusted you would bring us the grenade and that we would be foolish enough to use it. But I have no interest in handing William Taraval over to International Transport. I assume the real reason she sent you here is because Mr. Taraval deleted all his previous backups from the glacier, and they would like us to procure a new one for them at the expense of Levantine life. How kind of them. No, I think we will do things our way.”
Moti looked Pema over. “You tell Ms. Shafer that I’m not here to capture her rogue vizier so she can get him back naked and unarmed in her custody. We won’t be her black-bag assassination squad. You tell her that her peace offering is rejected.” He considered the prototype grenade, then carefully placed it in the same compartment from which our borrowed clothes had come. “On second thought, no. We will have a counteroffer for her shortly. Zaki, please keep Pema comfortable here—”
“I’m not—hey!”
Zaki was more brisk than I, and certainly Pema, might have anticipated for a man his size. In a blink he was behind her, pinning one hand to her waist and the other to the back of her neck. He pressed her forward, deeper into the van’s cabin. “And if she tries to comm anyone?” Zaki asked.
“She won’t,” Ifrit said. “Will you?”
Pema shook her head obediently, though it was plain to see she was seething beneath her facade. Oblivious or apathetic to her anger, Zaki pushed Pema firmly into the seat next to Ifrit. She sat down beside her, crossing her legs and arms tightly.
“Good,” Moti said, fetching another TIME cigarette from his packet and lighting it. “Now, let’s see what we are dealing with out here.”
MAKE WESTING
THE SUN HAD NOW COMPLETELY SET. The lights had all come on in the IT shipping yard. Other than the half-full moon, no stars or planets could be seen in the sky, owing to the fluorescence of the lights and the refraction from the mosquito-piss rain.
Our arrival on the scene had not been lost on Taraval. He’d chosen his perch specifically for its strategically superior view of the surroundings. Of concern to Sylvia was that he didn’t seem hurried or concerned at all upon seeing our small detachment appear. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“The cavalry arrives at the edge of the world!” he shouted, his eyes glistening, a mild breeze dancing through his lab coat. “Not to worry, Sylvia—this is where my grandstanding ends. It’s time to eat our own dog food, drink the Kool-Aid, whatever the appropriate platitude may be. My darling girl, this is where we usher the Luddites forward!”
For the first time since he’d kidnapped her, Sylvia dared to hope. She didn’t know what she was hoping for, really. She’d run through all the possible endings in her mind, and none had concluded with happily ever after. The best she could muster was the magnet holding her over the concrete portal failing, followed by a short fall and a quick, painless death. But now, through the haze of blood pounding in her upside-down head, she saw a slight possibility of survival. That she might miss that chance was by far the scariest thing that had happened to her since she got back to New York.
“Don’t worry, Sylvia. They are not here to impede us—they are our escorts.”
“Escorts?” Sylvia stared at him in confusion.
“Escorts, companions, entourage. The Greeks had company in their journey through the underworld. We go to Elysium to be reborn, while our friends go to Asphodel Meadows to await our beckoning. All eight million of them.”
Sylvia’s eyes went wide as, for the first time, she fathomed his full design.
“You can’t!” she shouted. “Joel!”
Taraval took the roll of foil tape from his lab coat and ripped off another piece. “Can’t have you spoiling your own surprise party,” he grumbled, going to tape her mouth shut again. He screamed in agony as she bit down on his fingers with all her might.
Her head rang loudly as the back of his left hand smacked her across the face. The force of the blow caused her to release her captor’s hand.
There were deep, oozing teeth marks in two of his middle fingers. “I’m doing my best not to allow anger to ruin this moment,” Taraval said, breathing heavily. He forced a contented smile on his face. “There is no progress without pain. A blood sacrifice, we’ll call it. Now it’s time for yours.”
He took out the Gehinnomites’ jamming device and reenabled Sylvia’s comms. “Now, my dear. I’d like you to log this console into Honeycomb. Don’t, and I’ll clear every human being on the island of Manhattan.” He set the ecophagy cage radius to forty kilometers, then hovered a finger over the execute icon.
He would do it, she could tell. Taraval had nothing left to live for but his plan. She nodded, blinking away the rain as she executed a remote log-in. A complex patchwork of graphics appeared on the crane operator’s console—it was now fully operational.
“There,” she said. “Now get into the glacier and out of my life.”
“Happy to oblige,” tut-tutted Taraval. “Just need to clear a few things up first.” Before she could do anything, he again disabled her comms with the Gehinnomites’ device.
“What?” Sylvia kicked in frustration, powerless to stop him. “I did what you asked. Now keep your promise!”
“Sylvia, my dear. Did I mislead you? Apologies. That was less a promise than a threat. And really, what good are threats if one is not committed to follow them through?”
She bucked against her magnetic suspension, to no avail. “Why, Bill? Why do they have to die?”
“Every day, millions of people put their lives in our hands,” he said. “Sometimes we must clench our fists as a reminder that trust is not merely a thing we earn, but one we deserve. You, however, needn’t take part in this demonstration. Indeed, it would be a shame to write you off as collateral damage. Please know you are still very welcome to join me.”
Sylvia—speechless—shook her head in revulsion.
“No? I suggest you reconsider.” Then, his fingers still dripping ichor, he tore off another piece of tape and placed it roughly over her mouth. “A muzzle for a misbehaving pet,” he said, pressing an icon that lowered the magnet to about three meters below the operator booth. “Do a little dance if you change your mind. You have about ten minutes.”
THE BATTLE OF CHELSEA PIERS
UNLIKE NORMAL TCs, which hold only a handful of foyers and vestibules at each location, freight TCs can host dozens of portals. As we looked over the massive rain-drenched shipping yards, it seemed like we would never locate Taraval or Sylvia amid the chaos of blaring alarms, blinking yellow lights, and constantly moving cranes.
It was disheartening. I’d never really considered that we’d have to canvass such a vast area to find our wife. But we quickly realized that Taraval wanted to be found. He stood next to the operating booth of a crane that was several hundred yards away. He wore a conductor’s yellow hard hat, waving to us from the console, his soiled and torn lab coat flapping wildly in the rain.
It took a moment to register that the thing hanging from the crane’s magnet was a person, suspended upside down like a worm on a hook. Bait. An offering who looked exactly like—Oh my God.