Safe House Part 1

Safe House.

by Tom Clancy.

PROLOGUE.

His father had told him repeatedly that everything would be all right. The two things that surprised Laurent, after the fact, were how little he believed this-even though he went along with the plan-and, even though he'd been told there was nothing to be afraid of, how blindingly afraid he was.

The talk between him and his pop had been very light all the way to the train station-chatter about school, and school food, and Laurent's performance in the last soccer game against Garoafa (it had been terrible-Laurent wished his father wouldn't keep bringing it up).

They had walked as usual from the side street where their apartment was located, into the middle of town through Piata Unirii with its huge, ugly blockish high-rise buildings left over from the middle of the last century, and out the other side of the plaza to the Foesani train station. There they made their way past the armed guards as usual, showing their ID cards and their train pa.s.ses, and went down the stairs under the tracks, coming up on the other side to stand on the bleak gray platform with all the other people in their dark coats and somber dresses. The weather was unseasonably chilly-a surprisingly raw wind for June was sweeping down from the low misty line of the mountains to the north. The wind whistled in the overhead wires that powered the local electric trains-the few of them still running-and made Laurent s.h.i.+ver. At least that was the excuse he gave himself.

From down the tracks came a loud, sour hoot, the cry of one of the old diesel locomotives usually used for hauling freight but now released for pa.s.senger hauling work in the summer, when there was theoretically no need to supply the carriages with heat. Laurent was a little train-mad, as were many kids in his part of the world. The trains spoke to them of travel, of other places different from home, and of (whisper it) freedom-places where (rumor had it) the transit went on one rail rather than two, on maglev rather than wheels, or hybrid air/lox jets rather than turboprops.

There was no way to tell if the rumors were true-the government didn't let the local Net or media say much about such things, all products of the decadent cultures outside the borders. But in the meantime, the trains Laurent could see any day at the station were interesting, if not particularly varied, and he knew them all like old friends. This one was ST43-260, a diesel made at the old 23 August Factory down in Bucuresti, a low, flat-faced locomotive with two headlamps and big winds.h.i.+eld plates that made it look like a huge, dim, friendly bug. Lurching and creaking, with the ting and clang of hanging 'tween-cars chains accompanying it as it came, the dirty cream and dingy red ST43 pulled up to them and past them, hauling the ten second-cla.s.s carriages, all ancient CFR stock from before the turn of the century, creaking and groaning behind it. It came grumbling and hissing to a stop, the diesel roar of the loco only slightly subdued by a couple of hundred yards' distance.

Normally they would have gotten right on-other people started pus.h.i.+ng past them and doing so. But his father was looking down the platform, looking for someone, and Laurent found himself suddenly wis.h.i.+ng, irrationally, Don't let him come. Let's not do it. I wish- Don't let him come. Let's not do it. I wish- "There he is," his father said, suddenly sounding very relieved. "Iolae!" He waved at a broad figure in a dark coat, away down the platform.

The figure approached them, hurrying a little through the crowd, smiling, and as he came up to them and put out a hand for Laurent's father to shake, Laurent was filled with misgivings. The two men didn't look anything like brothers, his father tall and blond and a little hawkish-looking, except for the gla.s.ses, which transformed the hawk-face into the slight squinting expression of an owl; the newcomer shorter, stouter, broad-faced, balding. This isn't going to fool anybody This isn't going to fool anybody, Laurent thought, the sweat breaking out on him. And when the police figure it out, they'll just take us off the train and- And when the police figure it out, they'll just take us off the train and- "Thought I was going to be late, didn't you," said his "uncle," and bent to hug Laurent. Laurent reciprocated, but there was no warmth about it, though neither his father nor his "uncle" seemed to notice.

They pushed their way into the line with all the other people, and got up into the train, showing their ID cards and tickets again to the bored guard standing in the doorway beside the train conductor. Then they slowly made their way down the aisle, Laurent glancing around him as he always did in hopes of spotting a piece of new, or at least different, equipment on this line. Not much chance of that, though Not much chance of that, though, he thought. He knew this train-car by heart-the grimy linoleum-Laurent sometimes spent long minutes trying to figure out what pattern had been there when the linoleum was new-no telling now-the torn or cracked maroon "leather" seats, cream-enameled walls with the paint chipping, bent-out-of-shape wire mesh luggage racks propped up high between back-to-back pairs of seats. Laurent sometimes tried to imagine what this stock had looked like when it was new, back in 1980 sometime. It was like trying to imagine what dinosaurs had looked like. He sighed and followed his father and "uncle" until his pop saw an open seat, and they all crowded together onto it.

