Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(82)

Right where he was.

You put two gods together, and it’s like two cats. Maybe they’ll cozy up. Or they’ll hiss, and snarl. Maybe even tear each other limb from limb.

From what I knew of Ballington, I’d counted on his rage, his anger, his obsessive self-assertion.

But he was too calm now. Too much in control. That, I’d not expected.

Ghirelli said, “Sir,” and motioned him aside.

I caught his sleeve. “You’re safe,” I said, and drew him back to me. “You ought to see this.”

There was nothing in the big room. No movement, not even a flicker of the light. Had I gone too fast?

“See the machines in there?” I was desperate to keep his interest. “They’re what holds it here. Not very well, in this case. Look familiar?”

He grunted an assent.

“Lousy, jerry-rigged stuff. The Registry is better. We don’t use that kind of thing.”

I was trying to keep him near. And then I caught it once more: the scent of sea water, and something harsh, the stink of distant factories . . .

Into my phone, I said, “I’m going to try something.”

I sent a small charge down the middle of the room. I held it there. When that got no response, I kicked a spike along it, then dropped back.

I glanced at Ballington. He was watching now intently, head sunk down between his shoulders.

“See anything?” I said.

“I see a window. Floating in the air. Could be an archway. Or a door.”

“All right. That’s good.”

“The door is to the future.”

“OK.”

I took hold of his wrist. I held him there.

I said, “I need you. You’re my eyes in this. Stand here. Tell me what you see.”

“A future. A destiny . . .”

But he was frowning, now.

“A destiny?” I said.

I was conscious of the bodyguard, Ghirelli, still too close.

“A window,” Ballington said. It was as if he knew that it was really something else, but didn’t have a word for it.

I still saw nothing.

“Moving towards us—nearer. Nearer—”

I hit the power.

That did it.

The wind was like a wall. It hit me full on, sent me reeling back. The table bucked, jumped, slid across the floor. I grabbed at the control box. Everyone was shouting. The wind roared in my ears, it howled— And then, as fast as it had come, it died.

The air had changed.

The air itself began to gleam. It shone like silver, like a thousand mirrors, turning on a thousand different axes, countless planes and angles folding into one another, sliding like machine parts, almost, joining together and then bursting into brand-new forms. I could see the room from every possible direction. I saw myself, crouched over the table, Ballington behind me. I saw the elevator lights above his head. Shwetz, a dark mass, off to the right. I saw all of this, but saw it from above, and from below, from left and right—a million images, rushing towards us, raining down—and never reaching us. Never here.

I put my phone against my mouth, said, “Now. Send it down.”

I reached for the controls, and seemed to see my hands reduplicated twenty times. I sent another jolt along the central line. The air before me shivered. A thousand fractured images all whirled across my vision. I heard the pinging of the elevator bell, the sound distorted, buzzing with harmonics.

Everything went very slowly then. I turned. I saw it all with a peculiar clarity, exactly what I had to do. I was thinking faster and more calmly than I had in weeks. The elevator door slid back. Ballington must have been leaning on it. He tottered for a moment, catching his balance as I stepped from the table.

And I threw myself at him.

The man was stocky, heavyset. He was shorter than I was, and I caught him in the upper chest and neck. He fell into the open elevator and I fell on top of him. Bare wires glistened on the walls, shone on the floor, the ceiling. A flask was taped into the corner. I reached up, trying to hit the floor buttons. I couldn’t reach. Ballington moved under me. I pushed at his chest, his belly, trying to get a purchase. My hand slipped. I yelled into the phone. “Up! Call it up!”

The door began to close, then stopped, slid open. Ghirelli was there. The whole plan could have died at that point, but Shwetz was quick. Quick, tough, and vengeful.

Ghirelli never got to us.





Chapter 66

Ballington




I wasn’t much for fighting, even back at school. Did it when I had to, but that’s all.

Ballington reared beneath me, arching like a wrestler. He was a fit, well-muscled man, but the energy, the power running through his nerves—that came from somewhere else, and it would work his body to destruction if it wanted to. It would feel no pain, no loss. It could not be killed, only disabled. And this was what I’d taken on: here, in this tiny elevator carriage. Trapped with it.

I smashed my fist into his face. He lunged forward, his teeth snapped down, and I just pulled my hand away in time. I pressed my forearm on his neck. I tried to get my weight on it, but he shifted under me, easily maneuvering me, keeping me off balance. His hand clawed at my upper arm. There was a smell of cooking meat.

His hand sank in my flesh. I felt it burn. I felt it roast.

Then Angel hit the power.