“The entrance guards are under Captain Alsen,” the artificial intelligence said.
The cage dropped two levels and stopped at the first support area. A company of shock troops were drawn up behind portable barriers across the corridor in both directions. Their guns tracked Hansen as he got out of the entrance elevator and stepped toward the red-painted door of the shaft beside it.
“Captain Alsen,” he ordered crisply, “interdict all further entry to HQ region.”
“But sir . . . ,” the black-helmeted guard officer said. “We’ve been alerted to expect Field Marshal Yazov soonest.”
Hansen set his ring against the keyslot controlling the elevator.
“That message was false, Captain,” he said. “The enemy has penetrated our communications system. Any vehicle entering the outer HQ Zone must be destroyed at once.”
He felt a minuscule click through his ring finger. “I’m reporting to the Citadel at once, as ordered.”
“Aye aye—” Alsen was saying before the door slammed shut on the remainder of his words.
The interior of the elevator cage was polished steel. As it plunged downward, Hansen saw that he now looked like a moustached wrestler going to fat. Though he still wore fatigues, they had epaulets and his insignia were the wreathed stars of a field marshal.
“Thank you, ring,” he thought.
“There is no need to thank me.”
“Does this shaft go all the way to the Citadel?”
“We will drop beneath the Citadel level,” the artificial intelligence informed its wearer. “I’ve keyed us down to Computation Control.”
Hansen didn’t realize how fast the cage was dropping till it slowed and the inertia bent his knees as though he’d jumped off the roof of a building. The door opened.
The walls and ceiling of the corridor were covered by mirrors, seamless except for emergency doors every hundred meters. There was a low-frequency vibration in the air.
“Left,” directed Hansen’s AI.
There were a number of people already striding up or down the corridor. They wore white smocks, the first citizens of Ruby Hansen had seen without uniforms . . . though the smocks were, now that he thought about it, uniforms also.
The technicians glanced at him as he passed and, though no one challenged him, he could feel them continuing to stare at his mirrored figure as he walked onward.
“How far?” he thought.
“Turn right at the cross-corridor,” the ring said instead of answering.
Hansen wasn’t as frightened as he should have been. It was like a house-clearing operation. He was moving so fast that he had no time to think about anything except the step he was taking now. Move and shoot—and keep it up until there’s nothing else moving in the target area. . . .
The mirrors suddenly lost their opacity and opened vistas of Ruby’s surface: missile batteries rising, searching for targets; children too small to bear arms marching in lock-step toward shelters; adults all over the planet grabbing weapons and reporting to battle stations.
Hansen turned the corner. Another figure marched in the mirrored walls to his left and right: Colonel al-Kabir. Smock-garbed technicians stopped and stared.
“How far?” Hansen’s mind demanded of the artificial intelligence.
“To the left at the next corridor,” the machine responded grudgingly. “And a hundred meters.”
The reflections of al-Kabir quivered suddenly into Major Atwater, keeping pace with Hansen. If Hansen turned his head, the reflections turned also. . . .
“Sir?” called a technician. “Sir.”
Hansen took the corner with a crisp military pivot. He was sweating. Alongside him strode the Inspector General with Fortin’s cold, pale features.
Hansen could see the outline of the door he wanted in the wall ahead, but the mirrored reflections beside him shook. The real Nils Hansen flanked the false Field Marshal Yazov.
“Threat Level 1!” screamed a public address system. “Intruder! Intruder!”
Technicians were reaching under their smocks for weapons, but now Hansen was in his element. His left hand hurled a grenade behind him as he screamed, “Shut the crash door!” hoping his AI could react before the grenade did.
The pistol he drew was standard issue for Ruby. Its recoil was heavier than Hansen was used to, but it pointed like an eleventh finger and its bullets were explosive.