Death Match

FORTY-SIX

Inside the data conduit, time seemed a stranger. The narrow tube forked, and forked again; a seemingly infinite lattice spreading itself horizontally and vertically throughout the inner tower. There were none of the usual benchmarks by which to gauge the passage of time: just a claustrophobic world of faint blue light, bounded by endless rivers of cabling. Now and then a larger conduit would cross his path — arteries amid the matrix of veins — but for the most part the tubes were horribly cramped, forcing Lash to crawl at full length, like a spelunker threading a narrow pipe.

Whenever possible, he climbed. Small metal projections protruded from the walls, meant for securing cable ties but also serviceable for footholds. Now and then, a rough edge would snag his shirt, score his skin. From time to time he passed an access panel, like the one he used to enter the conduit system, but they were never marked and it was impossible to gauge how far he’d ascended. Like time, distance was all but meaningless in this close and foreign world.

From time to time, Lash stopped to catch his breath and listen. Once he heard a distant boom break the silence, like the closing of some giant door in the deepest sub-basement of the tower. Another time, he thought he heard a ghostly cry pass along the narrow conduits, barely audible, like the whisper of a breeze. But then nothing would follow save the sound of his own heavy breathing. And he would move on again, cables rustling at his passage.

Although Lash was not claustrophobic by nature, the faint light, the watchful silence, the wires that pressed in on all sides unnerved him. He forced himself to take small careful steps, to keep his balance and prevent his feet from tangling in the cabling.

In time he found a vertical conduit, a little wider than most, that seemed to ascend uninterrupted, freeing him from the frequent lateral side-trips he’d been forced to take. He climbed for what seemed hours, pulling himself from projection to tiny projection, until his blood thrummed in his ears. At last he stopped again to rest, leaning against the uneven bunches of cabling, listening to the rasp of his breath. The muscles in his arms danced and jerked. Raising an arm, he held it close to the blue guidewire and peered at his watch.

Five-thirty. Was it possible he’d only been crawling through these conduits half an hour?

And how far had he climbed? He should have been able to estimate his rate of ascent: he’d done more than his share of time-trial wall climbs at Quantico. But not all his travel had been vertical in this maze. And cramped into these slender tubes, fettered by cabling, it was hard to gauge. Had he reached the thirtieth floor? The thirty-fifth?

As he balanced, gasping for breath, an image suddenly came into his mind: a tiny spider, no bigger than a speck, clinging precariously to the inside wall of a soda straw…

He could not keep on climbing blind forever. There was a floor he was headed for, a specific floor. He needed to get his bearings, determine exactly where he was.

And that meant leaving the conduit.

He leaned against the tube wall, thinking. If he left the safety of the data conduit, the scanners would pick him up. Security would immediately know where he was and focus their search. There was no way he could fix his position without raising the alarm — was there?

Maybe most individual offices, labs, and storerooms had no scanners. Maybe most scanners were situated in the corridors and doors. If he was careful where he exited, and if he didn’t activate any sensors…

He had no choice but to try.

Lash climbed a few feet to the next junction, then clambered laboriously into the lateral tube. He crawled forward over the bunches of cables until he reached an access panel in the side wall. Here he waited a moment, listening. He could hear no noise from beyond. Holding his breath, he placed his fingertips against the inside of the latch and pushed carefully against it. The catch sprung free and the panel opened.

Instantly, light flooded in, bathing a thin angle of the conduit a brilliant white. Lash turned away and shut the panel. A brightly lit office — or worse, a corridor — lay beyond. No good: he’d have to try elsewhere.

He moved forward again, passing another panel, then another. At the fourth panel, he stopped. Once again, he pressed his fingers to the latch; once again, he eased it open. This time, the light beyond was dimmer. Perhaps it was a storage area, or the office of someone who’d left for the day. Either way, he wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

As stealthily as he could, Lash pushed the panel wider. The space beyond was silent.

He pulled himself forward on his elbows, peered out. In the dim light he could make out a darkened terminal, a shadowy desk. A deserted office: he was in luck.

Quietly, but as quickly as possible, he pulled himself out the accessway and into the office. As he rose to his feet, his shoulders, hunched so long in the cramped conduits, protested vigorously. He glanced around, hoping to find some memorandum or fire exit diagram that would give the floor — but except for the ubiquitous desk and monitor the office appeared unused, empty.

He cursed into the silence.

Wait. Every door he’d passed inside Eden had always had a label fixed to its outside. There was no reason to think this door was any different. Doors were locked from the outside: if he was careful to keep his identity bracelet away from the scanner, he could simply open this one and peek at its label.

He moved to the door, put a hand on its knob. Putting an ear to the doorjamb, he paused. Silence beyond: no footsteps, no murmur of conversation.

Holding his breath again, he cracked the door and peered out. Light streamed in: there was the usual pale-violet hallway, apparently deserted. Keeping his identity bracelet carefully behind his back, he opened the door a little wider. Now, it was just a question of reading the label on the…

Shit. There was no label on the door.

Lash closed the door again and let himself sink against the wall. Of all the offices to emerge into, he’d chosen one that was vacant.

He took a deep, steadying breath. Then, more quickly, he turned back to the door and cracked it open a second time.

There: across the hall was another door, this one with a label. A title beneath, a number above.

But Lash’s eyes, not yet accustomed to the light, couldn’t quite make out the number. He squinted, blinked, squinted again into the brilliance.

Come on.

Lash grasped the door frame and leaned into the corridor. Now he could make out the words: 2614. THORSSEN, J. POST-SELECTION PROCESSING.

Twenty six? He thought in disbelief. I’m only at the twenty-sixth floor?

“Hey, you!” a voice barked into the stillness. “Stop there!”

Lash turned. Perhaps fifty feet away, at an intersection, a guard in a jumpsuit stood, pointing at him.

“Don’t move!” the guard said, beginning to trot toward him.

For a moment, Lash remained frozen, a deer caught in headlights. As he watched, the guard’s hand slipped into his jumpsuit.

Lash ducked back into the office. As he did so, a sharp report sounded down the hall. Something whined past the door.

Jesus! They’re shooting at me!

He stumbled backward, almost falling in his haste. Then he sprinted for the rear of the office and almost dove into the data conduit portal, barking his shins cruelly as he scrambled inside. He did not bother closing the access panel — all his previous care had been rendered pointless — and moved forward as quickly as he could, taking forks at random, heedless now of the meticulous tapestry of cabling torn away by the passage of his elbows and feet, burrowing his way back into the mazelike safety of the digital river.