Nothing Is Ever Simple (Corin Hayes Book 2) Read online

  The cabinet moved without too much trouble and I listened at the door for a moment. When I could hear no noises from the other side, I slid it open a little and concentrated again. Nothing. Great. Time to move.

  Experts will tell you, as they told me during my military years, there are two ways to move around an enemy installation unnoticed. The first is to move with deliberate care, scouting out your route and moving from one place of concealment to the next, repeating the process until you are at your target. This required concentration, focus and above all patience. Not my finest qualities.

  A second method existed. It was quite basic, but tried and tested over many years. Dress like the enemy, walk tall, with confidence, act like you belong and know exactly what you are doing and where you are going, take charge in any conversation, and brazen it out. A method that took confidence, balls (metaphorical ones), and some acting ability. I’ve been acting up for years, this should be easy.

  The true masters of the sneaky arts mixed and matched the two as the situation demanded. Me, I’d try both and hope that no one saw me at all. Night shift, should be fewer people around, I told myself.

  I slipped the small suit-Pad into my underwear and picked one of the First-Aid emergency boxes that I’d found in a cupboard. With shoulders squared, a smile upon my face, I opened the door and stepped out into the empty corridor. So far, so good. No one had spotted me yet.

  The walls carried the normal colour coding that indicated the closest emergency exit and the direction of the stairs. It was tempting to head for the former, but it was the latter I needed. The corridors hadn’t changed since last night, metal, moss and moisture everywhere. A few minutes, a few junctions and absolutely no one else, later I found the stairs and headed up.

  One level, two and three, pausing between the second and third to catch my breath. Not that I really needed to, but it seemed like the right thing to do and gave me the chance to listen for footsteps upon the staircase. There were none. On the landing of the third level there was a helpful sign that indicated where certain services could be located. Manager’s office, top floor, no surprise. Admin offices a level below that. Between those and the shop floor, the levels where things were actually made, were the canteens, medical rooms, foreman’s office and other menial people’s abode. More stairs, more wheezing and listening.

  By the time I’d reached the door to the canteen’s level, I was dripping with sweat. The machines must put out a lot of heat and all of it rising. On the bottom floor, it was a balmy, pleasant temperature, but two levels into the shop floor and it was a sweat box. I hoped the workers had some air conditioning near their stations and even more in the canteen. Using thumb and forefinger, I pinched the fabric of the scrubs, peeling them away from the sodden underwear. Was it so much to ask to be dry for a while? Apparently so.

  Method one for a moment, I thought, just to get the lie of the land. Repeating my now famous, at least in my head, open the door a crack and listen trick, I did just that. The noise of the machinery below was augmented by the thrum of air conditioning. A chill ribbon of air caressed the ear I had placed against the small opening. I sighed in pleasure.

  When I was sure there were no footsteps or voices to be heard, I opened the door and stepped into blessedly cool air. When you’re boiling hot, under a steaming shower, for instance, you desire, a blast of cold. Air or drink, it doesn’t matter. At that very moment, when you think you’re the hottest you could ever possibly be, something cold is the most desired, lusted after thing on the whole planet. An iceberg, a danger to Subs moving at shallow depths, could hit you at that moment and your brain tells you it would be the most fantastically pleasurable feeling you could ever possibly have.

  What happens, of course, is the most underwhelming moment of your life. All that build up, that want and it is over before you can truly appreciate it. We’ve all been there, though the circumstances might differ.

  This was like those moments. A second of bliss, of wish fulfilment, of succour from the heat and it was all over. I sagged, deflated. My underwear remained sweaty. I was still hot. And now I could smell myself. It wasn’t pleasant.

  Food, my belly grumbled. At least one of us was keeping their mind on the job. Down the empty corridor were door upon door and junction upon junction. Thankfully, there was a map on the wall next to the door and, locating the canteen, I headed off. All the doors were closed and it was impossible to tell if there was any activity behind them. Method two called for then. Walk right down the middle, like I belonged and hope no one challenged me.

