Almonzeia, the capital of the MT Corporation's colonies on Almonzis
The industrial zone where the terrorists had made their nest was a thirteen-hectare dump. Ax, jumping to the ground, gestured for the vehicle to move on, lowered his night-vision visor, and looked around. Apart from piles of garbage, crows, rats, luddas, stray cats, and dogs, there was nothing and no one.
Once, many factories had been built in the city, but later they were all moved to the industrial sector, and the industrial zones in Almonzeia were gradually being built over or turned into parks. But here and there, chaos and desolation still reigned, places without a single surveillance camera, let alone a police post.
Drones had spotted the terrorists' battered Paona around six in the evening, when, after a satisfying day of driving around the city, they had headed for their lair in an abandoned furniture factory building. Aviles's group had wisely hidden in the basement levels, so the drones couldn't determine their numbers or exact location. According to Phan's estimates, there were seven terrorists left, including the leader.
A second car pulled up beside Ax, and the major climbed out with a couple of her people and two of Fontaine's soldiers. She stood silently beside him and lowered her own visor. Phan was still angry at him after he'd told her that Lavrova had ordered Aviles killed.
"Reconnaissance, move out," Fontaine ordered. "Stay behind the scan-drones, do not engage the terrorists. Sniper, to the Paona."
"Paona secured, sir," came the immediate response over the radio. "No one near it."
"Good. Keep watch. If anyone appears, hold your fire."
"Yes, sir."
Fontaine turned to the vehicle where Phan's people had already set up a command post. Dots crawled across the screens — the reconnaissance team was approaching the factory. Judging by the helmet-cam footage, the same desolation reigned there as in the rest of the industrial zone. No signs of the terrorists.
Ax coughed and tapped Phan on the shoulder. She didn't respond immediately, and her unspoken "What do you want?" radiated strong displeasure.
"I won't kill him right away," Fontaine said mentally. "Besides, maybe you're right, and he's one of ours — a mole with his own mission. Let's take him alive, you interrogate him, and then..."
"And then carry out a lynching on your boss's orders?"
"You know what's waiting for him. Attempting to sabotage the train will get him the death penalty anyway."
"Is that your compromise?" Linh asked coldly.
"Yes. Unless he resists so hard we have to neutralize him on the spot."
"Fine, agreed," the major decided after a pause. "I've sent word to HQ that the operation has begun. If Aviles is a mole, they'll let us know soon. If not... after the interrogation, he's yours."
"Got something, ma'am," one of the women from Phan's team said suddenly. "Look at camera A3."
Axel and Phan leaned over the monitor. The abandoned factory buildings were so pitch black that even the night-vision cameras were struggling to produce a clear image.
"Something heavy was dragged here, sir, ma'am," one of Fontaine's soldiers reported, crouching down. A wide trail cut through the layer of dust on the floor. "A crate about a meter by a meter and a half. The trail leads deeper into the building."
"Follow the trail," Ax said. "Three of you, with two covering and one watching."
"Ammunition or canned goods?" Phan muttered, studying the trail.
"There are only seven of them, by your count. I'll bet they've gotten their hands on some explosives and decided to throw a fireworks display."
The major watched grimly as the soldiers advanced through the abandoned workshop. At the top of the stairs leading down, the trail ended, but footprints appeared on the steps.
"Hold," Ax ordered. "Send the scan-drones forward."
Three scan-drones glided downwards, and a composite image from three cameras appeared on the monitor: first a dark, wide staircase, then a spacious basement room with piles of junk in the corners. On the wall near the stairs, an inscription had been painted in glow-in-the-dark paint: "I want to talk to Major Phan." A radio lay beneath the inscription.
"Talkative, aren't they," Ax remarked, while Phan stared at the scene in surprise.
"Sir," a soldier said, "we could throw down a flare and scan for wireless networks."
"Do it," Fontaine turned to Phan. "What do you think? Could this be what we discussed?"
The major frowned in doubt and again tapped into Ax's mind. The Security Chief just sighed. He'd forget how to speak out loud at this rate!
"If Aviles were a mole, I'd have been told to stand down or take him alive by now," Phan said. Meanwhile, the SS soldier tossed a round flare into the basement; it hit the floor and instantly flooded the hundred-plus square meters with brilliant light. No one. No tripwires. Nothing...
"I recall those moles once had something like a challenge-response code. We could test Aviles."