All the while the newcomer and Laurent's father were talking as if they actually were brothers, laughing sometimes, talking about work. Mostly this meant Laurent's father not saying much, of course. You never knew who might be listening. He was a biologist, but he rarely spoke much about exactly what kind of biology he was doing, and wise people didn't ask. It was just as well, since he was working for the government. With the privilege came a certain amount of responsibility-or, to Laurent's mind, a certain amount of danger. But he didn't mention this any more than his father did. It was understood.

After a few moments the train lurched forward, and Laurent sighed a little, relieved, and not entirely certain why. Normally his father would get off at the next stop, and then Laurent would get off at the one after that, closest to his school, which was just outside the Focsani town limits. Today, though, was special. Today he was going on a day trip with his uncle Iolae to Brasov, to see the old castle where Voivod Vlad Dracul had lived, across the border in Transylvania. He had repeated the story over to himself a hundred times since his father first explained it to him, doing his best to learn it so well that it would sound natural if somebody from the police asked him- And the train was stopping already at Focsari-Nov. Laurent gulped. His father glanced at him. "So enjoy yourself," his father said, reached out, and gave Laurent a hug.

Laurent hugged him back-and suddenly felt terrible pain all through him, and sweat starting out again all over him, so that he was sure sure everyone must be able to see it. This was it, they were saying goodbye, and he didn't know when he was going to see his father again. everyone must be able to see it. This was it, they were saying goodbye, and he didn't know when he was going to see his father again. I might never- I might never-But no. That was a dumb idea. No matter how dangerous things were getting at work, his father wouldn't send him away forever without telling him first.

Would he?

His father pushed him away, not hard, but briskly enough, as if they both had things to be doing. "You mind your uncle now," he said, and patted Laurent on the shoulder. "Have a nice day."

"I will, Pop," he said, his mouth dry. Laurent's father reached down to the other man, shook his hand again warmly, if casually, the gesture of someone he expected to see again that afternoon-except that Laurent knew he wouldn't. And for the first time Laurent began to realize that his father was a pretty good actor, and that could be one of the reasons that all this would would work out the way he said it would. work out the way he said it would.

"You have a nice time now," his pop said to "Uncle Iolae." "Thanks for taking him. Don't let him get out of hand."

"I don't imagine he will," said the other man. He thumped Laurent's father good-naturedly on the arm, and Laurent turned to watch Dr. Armin Darenko walk away, hidden after only a moment or two by other people getting off the train.

He gulped again, and tried to get some control over himself, tried to look normal. "How long will it take us to get there?" he asked his "uncle."

"Uncle Iolae" looked at his watch. "About three hours. Half an hour to the border, then checks and a change of trains...after that, fifty minutes to Ploiesti...then another two hours to Brasov."

Laurent nodded, looked out the window...and found his father looking in at him. The face he saw there was one holding itself calm, but Laurent knew his father well enough that the attempt to hide the emotion didn't work. Laurent did his best to hold his own worry inside as tightly as he could, for there was no point in burdening his father with it. He smiled and waved, and his father smiled, too, just a crack of a smile, a thin, strained look. And then Dr. Darenko turned and left.

Laurent could have wept at the suddenness of it, at the way the pain and uncertainty stabbed him...except that would have given everything away. He said nothing, and the train started up again, pulling forward with a groan. Then his "uncle" looked at him and said softly, "I know."

Nothing more.

But there was something bracing about it-the sense of a shared secret, and someone who understood. And shared danger, that was there, too, so that Laurent reminded himself that he needed to get a grip. He got a grip, straightened himself in the seat, blinked, and then sneezed on purpose so as to get rid of the threatening burning in his eyes.