  Hope was crushed a moment later when a door ahead swung open and a woman in blue overalls stepped out. She looked up at me, no recognition in her eyes and no alarm either. I raised the first-Aid box and waggled it in a permission-to-be-here kind of way. She smiled, a little tug at the corner of her lips, and turned back to her door closing it and heading past me with a friendly nod. I smiled back and not just because I was acting, she was quite pretty. Not tall, a hundred and sixty centimetres or so, with a slight frame and short brown hair retro-styled. Bedhead, I think they called it. If Tyler had been here, she could have told me its name.

  “Are you all right?” she stopped and I stopped alongside her.

  “Fine. Just a little cut to deal with.” I showed her the First-Aid box again.

  “Aeron again?”

  I nodded, no idea who Aeron was.

  “She is so accident prone.”

  “Some people are,” I said. As much as I was enjoying looking into her brown eyes, little flecks of green, orange and darker, almost black, brown in the iris, this conversation couldn’t go on much longer.

  “Isn’t Steph on duty tonight?” she said.

  “Swapped shifts.” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice.

  “Maybe she’s patched it up with what’s his name?”

  I didn’t know his name. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll call her later, see how she’s getting on.”

  “Good idea.” I thought it a particularly bad idea. Not as bad as calling right now, but it set the clock ticking in my mind. Once this woman, the one with deep brown eyes that I couldn’t stop looking into, called her friend, they’d both know I wasn’t supposed to be here. If they put two and two together and got an answer anywhere close to four the factory would be searched. “I’ve got Aeron to see to. Nice seeing you.”

  “And you.” She smiled, a broader one this time, and those eyes, beautiful, honest, open, caring eyes widened a little further.

  “I’ll talk to maintenance about the air conditioning,” I said.

  “Why?” She had started to move past me, but stopped and turned, giving me a last chance to stare into those eyes.

  “I thought it was a bit warm.” I favoured her with a smile.

  She raised her hand in a small wave and turned away again. Might have been my imagination, but had there been a hint of heat in her cheeks. I watched her walk away and turn into a room further along the corridor.

  Food. My stomach reminded me.

  Canteen ahead my brain replied.

  # # #

  The canteen wasn’t empty. There were two workers inside, dressed in the same blue overalls that everyone seemed to wear. However, these two clearly worked with machines. Smears of dirt and oil accessorized their outfits. They stood as I entered, waving my badge of office, the First-Aid box, again. Their rubbish went into the bins and the cups, bowls and cutlery went into small piles on a metal cart. Both nodded, a friendly gesture, on their way out.

  It was self-service. A long wall of chiller cabinets to choose from. I grabbed a tray and slid it along the metal tubular runners. Empty shelves stared back at me and my stomach made its complaints known. A small mercy that the workers weren’t there to hear its rumbles, grumbles and other strange noises.

  Only the last cabinet held any food. Plates of thick pancakes, wilted sandwiches and limp salads. All the things the day shift hadn’t eaten. I pulled a plate of pancakes off of the shelf, a
few of the least offensive sandwiches and left the salad alone. A small plastic tub of butter completed the edible portion of my meal.

  It is a well-known fact that any business is only as good as the coffee the employees drink. In this case, the business was in deep trouble. There were urns of light, tasteless dishwater which appeared to be the best coffee they had on offer. There were teabags and hot water, but I wasn’t that desperate. Yet.

  I sat down at one of the tables at the back of the room and started in on my meal. The butter had been spread over the pancakes like a thick layer of yellow cement and biting into them was like chewing rubber. It took a lot of effort to saw enough off to eat. I needed a bite strength that exceeded that of any shark. The sandwiches were a little better. Turned up at the edges and texture like coarse grain sandpaper, but at least the filling had taste to it. I’m not sure what the taste actually was. It wasn’t unpleasant or pleasant. Not sharp or sour. It was just a taste.