"They're called keys. I'll try. If he responds, we'll extract him without blowing his cover."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Our deal stands," the major replied dryly. The scan-drones buzzed through the basement, checking for wireless transmitters, and the soldier reported:
"All clear, sir. No wireless detonators. No people or beings either. Should we go down and retrieve the radio?"
"Go ahead," Fontaine ordered. Two soldiers slipped downstairs, one remaining on the stairs to cover them. They picked up the radio — and nothing happened. No explosion, no tear gas.
"Bring it here," Ax ordered, then added, covering the microphone of his earpiece: "Let's hope it's not coated with poison."
"Don't exaggerate their capabilities."
Soon the radio was brought up and, after all precautions and thorough scanning, handed to Phan. She pressed the single button and said:
"Major Phan. I'm listening, Aviles."
At first, only static crackled in response, then a man's voice said:
"Hector Aviles. Major, let's make a deal."
"About what? Your group must surrender, lay down their weapons, and come out one by one."
"I can't make them. They don't take orders from me anymore."
Fontaine raised an eyebrow. Only seven in the whole team, and already a mutiny.
"Who's left with you?"
"Alma Barrera. Vincent Savier. The others took their weapons and left. I don't know where they are. But we're ready to surrender. In exchange for guarantees."
"Guarantees of what?"
"A prison sentence. No execution for any of us."
"My, my," the major replied coldly. "You're expecting a great deal of generosity. What can you offer that's so valuable in return?"
"You'll get the whole picture. We'll give up everyone who planned the factory raid."
"And the train attack?"
A pause. Fontaine listened intently to the crackle of the radio.
"What train?" Aviles asked. "We were hired to steal a container, and we... I figured out how to smuggle it out. Claude Reneal hid the container on the train. Why would we attack the express? We'd never get out of here with what we came for without it."
Fontaine tapped the major on the shoulder. She reached out to his mind again.
"He's lying," Ax said. "Claude Reneal sabotaged the train and doctored the camera footage. To do that, she poisoned one of Kellerman's people in the IT department."
"Maybe she wasn't connected to..."
"One girl working for two terrorist groups? Phan, something's off here."
"Alright," the major said aloud. "Let's say I take the liberty of arresting you instead of having you killed. But I need the ones who split off from you. How many are there?"
"Four. Daniel and Romana Berna, Kerim ben Rashid, Gitana Solo. All humans, not beings."
"Excellent. Where are they?"
"I don't know. They're around here somewhere, probably still in the factory building."
"Come out," Phan ordered. "The three of you. To where your Paona is parked."
"Fine. The deal is made?"
"Yes. But if you try to pass off a green wall as blue..."
"Fair and square. We're heading to the Paona."
Aviles disconnected. Ax looked questioningly at Phan.
"Green wall," she said. "That's the key. The matching key is 'black floor.' He doesn't know the pair."
***
"Think she bought it?" Alma asked.
"Let's hope so," Hector turned to the youngsters, who were tensely waiting by the exit of the warehouse they'd made their last refuge. "Alright, kids, time to go."
Daniel exhaled shakily.
"Do we really have to leave?" Romana asked. "We could stay together, to the end..."
"There won't be an end," Hector cut her off. "At least, not for you. Get to the second floor, in pairs, via the north and east staircases. Start shooting, lure as many soldiers there as you can, fall back, and press the buttons."
"Yes, okay," Daniel said dejectedly, sniffled, and headed uncertainly toward the door.
"Be careful," Vincent saw them off. "Don't accidentally blow yourselves up."
"See you later," Gitana said. Alma watched the youngsters for a long moment, then turned to Hector:
"Are you sure you rigged the building correctly? I could check or go with them. They don't know..."
"If they don't know where the F-48 is planted, they won't be able to tell that epsilon bitch. There's always a risk of capture."
"For the kids, this is their only chance to get out," Vincent grumbled. "What are we going to do? Actually go to the Paona?"
"I haven't decided yet. We need to lure them here, so..." Aviles frowned thoughtfully.
"What was that nonsense about the green wall?" Vince asked.
"That's a matching key. They're for embedded moles."
"Couldn't you have convinced her..."
"I couldn't," Hector sighed. "I left six years ago. They change the keys every three or four months."
He booted up his laptop. On their last supply run, Kerim and Gitana had bought the cheapest possible cameras and placed them on the second floor. The surveillance system was primitive and full of holes, but better than nothing. Daniel and Romana appeared on one of the cameras. Alma watched over Hector's shoulder as they crossed a corridor.
"As soon as they open fire," Hector murmured, "we'll make contact again. I'll tell them the kids have us trapped here, and we need help to get out."
