Distress

I left my suitcase by the stairs. The first four rooms were empty. More shells were exploding all the time now, most of them mercifully distant. I kept one eye on the screen as I waved my notepad at the locks; someone was collating all the damage reports and posting an annotated map of the city. So far, twenty-one buildings had been demolished—mainly apartment blocks. There was no question that if strategic targets had been chosen, they would have been hit; maybe the most valuable infrastructure was being spared—saved for the use of a puppet government to be installed by a second wave of invaders, who'd "rescue" the island from "anarchy"? Or maybe the aim was simply to level as many residential buildings as possible, in order to drive the greatest number of people out into the desert.

I found Lowell Parker—the Atlantica journalist I'd seen at Mosala's media conference—crouched on the floor, shaking… much as the woman from the hotel had found me. He recovered quickly, and seemed to accept the news of the evacuation gratefully—as if all he'd been waiting for was word of a definite plan, even if it came from someone else who didn't have a clue.

In the next ten or twelve rooms, I came across four more people— journalists or academics, probably, but no one I recognized—most of them already packed, just waiting to be told what to do. No one stopped to question the wisdom of the message I was passing on—and I badly wanted to get away from the bombing, myself—but the prospect of a million people pouring out of the city was beginning to fill me with dread. The greatest disasters of the last fifty years had all been among refugees fleeing war zones. Maybe it would be smarter to take my chances playing Russian roulette with the shells.

I knew the last room was a suite, the mirror image of Mosala and De Groot's; the architectural symmetry of the building demanded it. The cloned pass key signature unlocked the door—but there was a chain keeping it from opening more than a crack.

I called out, loudly. No one answered. I tried using my shoulder—and bruised myself badly, to no effect. Swearing, I kicked the door near the chain—which was twice as painful, almost splitting my stitches, but it worked.

Henry Buzzo was sprawled on the floor beneath the window, flat on his back. I approached, dismayed, doubting that there'd be much chance of getting help amid all the chaos. He was wearing a red velvet bathrobe, and his hair was wet, as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. A bioweapon from the extremists, finally taking hold? Or just a heart attack from the shock of the explosions?

Neither. The bathrobe was soaked with blood. A hole had been blasted in his chest. Not by a sniper; the window was intact. I squatted down and pressed two fingers against his carotid artery. He was dead, but still warm.

I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, trying not to scream with frustration. After all it had taken to get Mosala off the island, Buzzo could have saved himself so easily. A few words admitting the flaw in his work, and he'd still be alive.

It wasn't pride that had killed him, though—screw that. He'd had a right to his stubbornness, a right to defend his theory, flawed or not. He was dead for precisely one reason: some psychotic AC had sacrificed him to the mirage of transcendence.

I found two umale security guards in the second bedroom—one fully dressed; one had probably been sleeping. Both looked like they'd been shot in the face. I was in shock now—more dazed than sickened—but I finally had enough presence of mind to start filming. Maybe there'd be a trial, eventually, and if the hotel was about to be reduced to rubble, there'd be no other evidence. I surveyed the bodies in close-up, then walked from room to room, sweeping the camera around indiscriminately, hoping to capture enough detail for a complete reconstruction.

The bathroom door was locked. I felt an idiotic surge of hope; maybe a fourth person had witnessed the crime, but had managed to hide here in safety. I rattled the handle, and I was on the verge of yelling out words of reassurance, when the meaning of the chained front door finally penetrated my stupor.

I stood frozen for several seconds, at first not quite believing it—and then afraid to move.

Because I could hear someone breathing. Soft and shallow—but not soft enough. Struggling for control. Centimeters away.

I couldn't let go of the handle; my fingers were clenched tight. I placed my left hand flat against the cool surface of the door, at the height where the killer's face would be—as if hoping to sense the contours, to gauge the distance from skin to skin by the resonant pitch of every screaming nerve end.