The next hour was nerve-racking in a way Laurent hadn't expected. Until his father had left him with this stranger, it had all seemed like a game-exciting, not real. But now it was real. He was leaving, for who knew how long, and he might not see any of this familiar terrain again for a long time...maybe even never. He looked out the window and stared, when the train stopped again, at the band of trees that hid his school from the little station and the train tracks. All the kids he knew there, the ones he liked...he might never see them again. Then again Then again, he thought, the ones I don't like, I might never see the ones I don't like, I might never see them them again, either.... again, either.... But this was less of a consolation than he expected it to be, and as the train pulled away, he found himself staring at everything they pa.s.sed-trees, patches of gravel by the tracks, old factories, junked cars-as if trying to imprint them on his brain, to memorize them. But this was less of a consolation than he expected it to be, and as the train pulled away, he found himself staring at everything they pa.s.sed-trees, patches of gravel by the tracks, old factories, junked cars-as if trying to imprint them on his brain, to memorize them. I may never pa.s.s this way again.... I may never pa.s.s this way again....

Soon enough they pulled into the town and station of Sihlea, where they would have to change trains, and Laurent and his "uncle" got up and made their way off, slowly, behind everyone else. This was new territory to Laurent, since it was illegal for "citizens not yet of age" to travel more than ten miles from home without a citizen-of-age to accompany them. His father rarely had time to take him anywhere, since the government kept him busy all the time in the labs and offices in Focsani and Adjud.

Laurent had sometimes grumbled about this. If his pop was doing such important services for the state, whatever it was he was doing, then why didn't they let him get some rest sometimes, so that he would do the work even better? But having seen the look on his father's face the first time he voiced this opinion out loud at home, Laurent now kept such ideas to himself. He might be thirteen, but he wasn't stupid. Everyone at school knew there were subjects in their country that could cause you, if you were heard bringing them up, to be arrested and tried...or worse, simply to vanish and never be seen again. Whispered opinion varied wildly on whether these were good or bad ideas. What no one argued about was that it was bad to vanish.

As they got off, Laurent glanced around him. The platform was small, too small to take two trains front to back, so as the one they had been on pulled away, the second one pulled up to the platform from where it had been waiting in the nearby marshaling yard. Laurent's "uncle" took him amiably by the arm, and the two of them joined the line of people waiting to get into the nearest door of the train.

It was identical to the first one as to grime and age, though slightly interesting to Laurent because he hadn't seen this particular car working this line before. When the train started up again, he looked out the window at the new and unfamiliar countryside outside the town until his "uncle" said, "Here comes the conductor. Give me your papers." Laurent reached into his pocket and handed them over. He tended to watch his paperwork carefully, as most people did in a country where being caught without it could get you sent to jail, so, never having taken his eyes off what he gave his "uncle," he was astonished when the conductor came up to them, checked the papers, punched their tickets, and Laurent took his papers back...and found they were not the ones he had given his "uncle."

He forced himself not to stare or look surprised. But Laurent found himself deep in the annoyance of someone who'd just had a magician pull an egg out of his ear and didn't understand how it was done. He glanced at his ID card, his "internal pa.s.sport," and saw that his name was now Nicolae Arnui, as his father had told him it would be. The picture was his own. The embossing and the hologram looked exactly as they should have, a little beat-up. Laurent started wondering how much his father had had to pay for this forgery-and the sweat broke out on him yet again. Forging ID was one of the offenses for which, if they caught you, they shot you. And being caught carrying the forged ID could make you vanish....

"So tell me about that game with Garoafa," his "uncle" said. Laurent groaned, but playing along, he told him all about it...while thinking how strange it was, all of a sudden, to have an uncle. Well, he had had had one, but that uncle, the real Uncle Iolae, had been trapped on the Transylvanian side of the border when Part.i.tion happened, and when he tried to come back home, he vanished. No one in the family had talked about it except his mother. Now that she was gone, no one talked about it at all. had one, but that uncle, the real Uncle Iolae, had been trapped on the Transylvanian side of the border when Part.i.tion happened, and when he tried to come back home, he vanished. No one in the family had talked about it except his mother. Now that she was gone, no one talked about it at all.