  Washing it down with the coffee was only a highlight because it meant I had finished the meal. I debated taking the one-tenth eaten pancake with me, in case I needed a weapon.

  Fed, watered, clothed and awake what I needed next was information. To get that I needed a Panel or a computer attached to the City-Web. The offices on this level should have one of those and the disguise was working well so far.

  Chapter 26

  Three doors down from the canteen was an empty office. I knew it was empty because I opened the door and walked in, a prepared story on my tongue. The lights were already on, but the two chairs were unoccupied. More importantly, upon each desk rested a computer. Pinned to the back wall were pictures of family members, important looking graphs, lists of names, some of them struck through with scribbles of ink, and those notices that people thought were funny, for about two precious seconds of their life. They’d never get that time back.

  ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, you just have to be fucking stupid’ was my pick of the bunch. It contained a note of levity underpinned by a deep-seated anger accentuated by a sharp edge of desperation.

  I chose the desk that looked the most cluttered and untidy. That way, I thought, no one would notice anything had been moved. I discovered they’d be taking their life in their own hands if they did as I lifted a piece of paper and narrowly avoided a nasty case of cholera from the festering cup of coffee beneath. I put the paper back, just in case the owner of the desk was particularly partial to illness, disease and the search for new lifeforms. Shuffling the chair over a little, I gained access to the keyboard and brought the computer to life.

  The person who worked here should be fired. The computer screen popped on without any trouble and gave me access to the City-Web. No logon screen. No demand for a password and no corporate threats about security. Surely standard procedure was to never leave your computer logged in, but that’s what they had done. I wasn’t going to make a formal complaint.

  A few screens and searches later I had located Rehja on one of the many corporation webpages. Seems he headed up security for one of the larger sub-corporations, an affiliate, an arm, a tentacle, of NOAH itself.

  I flicked through the company’s site for a time, trying to find the lady and what the company actually did. It seemed, from my best guess, that they were involved in the mining, purification and distribution of minerals from the sea bed. They boasted branches in many other cities, not mine, and a sizeable fleet of industrial mining and transport subs. Definitely a wealthy company and this city was their headquarters. Sadly, and not unexpectedly, the website didn’t give me his address though I could, should I choose to, send a message to his corporate account. I made a note of it on the suit’s Pad. Just in case.

  “Can I help you?” The voice was tired and testy.

  “No,” I said, turning in the seat and picking up the First-Aid box, waving it towards them. “I think I am done.”

  “The computer needed First-Aid?” The man, clad in a blue jumpsuit, this one clean and crisp, a manager obviously, stepped into the room.

  I hit two keys simultaneously closing the screen down and logging off. “Just had to turn it off then on again. Worked fine after that.”

  “What?” A puzzled look appeared on his face. It suited him.

  “Came up to fix Aeron’s finger. She called down to me.” I stood up from the chair. If there was to be trouble, I wanted to be on my feet. Easier to run away or fight.

  “Why were you at Dalton’s computer?” He was my height and a reassuringly lighter build.

  “Just checking my messages. Didn’t want to go all the way back down to do that. Thought I might grab a cup of coffee whilst I was here.” I stepped forward, heading to the door and he moved to block my way.

  “I don’t know you,” he said.

  It was true, he didn’t and I had no idea who he was either. I figured it was even and better to stay that way. “Excuse me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Just leaving,” I answered and stepped to go around him. He didn’t react quick enough and I was almost to the door when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  “Hold on,” he ordered.

  I stopped, as he commanded, and turned, as he had expected, lifted my right hand high, swinging it up and over his arm, which he hadn’t, and dropped it down hard upon his elbow. His arm bent in reflex, bringing his head closer to mine and I punched him with my other hand.

  It was a good one, the power of the turn, driving up through my hips, focusing it all into the clenched hand and the knuckles of my first two fingers. There was an audible crack as fist met face and his eyes glazed over, rolling back in his head. He fell, legs unable to coordinate his balance without the assistance of his conscious brain, and slumped against the polluted desk before hitting the floor.