Kerim and Gitana passed through another corridor. Finally, everyone was in position — now they just had to wait. No radios, certainly no phones — Alma was sure the major's people were monitoring all networks and would pinpoint any communication instantly. Hector had ordered the youngsters to lure as many soldiers as possible onto the mined floor and then fall back in two minutes. If anything went wrong, no one would be able to warn the others.
"What was that major going on about some attack on a train?" Vince asked suddenly. "Are we dealing with competitors or something?"
"I don't know," Hector said tensely. "Maybe she was making it up on the fly to drive a wedge between us. The client certainly never ordered any train attack from me."
"Then why is she harassing us about it?"
"She has to blame someone," Alma said dryly. "Why not us?"
"Hey," Vincent muttered. "Honestly, I don't remember the Corporation's special forces ever doing that. Blaming people is the police's job; those guys always dug for the truth."
"It's started," Hector whispered. Daniel fired first, shooting into the ceiling, and the darkness of the former workshop was punctuated by bright flashes. Romana threw a grenade out a window, and when the explosion outside sent a pillar of dust, dirt, and debris up to the window level, Aviles grabbed the radio.
"Major! Major Phan!"
"What the hell is happening over there?" the major inquired.
"They've got us pinned!" Hector gasped. "They're trying to kill us! We're on the second floor, but we can't get out!"
"Oh, so you need to be led by the hand as well?" the major asked coldly, with a hint of mockery. "So much trouble for such dubious gain. I'd rather wait for you to kill each other off."
"You need the information..."
"Not really. We already know almost everything."
"Almost! But we could tell you..."
"Why did you sabotage my express?" a low male voice suddenly asked over the radio.
"We didn't..."
"As you rightly noted, it would be illogical if you were planning to escape on my express. That's why I'm so curious to know — why?"
"Hector, who's this guy and what's he talking about?" Vincent asked. "What the hell sabotage?"
Aviles remained silent, teeth clenched. Alma watched the laptop screen anxiously — no one had yet approached the youngsters, who were simulating a firefight with blank rounds.
"I don't know anything about it," Hector hissed.
"You don't know why you killed Claude Reneal? That's a pity. But if you can't even answer that question, then you really are of no use to us."
"Who's Claude Reneal?" Vincent asked, staring intently at Hector.
"The Express dispatcher," Alma said curtly. "Hector recruited her, and she hid the container on the train. Then the train's SS killed her and now they're blaming Hector..."
"Listen," Aviles said, "if you get us out of here, I'll answer all your questions. But I can't do that if I'm shot here!"
"Or perhaps you're just embarrassed to admit to your remaining accomplices how and why you deceived them," the man said amiably and disconnected. Hector froze, gripping the radio in his fist.
"Well, well," Vincent said after a pause, "we always had a rule that you were the only one who knew everything — for the sake of general security. But now I'm curious to know..."
Hector silently drew his pistol and shot him in the forehead. Vincent collapsed to the floor, arms flailing weakly.
"Hector!" Alma shrieked, recoiling. The lights went out, and the cameras died along with the laptop.
"I'm sorry, Alma," Hector said. "It looks like they've cut our power."
"What have you done?!"
"I'm sorry, Alma. This wasn't the plan."
Alma backed away. She could see better in the dark than humans, but not well enough to make out every detail.
"What plan?"
"To convince everyone that we were dead," she made out a shiny metal device in Hector's hand — a remote detonator for the F-48. "Pity we couldn't lure more of those creatures in here..."
"My God, Hector, you're not going to blow yourself up in here, are you?!"
"Me? Not at all. I need to get out to finish the job with the express."
"Wh... what job?"
"I got involved in this pointless container business to get money for something much bigger. Something that will change everything, Alma."
She pressed herself against the wall, instinctively reaching for the holster on her thigh. But Hector wouldn't...
"The kids can get out," Alma whispered quickly. "Give them another minute!"
"Oh, but then the trick won't work," she heard a soft chuckle. "How else am I going to convince them all that I'm dead too?"
"Too? Hector, don't!"
Alma lunged at him like a lynx, but he had already pressed the button. A giant fist seemed to slam down on the building, hurling Alma to the floor. A wave of deafening thunder rolled over her head; paint flakes, dust, and fine concrete chips rained down from the walls and ceiling. Alma, flattened against the floor, coughed violently. Dust caked her eyes, her ears rang, the floor shook as if in a seizure. It felt like hours, like the ceiling would collapse any second under the weight of the crumbling building.