This new Uncle Iolae reminded Laurent strangely of his father, in the way that, when they weren't talking, he would sit quiet for long minutes at a time, looking out at the landscape as if memorizing it. His father had that thinking, memorizing look no matter what he looked at, so that when he returned to paying attention to you after a spell of it, the absolute immediacy of his regard came as a surprise. He might be a dreamer, but he was one of the kind who then immediately upon waking got about the business of building what he'd seen in his dreams. Laurent had slowly started to understand that people like this are both valuable and dangerous-dangerous both to be and to be around. It was why the government made sure his pop had a good apartment and access to the "special purchases" parts of the state grocery and hardware collective stores, and why Laurent had new school uniforms every year, and went to a school that had better books and computers than any other in the city, and his father didn't have to pay extra for it. But at the same time, there was always the hint that, if the dreams stopped, and the building of what was in them stopped, then all this would stop as well. There were other prices to pay, too-the knowledge that they were often watched, both of them, but his father most carefully of all. His father didn't mention it, but there were times at home when Laurent could feel the fear more clearly than usual, the sense of being watched and obscurely threatened. And lately the fear had become stronger and stronger...until finally his father had told him, two days ago, that they were getting out. Or, rather, that Laurent was.

"Here we are," said his "uncle," and Laurent looked up in shock to see that they had reached Rinnicu Sanat, the town at the border. The border The border. A thrill of fear went through him. If the guards realized that the ID was fake- He breathed in and out and tried once again to calm himself as he got up and followed his "uncle" down the aisle of the train. They got out into a slightly warmer day than the one they had left behind in Focsani. This area had some hills between it and the mountains, Laurent remembered from school, so that it had a more sheltered "microclimate." But he was still having to fight off the s.h.i.+vers.

Come on, he told himself. If you look nervous, and give it away, they'll come after Pop- If you look nervous, and give it away, they'll come after Pop- His "uncle" led him down to the end of the platform, down a flight of stairs, through a dark tunnel under the tracks, and up the far side, using another flight of stairs, to a middle platform in the station. There was another train waiting, an unfamiliar one, and between them and it, at a guardpost mounted at the top of the stairs and fenced in with wire, were guards with machine guns...and the police.

He saw just one ISF man in his neat gray uniform, watching them come up the steps. But one was enough. And the two soldiers who stood there watching them come up the stairs looked as if they hated the day, and hated standing there, and would hate Laurent, too, if he gave them the slightest excuse-a word or a look, anything that would draw their attention away from how much they were hating everything else.

This was the last barrier. Laurent hardly dared to look up as he brought out his ID card and his train ticket and handed them to the ISF man, afraid that he would notice that they were damp from Laurent's sweating hands. The policeman stuck the card in the reader, and turned his attention to the ticket as the reader beeped softly to itself. "A lot of counterfeits coming through lately," he said absently, scratching the paper of the ticket.

Laurent stood there frozen.

"What some people won't do," his "uncle" said calmly, holding out his own ticket and card.

The reader stopped beeping, and the ISF man took out Laurent's card, read it carefully, and handed it back to him. "Why aren't you in school?" he said.

"Cultural holiday," said Laurent, and the dryness of his mouth suddenly strangled him, making it impossible to get out the casual-sounding response he had been rehearsing for the past three days.

"Vlad Dracul's old castle," said his "uncle," as the ISF man shoved his card in turn into the reader. "I went to see it when I was his age."

"Ugly old pile of rocks," said the ISF man, not impressed. "And the capitalist bloodsuckers actually charge you money to see it. Waste of time." He pulled Laurent's "uncle's" card out of the reader, handed it back. "Still, a nice summer day...any excuse to get out of school, huh?"

Laurent found his attention fixed irrationally on the barrel of the gun belonging to the soldier standing closest to him. It seemed the ugliest thing he had ever seen.

"I like like school," he said abruptly. Though not entirely true, this was at least an entire sentence, and could be taken as a suggestion that he wasn't frightened out of his wits. school," he said abruptly. Though not entirely true, this was at least an entire sentence, and could be taken as a suggestion that he wasn't frightened out of his wits.

The soldier holding the gun laughed. "Don't worry, we won't report you for wanting to be elsewhere," he said, and glanced at the ISF man, who gave the two of them one last look.

"Go on," the policeman said. "Have a nice day with the old bloodsucker. No fraternizing with the Western tourists, now."

"Don't care to talk to them much anyway," said his "uncle" righteously. "Dirty profiteering foreigners. Come on, Niki."

They walked on through the chain-link-fence gate, toward the train waiting on the platform. Then, "Nicolae!" someone shouted behind them.

The sound of the shout was as sudden and startling as a gunshot. Laurent turned, looked back to see who was getting yelled at-then belatedly realized it was him. The ISF man, expressionless, watching them, turned away. The soldier laughed, waved them on again.

