Flood Read Free

bladder had released.
    “It’s not going to happen,” Lily snapped. “Let’s get out of these chains.” She tugged experimentally. The radiator was bolted massively to a stone wall. “Look around before the light goes. There must be something down here, something we can use—”
    “How about bolt cutters?”

2

    T he new voice was a man’s, English, coming from the stairs. They all leaned over to look. Even Piers turned his hooded face. Torchlight flashed. Lily raised her unchained hand to shield her eyes. She made out two, three, four people coming down the crypt stair.“Who’s there? Who are you ¿Como se llama usted? ¿Me puede ayudar, por favor? Me llamo —”
    “You’re Lily Brooke. Yes? USAF captain, serial number—”
    “Tell me who you are.”
    He lifted his torch to illuminate his face. He was black, maybe forty; tall, square, he wore what looked like battle dress with a purple beret, and a shoulder-flash logo: the Earth cradled in a cupped hand. “My name is George Camden.”
    “You’re English. Military?”
    “A private security force. I work for AxysCorp.” He tapped his shoulder logo. “I’ve come to get you out of here. You’re safe now.” He smiled.
    Nothing changed inside Lily; there was no feeling of relief. She couldn’t believe it. She remained tense, wary, waiting for the trap to spring.
    “AxysCorp,” Gary said. “Who John worked for.”
    Camden shone his torch. “You’re Gary Boyle, of NASA? Yes, John Foreshaw works for us. We’re operating in conjunction with the coalition peacekeepers, the government forces. But at AxysCorp we look after our own.” He flashed his torch around. Piers flinched from the light.“So where’s John?”
    “You just missed him,” Helen said bitterly.
    “Missed him?” Camden’s torch found John. “Oh. Damn it.”
    Lily lifted her shackled arm.“You said something about bolt cutters?”
    Camden waved forward his men. “Let’s get on with it.”

    Released, they were helped up the crypt stairs.
    The cathedral’s interior was a sandstone cavern, looted and burned. They stumbled out through a massive door called the Portal of San Ivo, and onto the street. The cathedral was a squat Gothic pile, the labor of centuries. Its carefully worked face had been cratered by shellfire. The rain fell, hard and steady, and the water stood in spreading puddles on the street, making every surface glisten.
    A small helicopter stood by, resting on its rails in the rubble-strewn wreck of some building. When the hostages emerged, a couple more AxysCorp operatives who stood by the bird came running. Lily, a pilot five years out of the game, didn’t recognize the model; it bore the bold cradled-world logo of AxysCorp.
    As the AxysCorp people got themselves organized, the four hostages stood together, Helen cradling her baby, Gary blinking in the light with a grin like a kid at Christmas. Unbearably, Piers Michaelmas still wouldn’t remove the dirty towel that hid his face. Lily peered up longingly. At least she had got to see the sky again. But the cloud was solid, and the rain quickly soaked her bare scalp and thin clothes. It was July; at least it was warm. But, surrounded by the men in their dull green battle dress, she felt oddly diminished, all but naked in her T-shirt and shorts.
    An AxysCorp man with a Red Cross flash on his arm took a quick look at the four of them, and then, with apologies, lifted Helen’s baby from her arms. “Just for a bit—just until we’re out of here. I’ve a cradle for her. She’ll be safer that way.” Helen protested, but could do nothing about it as he walked away with the baby, jiggling her in his arms. Lily thought she could feel the bond between mother and daughter stretch like steel under tension.
    George Camden murmured to Lily, “I’m surprised she’s so close to the child. It was the product of a rape—”
    “She’s Helen’s,” Lily shot back.“The father doesn’t matter. Said’s gone anyhow. His