Then, suddenly, it stopped. Half-blind, half-deaf, Alma managed to push herself up on her elbows. She was covered in dust and couldn't see a thing. She patted the floor, and someone grasped her hand.
Someone! Hector!
"How could you," Alma whispered. "Why? They're just children!"
"Priorities," Aviles coughed. "You have to choose... priority targets."
"Vince was with you for six years, while you..."
"They don't care, Alma," Hector was suddenly so close his breath stirred her hair. "All those people at the top, they don't care about anything we do — we could blow up a Dorothea every year! But if you grab them by the throat, the ones at the very top... oh, then they'll care!"
"What are you talking about?"
"The express," he whispered. "We need to take the express when it's packed with them — the ones at the top."
"Are you insane?" Alma choked out. "No one can hijack the express!"
"It's all about how you approach the problem. Think of the prize — whoever does it will be able to change everything. Dictate any terms! None of us will ever want for anything again!"
The cold muzzle of a gun pressed against her forehead.
"I'm sorry, Alma. They know about you. They need to find an epsilon-being's body."
Alma tried to jerk away, but Aviles gripped her arm like a vice, and pain shot through her entire right side, dropping the epsilon to the floor. The muzzle touched her forehead again, and Hector fired.
***
They sat in silence in the darkness — though it probably wasn't darkness for Aguilar. But Teddy didn't dare ask what he saw... how he saw. Whether it was anything like normal human or being vision at all.
"Teddy," the pastry chef called. The journalist raised his head, but could only make out a hooked-nose silhouette against the porthole.
"Yes?"
"I would prefer it if you didn't tell anyone about this."
"Alright. And those... those things, they..." Ross hesitated, then decided. "Does it...?"
"You don't need to know," Aguilar gently cut him off.
"But with recombination, you can... I mean, it's genome correction, that's what all the MT documents and websites say! Can you grow that by correcting a genome?" Teddy burst out.
"It wasn't grown," the pastry chef said. "Or rather, not entirely. Not all beings are entirely... grown. Some were enhanced afterward."
"But that's... that's not allowed!" the journalist choked out. "The first articles of the Convention prohibit..."
"Don't dwell on it," Aguilar said, almost gently. "After all, there's no prohibition on growing teeth, limbs, or internal organs if someone has been injured or is ill."
"Growing!" Teddy cried out furiously. "You take my DNA sample, and they grow me a tooth, a kidney, or a finger from it! They grow it, they don't... they don't do that..." He gasped for breath, then asked quietly: "Does it hurt?"
"No. I can't feel them at all. They're no different from my other organs."
"Were you born with them? What about your parents? How was it explained to them when they took you out of the mitra-cube?"
"I was abandoned."
"What do you mean?"
"It happens sometimes," Aguilar said impassively. "Parents give up a child with pathologies to the Corporation. As you can imagine, it would be hard to explain why a child is so special otherwise."
"So that's what they do with abandoned children," Teddy thought. Some couples refused to accept children who needed recombination due to pathologies — religious types, like the Weisbergs. Though the Weisbergs refused the recombination, not the child. Unless their case put an end to the practice of free refusal, and then... Teddy's heart lurched.
"Is that all?" he hissed. "Did they do anything else to you?"
"I can't answer that."
"Oh God," Ross whispered, dropping his head into his hands. The thought had never even crossed his mind... "But that violates the Convention! They're risking..."
"I'd say they're walking the line. When corrective technologies can't completely eradicate a pathology, additional measures are permitted. Article six, section four of the Tadić Declaration. If you consider my eyes a biotechnological rather than a mechanical or cybernetic device, then it's defensible."
"Oh, of course," Ross hissed. "That's exactly what's written in your medical file!"
"Exactly what's written," Aguilar repeated flatly. "Progressive Vishevsky Syndrome."
"Why," Teddy began, boiling with impotent rage, "do they allow themselves to do all this, and why does everyone, absolutely everyone, not give a damn except for the goddamn terrorists who are beyond the pale? Why is it that only creatures covered in blood try to..." He choked. "It's disgusting," he managed after a few seconds. "It's just disgusting."
"Do you like me less now?" Aguilar asked with a smirk, and Teddy flushed.
"You're not disgusting. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that at all."
"You're dissatisfied with the current order. Well, what can I say — many people are dissatisfied with it, especially those who'd like to shove the Corporation and the Tadićs off the top and take their place. But Teddy..."
Suddenly, a bright scarlet flash, tinged with orange, blossomed outside the porthole, and a distant rumble like thunder reached them. The pastry chef grabbed Ross, shoved him behind the sofa, and pinned him to the floor with his full weight — surprisingly heavy for a man of his build.