They turned again, walked another twenty or thirty yards down the platform and climbed on the waiting train.

"Ha ha," Laurent muttered under his breath as they got up into it and turned right through the narrow door into the second-cla.s.s carriage. "Big joke, very funny."

"Maybe," his "uncle" said softly. Laurent swallowed.

They got into the carriage, sat down and waited. The carriage was very quiet. People came and settled down around them, waiting in bored silence. Down the carriage, a frustrated fly b.u.mped and b.u.mbled against the windows, trying to get out-b.u.mped, buzzed, b.u.mped again. Laurent watched the soldiers and ISF men going up the length of the train, shutting the doors that still lay open. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound, in this nervous silence, was too much like gunfire for Laurent's liking. The ISF man who had looked at him now came down the length of the train again, peering in the windows. Laurent made it his business to be looking out the other side of the train when the man came by again, paused outside the window, then pa.s.sed on. The sound, in this nervous silence, was too much like gunfire for Laurent's liking. The ISF man who had looked at him now came down the length of the train again, peering in the windows. Laurent made it his business to be looking out the other side of the train when the man came by again, paused outside the window, then pa.s.sed on.

Silence again. Laurent sat and twitched.

Then there came a cras.h.!.+ cras.h.!.+ from down the locomotive end of the train, and the world lurched forward as the diesel's sudden convulsive forward pull propagated down the cars of the train. They were moving. from down the locomotive end of the train, and the world lurched forward as the diesel's sudden convulsive forward pull propagated down the cars of the train. They were moving.

The train accelerated to about fifty Km/h and held that speed for maybe twenty minutes. With the unfriendly eyes outside the window gone now, Laurent pressed his nose to the smudged, dusty gla.s.s and looked hungrily out at the world. It streamed by him-houses with untidy gardens and houses with tidy ones, cabbage patches and corn piled up in the shock in broad fields already cut to stubble, parking lots, level crossings, manufacturing collectives with oil sumps built into their concrete "backyards," piles of old tires, chained-up, ratty-looking guard dogs yapping inanely at the pa.s.sing train. Then suddenly the locomotive began to slow again, and Laurent realized that they were coming to another fence, one that came right up to the edges of the track. Slowly the train lumbered through, past more guards on a concrete platform, the guards looking at the train with weary or even hostile eyes.

Then they were on the other side of the fence, and there were guards there, too, equally weary looking, but the uniforms were different, blue instead of gray. The train rumbled past them all, left them behind.

Laurent's heart leaped irrationally. He looked over at his "uncle," who was gazing out the other side of the train, past two dark-dressed ladies with parcels in their laps. After a moment, as if he felt Laurent's glance, he looked over at him. He didn't manage an answering smile, but he raised his eyebrows.

"Was that it?" Laurent said.

A slight nod. Then his "uncle" leaned back. "A while yet before Brasov," he said. "I'm going to take a nap."

"Okay," Laurent said. His "uncle" shrugged his jacket up into a more comfortable conformation around him, closed his eyes. Laurent, turning to stare out the window, found that everything suddenly looked different. This was the beginning of the rest of the world.

After that, everything seemed to happen very fast. He was not able to burn the landscape into his mind as he had been before the border. There was too much of it, too many new things-first the mountains, then the broad plain beyond them. And he started seeing things he had never seen before, but had only heard about. They got off at Brasov and changed trains, and to Laurent's amazement no one even bothered to check anything but their tickets. Also, waiting for them at the next platform was, not just one more weary turn-of-the-century diesel, but a long sleek backsloped electric locomotive resting there on welded track, with the long double fin of the new "wireless pantograph" down both sides of the loco, a genuine broadcast-power unit. Laurent and his "uncle" boarded it, and it roared away, swiftly achieving its top speed, in the neighborhood of 200 km/h. The wheel sound now was not clickety-clack, clickety-clack clickety-clack, clickety-clack, but the subdued mmmmmmmmmmmmmtchk!mmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmtchk!mmmmmmmmmmmm of track welded together in quarter-mile sections. The train flew, and Laurent, ecstatic, felt as if he were flying with it. He waited until his "uncle" felt more lively, then they went into the snack car. Laurent's "uncle" got a beer and watched with a tolerant eye as Laurent went from one side to the other of the snack car, goggling out the windows. Soon enough, there came the magic moment when another train doing 200 km/h as well pa.s.sed them with a of track welded together in quarter-mile sections. The train flew, and Laurent, ecstatic, felt as if he were flying with it. He waited until his "uncle" felt more lively, then they went into the snack car. Laurent's "uncle" got a beer and watched with a tolerant eye as Laurent went from one side to the other of the snack car, goggling out the windows. Soon enough, there came the magic moment when another train doing 200 km/h as well pa.s.sed them with a SLAM! SLAM! of displaced air and the impossible of displaced air and the impossible whuffwhuffwhuffwhuffwhuff whuffwhuffwhuffwhuffwhuff of five cars pa.s.sing in two seconds, there and gone again, as if you'd imagined them. of five cars pa.s.sing in two seconds, there and gone again, as if you'd imagined them.