  “Fuck.” I wanted to shout, to scream, to wail. My hand hurt like hell, like all the little devils with all their pointy little pitchforks were stabbing them into the flesh, all the way down to the bone. I shoved the offending hand beneath the opposite one’s armpit and, when this didn’t lessen the pain, I clamped it between my legs. That didn’t help either.

  I kicked the door closed and, taking a deep breath, checked the damage. Three of my fingers looked absolutely fine, but the fourth did not look so good. In fact, it looked bloody ill. Around the knuckle, a large and spreading purple bruise and the beginnings of a monumental swelling was already evident. The finger itself was set at a strange angle from the knuckle as if I’d been trying to make a insulting gesture and forgotten the shape. Dislocated, I hoped, and not broken.

  This was going to hurt a lot.

  I put the First-Aid kit down, opened it with one hand, an awkward, curse-filled experience, and extracted a roll of bandage. Unpicking the small adhesive tab that kept it rolled up tight was an exercise in irritation and tying it to the dislocated finger drew more curse words from my mouth than I’d had to use in a long time. The litany of profanity was muted by the need to use my teeth to help me tie the knot tightly. Taking the other end of the bandage, I wound it round and round the door handle, drawing all of the elasticity out of it as I did so.

  At the end of the most infuriating five minutes I have ever spent, the damaged finger was connected to the door handle by a taut length of bandage. A deep breath to settle my nerves, another moment to glare at the unconscious man on the floor, and I was ready. I opened the door and took a step back, reaching out with my good hand to grasp the edge of the desk. Now I looked like a man caught between two forces, the desk and the door, being pulled apart.

  The bandage hung down, no longer stretched, but now the door was open a good metre or so. I took another breath, checked once more over my shoulder, noting the position of the door, the handle, bandage and finger before turning my attention to the desk in front. Raising my left foot and bringing it up to my chest, storing the power in the muscles for a heartbeat and kicking back with every ounce of fear I had. My heel caught the door with a force I felt travel up my leg, hips and through
my spine.

  It was all eclipsed by the sound of the door slamming shut and my high pitched squeal as the bandage yanked my finger while I held onto the desk. I didn’t need to look, to watch in slow motion, to know what was happening. My finger, attached to the door, was pulled out in sudden jerk, extending it. The rest of my body was pushing, due to Newton’s third law of motion, in the opposite direction. The result? Bone scraped over bone, tendons stretched almost to the snapping point, and the finger clicked back into place.

  If someone had set fire to my hand whilst, at the same time, dropped my whole body into a boiling cauldron of jam it might have been a more pleasant experience. I staggered backwards, unable to control the spasms of pain that wracked my body, and collapsed against the now closed door. My finger was still attached to the door handle by the bandage. Tears fell from my eyes, nothing could have stopped them, and I stayed there for a long time.

  When the pain had lessened to just the feeling of a rusty, blunt saw being dragged back and forward across the knuckle, I stretched out my foot and dragged the First-Aid box over. The small scissors inside cut through the bandage, just above the knot, and my hand fell into my lap, sending an electric ribbon of pain up the nerve pathways. With great care, and a few hissed swear words, I slid the cold blade of the scissors between flesh and knot and cut once more.

  Breathing fast now, panting almost, like I was in labour, not that I knew what that was like, I wrapped the remaining bandage round my finger, knuckle and hand. Every wave of pain was put aside, the best I could, and before I had run out of curses my hand was swaddled in the white bandage. At least now I had a reason to carry the First-Aid kit.

  Cradling my hand, I fought my way to my feet and looked down at the comatose man. Wrong place, wrong time, boney jaw. Pressing two fingers of my good hand against his neck I checked to see if he was still alive. It was tempting to give him a kick or two in revenge. The best time to kick a man, my military instructors taught me, was when he was down. I didn’t, magnanimously deciding it hadn’t been all his fault.