"Let me go!" the journalist squirmed. "I need to see!"
Aguilar left him on the floor and went to the porthole. Ross immediately jumped up and rushed over as well. A scarlet glow was still visible in the distance.
"An explosion," the pastry chef said, staring at the glow. "Some kind of warehouse was blown up in the southeast."
"Is that..." Teddy licked his lips. "Is that the terrorists, or...?"
"I don't know. Even I can't see that far. Their confrontation certainly reached its final stage quickly."
"I thought they were supposed to take the terrorists quietly, without any casualties."
"There were no civilian casualties — the explosion was in some abandoned building. An industrial zone, a dump, something like that."
"Is that it?" Teddy tugged the pastry chef's sleeve. "Is it over for them, then?"
"Who knows. We'll have to wait for Fontaine and his soldiers — if they come back, of course."
Teddy's hope-fluttering heart sank back into his heels.
"Why would you say that?"
"Cornered terrorists often try to take as many enemies with them as possible."
"And you..."
"You'd better go to sleep and get some rest. Shall I give you a sedative?"
"I don't need your sedative," the journalist muttered miserably. "I want this to be over. And I don't want anyone else to die."
Al-Haiyan, the capital of the Sultanate of Er-Rummal's colonies on Tar-Mariat
Nightbird was surrounded by total darkness, only the flash of gunshots sending colored spots dancing before her eyes. Murad held her tightly, covering them both with his energy shield. From the darkness around them came the desperate screams of the terrorists — and then, suddenly, silence. The shield went dark, and someone took Gemma's hands. She shrieked in surprise and struggled in panic.
"It's me, Gemma," the prince's soft voice came from beside her. "Forgive me, please. This is my fault."
"W-why?" Nightbird managed.
"If I hadn't taken you to Fialkovskaya's apartment, I wouldn't have drawn the terrorists' attention to you."
Everything had happened so fast that Gemma still wasn't sure if the nightmare was over or not. When a small, light-colored object, like a remote control, appeared in the darkness and reached for the shackle on her wrist, she involuntarily pulled her hands away.
"It's all right," the Wad-Prince said. "I'm going to free you now. How are you feeling?"
"F-fine," Nightbird whispered. The shackles finally disappeared, but she had been sitting almost motionless for so long she could barely move.
"What did they do to you?"
"N-nothing," she swallowed, forcing her chattering teeth to stop. "They just injected me with a few drugs. The first to knock me out, back near the bakery, then a stimulant here to wake me up, then..." She trailed off awkwardly. AlNilam began massaging her arms and legs, which thoroughly embarrassed and confused her. He was a prince — was he supposed to be doing this?
"Thank you," Gemma whispered, her throat tightening again. "They would have killed me if it weren't for you."
"They wouldn't have kidnapped you if it weren't for me."
"You're not to blame," Nightbird said. "I decided to go with you on my own."
Murad patted her shoulder, and she, with a sob, buried her face in the huge bodyguard like a frightened child in a teddy bear. The Yakzan, grumbling awkwardly, hugged her and even tried to rock her a little.
"What else did they inject you with?" the prince asked gently.
"Some kind of truth serum," Gemma sniffled, wiping her face with her palm. "But it didn't work. It must have been expired."
The prince let out a short laugh. Murad rustled something, and a white paper tissue appeared in the darkness, with which the Yakzan wiped Gemma's eyes. AlNilam, continuing to massage her arms and legs, asked:
"Did they mention anyone? Say that there was anyone else from the group here, besides them?"
Gemma shook her head.
"No. From their conversation, I got the impression they were alone here. In this particular place. But they were actively trying to contact their people. I think they believed another group was still on Tar-Mariat."
"Did they succeed?"
"No. They tried... for hours, I think... but no one answered."
"I see. Thanks to you, Gemma," the prince purred, "we got their stream module intact, with all its settings."
"They also had a radio," Nightbird added, very embarrassed by the undeserved praise. "They wanted to contact the other group with... with radios? Those things with antennas. I saw one in a museum once."
"Yes, sometimes museum relics are more useful and effective than the most modern devices," AlNilam remarked. "Because old technology is much harder to trace. I don't know what we would have done if they had been passing each other paper notes to burn after reading."
"I doubt they have that kind of money for real paper, or that they know how to use a pen," Murad said. "But it's strange there are no traps here. Such a disregard for security."