Oh, Pop, if you could only see this-He thought it again and again.

But Don't waste your time worrying about me Don't waste your time worrying about me, his father had told him after breaking the news of his departure to him, over a late-night gla.s.s of tea. Enjoy yourself. I'll be coming after you as soon as I can. A few weeks or so...for I don't dare leave the project the way it is at the moment. Too many people could get hurt Enjoy yourself. I'll be coming after you as soon as I can. A few weeks or so...for I don't dare leave the project the way it is at the moment. Too many people could get hurt. The fear had shown starkly on his father's face then, unconcealed for a moment, but a second later it was sealed away again. Behave yourself over there, and enjoy the trip. I'll be with you soon, and there will be lots more trips like this one when we're together again...except when we make them, neither of us will be running Behave yourself over there, and enjoy the trip. I'll be with you soon, and there will be lots more trips like this one when we're together again...except when we make them, neither of us will be running.

The fast train ran from Brasov through the towns of Deva and Arad, to Curtici at the border. As they approached this new border crossing, Laurent began to sweat again...then was furious at himself when they got off that train, onto another-the maglev shuttle from Lokoshaza in Hungary to Wien in Austria-and the border guards at the station waved them through in complete boredom, without even bothering to look at their ID's or or their tickets. At the station they met Laurent's "Aunt Dina," a small, silent dark-haired woman with a plain face and kind eyes, wearing a dull dress that looked like some kind of uniform with the insignia removed. their tickets. At the station they met Laurent's "Aunt Dina," a small, silent dark-haired woman with a plain face and kind eyes, wearing a dull dress that looked like some kind of uniform with the insignia removed. Who do you work for? Who do you work for? he wondered. he wondered. How did my pop ever set all thin up, and what will they do to him if they catch him?! How did my pop ever set all thin up, and what will they do to him if they catch him?! But he didn't ask any of these questions out loud. But he didn't ask any of these questions out loud.

They all got on the train together, and once it was underway-Laurent's ID having once again undergone a change he didn't manage to catch happening-his name became "Nikos," and his "uncle" left them, patting Laurent's shoulder and vanis.h.i.+ng out the end of the carriage.

Laurent left his "auntie" once, ostensibly to go to the toilet, but though he went right up to the loco end of the train and back again, he could find no sign of his "uncle." He couldn't imagine how the man had vanished from a moving train. Shortly, as the "Wiener Walzer" came up to its full speed, he was once more too distracted to care very much about the whereabouts of his temporary Uncle Iolae. He was beginning to tire a little, and later what Laurent mostly recalled was how, where the track curved, he could look ahead and see little birds of prey, kestrels and merlins, circling or hovering over the fields and gra.s.sland to either side of the track-waiting for the mice and other little creatures which would be frightened out of hiding by the sudden whack of air displaced by the train's pa.s.sing.

They've learned the train schedule, Laurent thought. They've found a new ecological niche for themselves, and learned how to exploit it They've found a new ecological niche for themselves, and learned how to exploit it.

