Dreams in the Tower Part 3 by Andrew Vrana Read Free Book Online Page A

floor. “You take over from here, then.” Mike folded the tablet and slid it into his pocket, cutting off the virtual secretary’s response.
    After the doors slid shut, seconds went by without the elevator moving. Lom had control of this elevator now, and he knew to start the decent only when Carl’s finger pressed the call button. Mike was putting a lot of faith into the secretary to get this right. Though even if it all worked smoothly Mike wasn’t sure he could do his part. There was too much working against him. Not the least was the fact that Carl had no reason to trust him. Mike had been Carl’s boss even before all this, before Unify; holding power over people did not always cultivate trust—more likely it bred enmity and resentment.
    The elevator began moving, and Mike tried his best to look like he normally did on his way out of the office—but that was a hard thing to do when you tried to do it. Two floors down the elevator stopped, the doors opened and in stepped Carl Bellowe, his face showing a weariness that said he did not really care for conversation. He didn’t even acknowledge Mike as he stood beside him. When they were moving again, Mike worked out what he was going to say in his head. This was the important part; if this was not genuine there might be no next step.
    But just as he was about to ask Carl if he would like to share a cart (under the guise of discussing some recent report), the other man’s hand found Mike’s and pressed a small strip of paper into Mike’s palm. Standing in bewilderment, Mike watched the Carl leave the elevator and hurry down the hall—then Mike sped through the doors before they closed and strode promptly down the hallway to catch up with him. But when Mike rounded the corner, Carl was already in a cart and moving through the checkpoint.
    “Dammit,” Mike said under his breath.
    He turned his attention, then, to the slip of paper clutched in his fist. He looked down and saw nothing but the cryptic words ‘Diane’s apartment. 10 tonight. Alone.’ As he folded the paper and put it carefully into his chest pocket, preserving the evidence, Mike wasn’t sure whether he should be worried or relieved. Or scared. Surely they didn’t know he was onto them or that he suspected them of something. He had never done anything to lead Carl or Diane to think he had anti-Silte sentiments. So much for the plan , he thought, though he couldn’t help but feel relief that things weren’t going quite the way he expected: now whatever happened next was out of his hands and—more importantly—off his conscience.
     
    *  *  *
     
    It was barely 9:45 that night when Mike got tired of waiting. He had been sitting on a stool at the island in the center of the kitchen, staring back and forth from the front door to his tablet’s illuminated screen ever since Meredith disappeared into their bedroom half an hour before. They had been arguing about…something. He had no idea what it had been, but it had turned, predictably, to his drinking. He looked down at the counter, where his glass lay in three big chunks. Many tiny shards swam in a bath of amber spreading out in tendrils away from the wreckage; probing fingers of sticky brown stuff carried the tiny, knife-sharp fragments across the cold stone to leave sparkling silt deposits all over the counter. He hadn’t meant to break the glass; he hadn’t even meant to slam it down so hard. But in the heat of argument she had interpreted this accident as an act of anger and left the room without another word. Let her be mad , Mike thought. I don’t care. I have work to do.
    Sick of waiting around and letting his anxiety simmer, and wanting to escape his wife for a while, Mike decided he would start that work early. He got up from the island—and stumbled to his knees. He pushed himself groggily to his feet and stepped towards the door. The floor became a tenuous rope bridge spanning the windy chasm between two mountains. He reached out