"Judging by their behavior, they'd be the first to fall into their own traps," the Wad-Prince snorted. "Gemma, how are you? We have a first-aid kit with painkillers, sedatives, and..."
"I'm fine," Nightbird replied, her voice, as if on cue, wavering. "It's just that I'd like to... Eric must be beside himself by now. Eric is my husband," she explained hurriedly, blinking rapidly to dispel tears. "Can I call him?"
"Of course. A support team is on its way. They'll give you a phone, get you out of here, and take you to the hospital. I'll arrange for your husband to be brought there."
"Thank you," Gemma whispered, lowering her head onto the Yakzan's shoulder. For some reason, her strength was almost gone, as if she'd been hauling bags of cement all day instead of lying in an underground tunnel. Something hard and rustling pressed into her hand.
"It's a protein bar," Murad said. "Didn't they feed you?"
"They gave me some field ration. They ate my lunch, the one Eric made, and the rolls I bought," Gemma tore open the wrapper with trembling hands and bit into the bar as if it were her grandmother's favorite pie.
"Papa keeps his younglings on a short leash," the prince snorted. "So they think about lofty things, not daily needs."
More rustling, then an indignant grunt from the Yakzan.
"What are you looking for in my backpack, Effendi?"
"A glow stick. Why do you always put everything away? I can never find anything!"
"I organize everything by order, necessity, and accessibility. The glow sticks are in the left side pocket."
"Why did you put them there?!"
"I find it more convenient to carry them there, Effendi. Because it's my backpack."
The prince snorted, pulled out a light-colored disc that gleamed in the darkness, and tossed it to the floor. The corridor was flooded with white light, and Gemma squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds. After the pitch black, the glow stick's brilliance was blinding.
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
Nightbird opened her eyes. AlNilam was crouching in the middle of the corridor, examining the stream module. It was battered, some decommissioned, outdated model, probably not very powerful. It looked like the one Eric and Gemma took on their hikes and trips.
"Aha," the prince said. "Looks like we interrupted them in the middle of trying to contact their people. Murad, give me a power pack."
The Yakzan pulled one from the right side pocket and tossed it to the Wad-Prince. He connected the pack to the module, ran his fingers over the touch panel, and began scrolling through the list of recent sessions on the display.
"Interesting," AlNilam murmured. "Why were they so desperately trying to contact someone on Almonzeis?"
"From where?!" Gemma nearly choked on her protein bar. That was one of the Corporation's colonial capitals!
"Almonzeia," the Wad-Prince repeated thoughtfully. "Could another gang have managed to worm its way into the heart of MT Express? That would explain a great deal... including Elena Pavlidis's stubborn silence," he rose. "But now she won't be able to wriggle out of a little conversation."
Gemma quivered. No one would dare question the head of MT's Inquiry Service. But AlNilam was a prince; apparently, he could.
Lights flickered ahead and behind, synchronized footsteps sounded, and not one but two support teams burst into the terrorists' lair.
"Effendi!" the officer at the head of an armed group exclaimed. "Praise Allah!"
"Did you find anyone?" the Wad-Prince inquired.
"No, Effendi. Nothing around — no terrorists, no supplies, no traces," the officer came closer to the stream module and glanced quickly at the unconscious bodies. "Is this all?"
"There's another one down that corridor," AlNilam nodded towards where he'd left the terrorist girl. "Pack everything up here. Oh, do you have a phone?"
"Here, Effendi," the officer handed him a phone. The Wad-Prince started making a call, while Murad leaned toward Gemma and asked:
"May I, Saida?"
Nightbird nodded, and he scooped her up in his arms. She was breathless at how easily he lifted her (at their wedding, Eric had almost thrown his back out carrying the bride into the wigwam). The Yakzan carried her to a stretcher and carefully laid her down. The surface cells immediately molded to Gemma's body, and a medic from Al-Shadiyar bustled over.
"She was injected with a sedative, a stimulant, and truth serum. Neuroveritine," Al-Fayyaz showed the medic an ampoule he'd picked up from the floor. The doctor grumbled about the barbaric cocktail. Nightbird tiredly closed her eyes, and then AlNilam called out to her again:
"Gemma! I've arranged for you to be taken to Patmeira Hospital. Your husband will be brought there as well. Would you like to call him?"
"Yes!" Nightbird sat up, snatched the phone from His Highness, and dialed Eric's number. Several long rings, then a beloved voice exclaimed:
"Hello! Who is this? Where's Gemma?!"
"Oh, Eric!" Nightbird breathed. "It's me," she clutched the phone in both hands and began to cry.