Am I I going to be able to do as well without my pop? going to be able to do as well without my pop? he wondered. This new world was so strange.... But shortly Laurent was distracted again by the MGV pulling into Wien Westbahnhof and settling down onto the track with a sigh; and "Auntie Dina" led him off it and over to the platform to where what she told him would be the last ground leg of the trip was waiting-the Tunnel Train, the "sealed" UltraGrandVitesse evacuated-maglev system which would connect under the Alps with the Swiss NEAT system, completed five years ago and the wonder of its time. This last leg would be all in the dark-but it would be only one more hour to Zurich, at near-supersonic speeds, to meet the very last leg of Laurent's journey. he wondered. This new world was so strange.... But shortly Laurent was distracted again by the MGV pulling into Wien Westbahnhof and settling down onto the track with a sigh; and "Auntie Dina" led him off it and over to the platform to where what she told him would be the last ground leg of the trip was waiting-the Tunnel Train, the "sealed" UltraGrandVitesse evacuated-maglev system which would connect under the Alps with the Swiss NEAT system, completed five years ago and the wonder of its time. This last leg would be all in the dark-but it would be only one more hour to Zurich, at near-supersonic speeds, to meet the very last leg of Laurent's journey.

The train closed up and pressurized itself, levitated above the T-shaped "podium" it rode, slipped softly out of the Westbahnhof, took itself up to 550 km/h without any fuss, and dived into the tunnel beneath the Alps. An hour later, only slowing to enter the "vacuum-locked" part of the tunnel where it could run supersonic without having the nuisance of air pressure to deal with, the NEAT "train" called Edelweiss Edelweiss after a distant wheeled ancestor broke out of a darkness only briefly punctuated by the lights of stations where it didn't stop, and pulled up in the station below Zurich Aeros.p.a.ceport. On the far side of tube security his "auntie" turned Laurent over to a young woman from groundside escort services, along with another ID that Laurent had never seen but had been told to expect-Hungarian, this time-and a purple EU nonresident "transit" chip. She clasped Laurent's shoulder as she said goodbye, and he nodded and watched her go. after a distant wheeled ancestor broke out of a darkness only briefly punctuated by the lights of stations where it didn't stop, and pulled up in the station below Zurich Aeros.p.a.ceport. On the far side of tube security his "auntie" turned Laurent over to a young woman from groundside escort services, along with another ID that Laurent had never seen but had been told to expect-Hungarian, this time-and a purple EU nonresident "transit" chip. She clasped Laurent's shoulder as she said goodbye, and he nodded and watched her go.

"Come on," said the escort officer, and Laurent followed her. Upstairs they went from the station, ascending via three levels of escalators past a slightly unbelievable array of shops and kiosks and stores apparently selling everything on earth. Sixteen hours ago Laurent would have goggled at it all. But now weariness and repeated spasms of fear and even a little irrational impatience were making a jaded traveler of him. What was really going to interest Laurent, now, was stopping-just standing still somewhere, sitting down somewhere that didn't move, and going no further.

He missed his father more than ever. He kept wanting to turn around and say, Pop, Popi, look at this!- Pop, Popi, look at this!-but his father wasn't there-and then the awful thought would occur to him, Maybe he never will be. Maybe- Maybe he never will be. Maybe-But he pushed that thought aside again and again. I'm just tired. He'll come for me as soon as he can get out...as soon an he can finish what he's doing I'm just tired. He'll come for me as soon as he can get out...as soon an he can finish what he's doing.

The airline staffer talking to him as they went got so little by way of response, as she led him through the white or gla.s.s-brick corridors full of bustling people, that finally she gave up trying. But as they went through the last security check, which Laurent hardly noticed, she smiled just a little-and moments later they came out into the great s.h.i.+ning curvature and acreage of the main s.p.a.ceport concourse, the newest and latest-completed part of that century-old Zurich facility. Straight across the white-s.h.i.+ning floor the view went, nearly half a mile straight through one of the biggest enclosed s.p.a.ces in the world under the famous gla.s.s "buckyball" dome, and out the far side through the world's biggest single window, to the boarding pan where not one but three "jump" craft sat-a EuroBocing "hybrid" s.p.a.ceplane in Swissair livery, the new Tupolev lifting body in Lufthansa gold and blue, and the "nonhybrid" American Aeros.p.a.ce "Double Eagle" s.p.a.ceplane, in silver with the blue and red stripes.

Laurent stopped stock-still and his mouth dropped open. The escort officer smiled as he looked over at her after a moment. "That's what I thought," she said, "the first time I saw it."

"Which one am I taking?" Laurent said finally.

"The AA," said the escort officer. "Come on. They'll preboard you, and maybe you can have a look into the c.o.c.kpit before they go sterile."

