“The fabric is actually woven from cam-foil, so you are virtually hidden all the time. It saves you using your magical shield,” explained Foaly. “Of course the function can be turned off. The wings are built into this suit. A completely retractable whisper design, a brand-new concept in wing construction. They take their power from a cell on your belt, and of course each wing is coated with mini-solars for aboveground flights. The suits also have their own pressure equalizers; now you can go directly from one environment to another without getting the bends.”
Root held the second suit before him. “These must cost a fortune.”
Foaly nodded. “You have no idea. Half of my research budget for last year went to developing those suits. They won’t replace the old suit for five years at least. Those two are the only operational models we have, so I would appreciate getting them back. They are shockproof, fire resistant, invisible to radar, and relay a continuous stream of diagnostic information back to Police Plaza. The current LEP helmet sends us basic vitals data, but the new suit sends a second stream of information that can tell us if your arteries are blocked, diagnose fractured bones, and even detect dry skin. It’s a flying clinic. There’s even a bulletproof plate on the chest, in case a human shoots at you.”
Holly held the suit before a green plasma screen. The cam-foil instantly turned emerald.
“I like it,” she said. “Green is my color.”
Trouble Kelp had commandeered spotlights left on-site by the movie company and directed them into the shuttleport’s lower level. The stark light picked up every floating speck of dust, giving the entire departures area an underwater feel. Commander Root and Captain Short edged into the room, weapons drawn and visors down.
“What do you think of the suit?” asked Holly, automatically keeping track of the various displays on the inside of her visor. LEP trainees often had difficulty developing the double focus needed to watch the terrain and their helmet screens. This often resulted in an action known as filling the vase, which was how LEP officers referred to throwing up in one’s helmet.
“Not bad,” replied Root. “Light as a feather, and you wouldn’t even know you were wearing wings. Don’t tell Foaly I said that; his head is swelled enough as it is.”
“No need to tell me, Commander,” said Foaly’s voice in his earpiece. The speakers were a new gel-vibration variety, and it sounded as though the centaur was in the helmet with him. “I’m with you every step of the way, from the safety of the shuttle, of course.”
“Of course,” said Root dourly.
The pair advanced cautiously past a line of check-in booths. Foaly had assured them that there was no possible danger in this area of the terminal, but the centaur had been wrong before. And mistakes in the field cost lives.
The film company had decided that the actual dirt in the terminal was not authentic enough, and so had sprayed piles of gray foam in various corners. They had even added a doll’s head to one mound. A poignant touch, or so they thought. The walls and escalator were blackened with fake laser burns.
“Quite a shooting match,” said Root, grinning.
“Slightly exaggerated. I doubt if half a dozen shots were fired.”
They proceeded through the embarkation area into the docking zone. The original shuttle used by the goblins in their smuggling runs had been resurrected and lay in the docking bay. The shuttle had been painted gloss black to make it seem more menacing, and a goblinesque decorated prow had been added to its nose.
“How far?” said Root into his mike.
“I’m transferring the thermal signature to your helmets,” replied Foaly.
Seconds later a schematic appeared in their visors. The plan was slightly confusing, as, in effect, they were looking down on themselves. There were three heat sources in the building. Two were close together, moving slowly toward the chute itself: Holly and the commander. The third figure was stationary in the access tunnel. Inches past the third figure, the thermoscan was whited out by the ambient heat from E37.
They reached the blast doors: seven feet of solid steel that separated the access tunnel from the rest of the terminal. Shuttles and eggs would glide in on a magnetized rail, to be dropped into the chute itself. The doors were sealed.
“Can you open these remotely, Foaly?”
“But of course, Commander. I have managed, quite ingeniously, to marry my operating system with the terminal’s old computers. That wasn’t as easy as it sounds . . .”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said the commander, cutting Foaly off. “Just push the button, before I come out there and push it with your face.”
“Some things never change,” muttered Foaly, pushing the button.
