CHAPTER 5

WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: present, 10:40 P.M.

The sound of wood on metal–a distant clanking, loose boards in the wind–drew Logan's attention suddenly, underscoring how empty and ominous the district seemed. He was getting anxious, waiting to hear back from Sebastian, but he had no other ideas of how to find Max, short of searching each building, room by room–and the likelihood that he could get that done from a wheelchair just wasn't all that great.

The buzz of his phone made him start, slightly, before punching the call key. Again he heard Sebastian's mechanical voice on the other end of the line. "Given what you've told me about the circumstances," Sebastian began, "I have someone who can scan your buildings with two devices: a long range microphone that will pick up voices and other sound from inside the buildings, and a thermal sensing device, a more accurate tool to locate and identify heat sources –including any people there."

"No, Sebastian, I have to do this alone..." Logan grimaced, frustrated. "The risks involved, bringing others in..." He couldn't say more. The buildings seemed impenetrable, his efforts, puny...

At times it was hard to know if Sebastian was being ironic, or reluctant, or enthusiastic, because the voice synthesizer he used did not allow for such variations in expression. The fact that he was articulate and scrupulous in his words, however, usually told a great deal. And at this moment, the man was clearly being insistent. "Logan, these two devices will give you the precise location of your friend, and an idea of who else is with her" he intoned. "You said time was of the essence. Unfortunately, it will take about four hours for him to arrive, but once there, in only a very few minutes, Carter can tell you who is inside, how many, and where." There was a pause, and Sebastian added, "you know this is the best chance you have to find her."

The fear of someone learning about Manticore was dwarfed at that moment by Logan's fear of losing Max. "Okay, Sebastian," he breathed, knowing he had little choice, closing his eyes as worry gnawed at him. "Thank you. This means everything..."

Sebastian's monotone voice was, naturally, patient and calm. "Only one man will be coming, and he is professional, Logan. I trust him with all of my work."

Logan managed a small smile into the phone. "Then I look forward to meeting him." Logan stared, unseeing, out into the night, and added, "Sebastian–this one is personal. Not only will Eyes Only be in your debt, but I will, too."

"Then you made the right decision in this. Good luck, Logan."

Hanging up, Logan sighed quietly through pursed lips. Four hours? He took another long look down the block, wavered...then glanced at his watch. This "Carter" wouldn't be arriving until 2:45; he wouldn't be leaving until he found out what had happened to Max.

He leaned over to the glove compartment and fished out a couple items he knew he'd find there-- a pair of leather gloves and a canvas strap he kept for his basketball workouts. With a grunt of determination, he opened his door, leaned back to get his chair, and started the process of getting himself out of his car. If he had to wait, he might as well start the search the old fashioned way...

WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: 11:20 P.M.

Max groggily roused to feel another prick into her skin–this time, in the back of her hand. Again, her captor must have come back to drain more blood from her. She tried to turn her head to see, but this time saw a different face, one that, even as bleary as she was, she remembered from the market. It was the face of the woman in the wheelchair, the one so ill...

But the woman had changed–Max tried to clear away the fog. She didn't look as ill, and she was more alert, considering Max, peering closely. She spoke–but not to Max. She asked the man, "Has she had any more seizures since you added the tryptophan?"

At the voice, Max's world telescoped back a decade to a cold, bare infirmary where this woman's flat voice and cold bearing presided over one of the medical teams involved in the study of Max and her siblings. Max remembered this doctor as the one who refused to talk to them, or make eye contact, or acknowledge any of them as anything but laboratory animals...

Yet she spoke to Max now. "Tell me what you're feeling, 452." All these years later, she still believed she had the power to give orders. Her voice still carried an arrogant trust in her own superiority.

Licking dry, rough lips, Max managed, "I'm not 452 anymore." She didn't see the glint of question and irritation in the grey eyes.

"Then what are you?"

'What are you?' echoed in Max's ears...'what are you?'

"...my name is Max." she whispered. She felt a surge of self-directed anger at the tear that rolled down her cheek, her emotions too flayed to keep them in check. They wanted to know how she felt? Like a soggy newspaper... like the lab rat she had been...like an artificially created being, she ached, as another tear spilled at the unbidden memory –and at the sudden longing to see the one person in the world who knew who–and what– she was, and despite everything never treated her with anything but respect and humanity and concern... with a shiver, she wondered if Logan knew yet that she was gone...

"Your name..." The woman echoed, musing. After a moment, she spoke again. "Briley..." the man looked up from securing the tubing to lift his eyes in question. "You'll take a half pint every two hours...at that rate, I think her systems will start shutting down around dawn. We can determine at that point what is left to harvest."

On the gurney, Max heard the words and, weakly, started to laugh. "Briley..." She murmured. "And you make fun of 'Max'..."

WAREHOUSE DISTRICT: 2:35 A.M.

Logan made his way back to the Aztek, muscles aching. He had filled the nearly-four hours since he'd spoken with Sebastian making his way around the four buildings he watched, returning intact but scraped, dirty... sobered.

One of the buildings was completely boarded up, apparently having no usable entry. Another had locked doors that he managed to breech, only to find no electricity and an empty elevator shaft to the four floors above. The third had doors frozen partly open, too narrow for his chair. But there, the open entry and rooms beyond led the frustrated man to slip out of his chair at the parted doors and lower himself to the floor, and to pull himself along, legs strapped at the thighs and trailing behind, into the entryway. All he found for his trouble, however, was a locked inner door and an iron gate barring further investigation deeper into the building. The fourth structure had a securely locked front door, but lower windows broken out that appeared to serve as a handy entry for an number of homeless persons seeking shelter–he saw their huddled forms around a old oil drum pulled inside as a stove...

He wondered how he could manage any of them. At least he knew what he had to overcome, and had kept his thoughts occupied with how he might handle the unique challenges each presented. He was stubbornly determined to have a plan for whichever building Carter found to be his most likely target. Brushing off his clothes, grateful he'd thought to get his gloves before starting, he frowned to see a long gash along his thigh, and the bloody wound under the fabric. He groaned inwardly more at the lecture he knew he'd have to endure from Bling rather than any consequences of the injury. There would be particular hell to pay on this one, since he had no idea how or where he's picked it up....

He came up behind his car as another, dark van pulled along side. He slowed a bit, watching, to see the van slow... then stop, lazily flip its lights off, then back on...followed by a wave of a hand through the windshield. The cavalry had arrived.

And for the first time that night, a sudden surge of hope–or adrenaline–let him shove himself forward with an energy gone hours ago, ready to do what he could to find Max...

...TBC...