He followed her. This was everything he had imagined-a brave new world, s.h.i.+ning, modern, new. This was what he had always wanted. All he had to do now was step out into it...all by himself.

Just so, proud, but (despite the airline staff) still terribly alone, Laurent Darenko-now Niko Durant-went across the concourse and into the boarding tube, into the unknown...

...and never knew how closely the eyes whose scrutiny he had most feared were watching him still.

1.

It was Friday afternoon about two-thirty in Alexandria, Virginia, and in a sunny kitchen of a rambling house near the outskirts of the city, Madeline Green sat looking out of her virtual works.p.a.ce, across the kitchen table, to where her mother was building a castle. Her mother swore.

"Mom," Maj said wearily, brus.h.i.+ng aside the piece of e-mail she had just finished answering, "you're going to give me bad habits." The e-mail bobbed back again, the little half-silver-half-black sphere seeming to float toward her in the air-she had failed to hit the half of it that meant "erase." She hit the black half now, a little harder than she had intended, and the sphere popped and vanished with a small bursting-soap-bubble sound.

"Whatever habits I give you, they won't be as bad as this one," her mother muttered. She was bent over what, from a distance, would have looked like some sort of small light table for an artist. It had a flat square insulated plate on the bottom and a small, very bright gooseneck lamp attached to the back of the plate.

Right now her mother was holding a square of something that could have been mistaken for red-and-white-swirled plastic close under that lamp, and trying to bend it, with little success. "Heat it up more," Maj said.

"If I do, the colors will run," her mother said, "and they've run too much already. Maj honey, do me a favor and don't ever ever let Helen Maginnis talk me into another of these last-minute projects again." let Helen Maginnis talk me into another of these last-minute projects again."

"I tried to stop you this time," Maj said, "but you were the one who kept saying, 'Oh, no, it's no problem at all, of course I'll make this big fancy centerpiece for the PTA dinner when you said you were going to do it and now you ran out of time. Again.'"

Maj's mother growled softly.

Maj laughed at her. "This is the third time she's done this to you, Mom. And you always say you're going to let her get herself out of trouble the next time. You're just a big sucker for Helen because she's your friend."

"Mmmf," her mother said, and laid the piece of sugar plate back down on the heating element to resoften. "I don't care if it does run. The heck with perfection. You're right, honey..."

She turned back to her work, and Maj looked over her shoulder into her virtual s.p.a.ce to see if any more e-mail was waiting. But the air behind her was empty, clear to the white stucco walls. Above them, through the high windows above the bookshelves and the brushed stainless-steel furniture, the remains of a furiously red-and-blue Mediterranean sunset were burning themselves out, speaking of considerable heat outside on the Greek beach where the idea for this virtual works.p.a.ce had originated, and more such heat tomorrow. Three years ago now, it had been, since the family had been able to synchronize both schedules and finances to go to Crete and the Greek islands for a few weeks, and Maj sighed, wondering when they would be able to get there again. It wasn't that they were poor-not with her dad working as a tenured professor at Georgetown University, and her mom pulling down a better-than-average income as a designer of custom computer systems for big corporate clients. But having jobs as good as those also meant that both her parents seemed to be busy almost all the time, and getting everyone's vacation time into the same calendar year, let alone the same month, was a challenge. At least, with her works.p.a.ce linked to the weather reports and the live Net cameras sourced in that part of the world, Maj could experience the gorgeous Greek weather vicariously, if not directly. Maybe next year we'll go again Maybe next year we'll go again, she thought. Yeah, and maybe the moon will fall down Yeah, and maybe the moon will fall down.

She sighed. "Work s.p.a.ce off," Maj said. Immediately she felt the little hiccup in the back of her head that coincided with her implant pa.s.sing the "shutdown" order to the doubler in the kitchen, and from there to the Net-access computer in her dad's workroom. The virtual "Greek villa" behind Maj vanished and left her wholly in late sunlight, sitting at the big somewhat beat-up kitchen table, watching her mother wrestling with the sugar plate. "I don't know, Maj," she said after a moment, "this one might be too b.u.mpy to be a wall. Maybe I can curl it up and make a tower out of it."

"Maybe you should just melt it down and pour it over a waffle," Maj said, and grinned.

"Don't tempt me...."