chair over to the electrical outlet and pull the cord out with her feet.
Her cell phone rang. It was still in her front pocket. She hadn’t turned it off. She’d done stupider things in her life, she supposed.
Everyone in the room—except Paulson—checked pockets and belts. Paulson looked at her, then came over. Checked her out, found the pocket. Moving to stand behind the chair, he reached forward, almost embracing her, and worked his hand into that pocket. He didn’t bother trying to be quick about it, or gentle. He moved slowly, searching, kneading along her hip. If her phone hadn’t been in the way, he’d have done more, reaching as far as the pocket would allow. Her skin crawled. She looked over her shoulder at him. Glared, trying to catch his gaze. The bastard was groping her and wouldn’t even look her in the eye.
He finally pulled out the phone, with enough time to answer before the ringing stopped.
“Hello? Who is this? Mark, hi! This is your father. Yes, she’s here, but she’s a little tied up at the moment.”
Why did people think that was funny?
Celia wished she could hear Mark’s reply. He wasn’t shouting, which was probably good. Was he here? Outside the building? Had he found the car, traced it to West Corp, and guessed it was hers?
Paulson continued his side of the conversation. “No, I haven’t hurt her, except maybe her pride. Hopefully the situation will stay that way—”
He lowered the phone, regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, then clicked it off and tossed it on a nearby table. “Oh well. Weber, how close are we?”
“I’m still not sure we can draw enough power—”
“You’ve been working on that problem for weeks.”
“Yes, I know sir, and I swear we’ve done everything we can—”
“It’ll have to be enough, won’t it? We’ll probably have some unwelcome visitors shortly. We have to do this now.”
Now.
The mechanical grinding of a generator motor started. The computers whined, ramping to a higher level of activity. The floodlights overhead flickered and dimmed.
Above them, the device started a low, electrical throbbing. It threw off a shower of sparks. This sent the technicians into something of a frenzy, running to monitors and checking cables.
“Weber?” Paulson asked.
“Systems nominal, sir.”
The device sat just below the roofline, visible over the lip of the platform. The parabolic dish, the emitter, protruded above the roof at an angle, westward, toward the center of Commerce City.
Paulson watched her staring at it. “The dish will emit a pulse of low-grade radiation. Not harmful in any way. But it’s designed to leave people disoriented, open to suggestion. Ready to be led. Ready to be loyal. Then, as the dutiful mayor, I’ll step forward and offer my guidance.”
His voice had to compete with an increasing volume of noise. The generator was screaming now. The device crackled, and more sparks arced away from it. Some of its cables glowed white.
One of the computers in the work area caught fire. A henchman rushed forward brandishing an extinguisher. The odor of chemicals and burning plastic became overwhelming.
“What’s happening, Weber?” Paulson said.
“A circuit breaker’s malfunctioned. We can’t regulate the flow of power.”
“But the device will still work?”
“Yes. I mean, I think so. It may work a little too well—”
Celia wasn’t strapped directly to the chair. Theoretically, she could get up and … throw herself at something. Kick a computer or knock Paulson over, maybe. Before somebody shot her.
“Weber!” Paulson had stormed forward to grab the scientist by the collar of his lab coat. He hauled Weber around and held him so they were face-to-face. Weber was pale, bloodless, just a shade lighter than his coat. His eyes were wide and shocked. The man was trembling in Paulson’s grip. “What’s happening, Weber?”
“It’s out of control! We were having trouble finding enough power, but I think we overcompensated, reducing the resistance in the fuses … it’s caused an overload, but the device is still online, it’s still—”
“What are you saying? Will it work? That’s all I care about.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, we’re using the circuit breakers from the original equipment—fifty-year-old equipment—and they can’t handle this kind of power. The surge has overwhelmed them all. The emitter still works, but the power flowing into it is completely unregulated. The radiation burst will be equivalent to that produced by a hydrogen bomb.”
“The radiation. Not the explosion?”
“Yes, nothing will be destroyed, but the people—”
A hydrogen bomb going off in the middle of the city. Millions affected. Radiation poisoning would burn them all. He’d stop it, the mayor would stop it, now that he knew it wouldn’t work. Celia worked her mouth, trying to loosen the duct tape so she could shout at him. Her fingers were tingling; she’d cut off circulation in her hands in her struggles.
“Can we stop it?” Paulson asked.
Weber shook his head. “Not in time. The building’s circuit breakers are shot, we’d have to get the power company to shut down the entire grid in this area. The emitter’s cycle has already started. It’ll launch the radiation burst in minutes!”
At the roof, the device hummed, like a continuous spark of static. Many of its parts were glowing now, including the parabolic dish. It was spliced directly into the building’s electrical wiring. There wasn’t a cord to unplug.
Paulson stared at it a moment. At this stage, the criminal masterminds, the ones like Sito, would rant about their imminent failure, scream about how close they’d come, carry on about the general unfairness of the universe, then they’d escape through whatever back door they’d made for themselves. Had Paulson built himself a back door?
He said, “We’ll have to get underground. That should protect us, shouldn’t it?”
“Yes, yes,” Weber said. “But the city—”
“The city will need a steady hand at the helm after a disaster of this magnitude. I’ll have to make sure it has one, won’t I?” He raised his hand and signaled to the rest of his technicians and henchmen. They gathered and followed Paulson as he marched out of the room, to the corridor that led to the loading dock. Presumably the building had a basement. Presumably it would protect them from the blast.
No one even looked at her as they left.
She threw herself sideways, tipping herself and the chair over. Kicking the chair away, she extricated her arms from around the back. Partially free. With a bit of contorting, she tucked her legs up and pulled her arms under them, so her hands were now bound in front. She ripped the duct tape off her mouth and took several deep, heaving breaths. She could breathe again. She’d thought she was going to faint.
Lying on her back, she stared up at the roof, at Paulson’s doomsday device. The thing glowed white-hot, searing her eyes as the rest of the room’s lights flickered. No cord to unplug, no way to shut down the power. No way to get up there and break it. No way to throw herself on that grenade. She couldn’t fly, she couldn’t send a lightning bolt to destroy it.
Maybe she could audit it to death.
Then again maybe, just maybe, she could limit the danger. Contain it. Save something. Hope Mark put the pieces together and brought his father to justice. What a mess. And how terrible that she had time to think about it. To consider. To decide.
Her life had brought her to this moment. She had practiced for it. She didn’t hesitate.
Hands still bound, tucked to her chest, she ran to the knife switch that controlled the platform. With her luck, the power to it would be fried, sucked into the radiation emitter. Maybe it was on a different circuit.
How much time did she have? Minutes, seconds—
Holding her breath, forgetting to inhale, she reached the wall, crashing into it because she hadn’t thought to slow down—it would take too long, slowing down. She grabbed the switch with both hands, got under it, shoved it