The access tunnel smelled like a blast furnace. Ancient swirls of melted ore hung from the roof, and the ground underfoot was cracked and treacherous. Each footfall punctured a crust of soot, leaving a trail of deep footprints. There was another set of footprints leading to the shadowy figure huddled on the ground a few feet from the chute itself.
“There,” said Root.
“Got him,” said Holly, resting the bull’s-eye of her laser sight on the figure’s trunk.
“Keep him covered,” ordered the commander. “I’m going down.”
Root advanced along the tunnel, keeping well out of Holly’s line of fire. If Scalene did make a move, Holly would need a clear shot. But the general (if it was him) squatted immobile, his spine curled along the tunnel wall. His frame was covered by a full-length hooded cape.
The commander turned on his helmet PA, so he could be heard above the howl of core wind.
“You there. Stand facing the wall. Place your hands on your head.”
The figure did not move. Holly had not expected it to. Root stepped closer, always cautious, knees bent, ready to dive to one side. He poked the figure’s shoulder with his Neutrino 3000.
“On your feet, Scalene.”
The poke was sufficient to knock the figure sideways. The goblin keeled over, landing faceup on the tunnel floor. Soot flakes fluttered around him like disturbed bats. The hood flopped to one side, revealing the figure’s face: most important, the eyes.
“It’s him,” said Root. “He’s been mesmerized.”
The general’s slitted eyes were bloodshot and vacant. This was a serious development, as it confirmed that somebody else had planned the escape, and Holly and Root had walked into a trap.
“I recommend we leave,” said Holly. “Immediately.”
“No,” said Root, leaning over the goblin. “Now that we’re here, we might as well take Scalene back with us.”
He placed his free hand on the goblin’s collar, preparing to haul him to his feet. Later, Holly would record in her report that it was at that precise moment when things began to go terribly wrong. What had been a routine, albeit strange, assignment, suddenly became an altogether more sinister affair.
“Do not touch me, elf,” said a voice. A hissing goblin voice. Scalene’s voice. But how could that be? The general’s lips had not moved.
Root reared back, then steadied himself. “What’s going on here?”
Holly’s soldier’s sense was buzzing at the base of her neck.
“Whatever it is, we won’t like it. We should go, Commander, right now.”
Root’s features were thoughtful. “That voice came from his chest.”
“Maybe he had surgery,” said Holly. “Let’s get out of here.”
The commander reached down a hand, flipping Scalene’s cape aside. There was a metal box strapped to the general’s chest. The box was a foot square with a small screen in the center. There was a shadowy face on the screen, and it was talking.
“Ah, Julius,” it said in Scalene’s voice. “I knew you’d come. Commander Root’s famous ego would not allow him to stay out of the action. An obvious trap, and you walked straight into it.”
The voice was definitely Scalene’s, but there was something about the phrasing, the cadence. It was too sophisticated fo
r a goblin. Sophisticated and strangely familiar.
“Have you figured it out yet, Captain Short?” said the voice. A voice that was changing. Slipping into a higher register. The tones were no longer male, not even goblin. That’s a female talking, thought Holly. A female that I know.
A face appeared on the screen. A beautiful and malicious face. Eyes bright with hate. Opal Koboi’s face. The rest of the head was swathed in bandages, but the features were only too visible.
Holly began to speak rapidly into her helmet mike. “Foaly, we have a situation here. Opal Koboi is loose. I repeat, Koboi is loose. This whole thing is a trap. Cordon off the area, sixteen-hundred-foot perimeter, and bring in the medical warlocks. Someone is about to get hurt.”
The face on the screen laughed, tiny pixie teeth glinting like pearls.
“Talk all you want, Captain Short. Foaly can’t hear you.
My device has blocked your transmissions as easily as I blocked your seeker-sleeper and the substance scan that I assume you ran. Your little centaur friend can see you, though. I left him his precious lenses.”