Glasshouse - Charles Stross [104]
Back at the control terminal Fiore issues some more commands, and the gate begins chugging to itself. I glance over my shoulder. Yes, it’s still doing that—just some kind of long synthesis job. He heads for the staircase and—
Shit! I whip round and reach for my bag. The A-gate cylinder is opening.
Knife in left hand, bag in right hand. Everything is crystal clear. Fiore suspected. He backed himself up, then set an ambush, and I’ve blown it. The cylinder turns and the interior cracks into view. White light, a smell of violets and some kind of weird volatile organics, a bit of steam. There’s someone/something in there, moving.
I dart forward, bag raised, knife ready to block. They’re sitting up, head turning. I’ll only get one chance to do this. Heart pounding, I upend the empty shoulder bag over the head, lank black hair—fat jowls wobbling indignantly hands coming up—and I shove the knife blade up against his throat and yell, “Freeze!”
The duplicate Fiore freezes.
“This is a knife. If you move or make a sound or try to dislodge the bag over your head, I will cut your throat. If you understand, say yes.”
His voice is muffled, but sounds almost amused. “What if I say no?”
“Then I cut your throat.” I move the knife slightly.
“Yes,” he says hurriedly.
“That’s good.” I adjust my grip. “Now let me tell you something. You are thinking you have a working netlink and you can call for help. You’re wrong, because netlinks work via spread spectrum, and you’re wearing a Faraday cage over your head, and although it’s open at the bottom you’re standing in a cellar. The signal’s attenuated. Do you understand?”
Pause. “There’s nobody there!” He sounds slightly panicky. Clever fellow.
“I’m glad you said that because if you hadn’t, I’d have cut your throat,” I tell him. “Like I said earlier, if you try and lose the bag, I’ll kill you immediately.”
He’s shaking. Oh, I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. For everything you’ve done to us I ought to kill you a hundred times over. What have I turned into? I’m almost shaking with the intensity of—it’s like hunger, the yearning. “Listen to these instructions. I will shortly tell you to stand up. When I do so, I want you to slowly rise, keeping your arms by your sides. If at any point you can’t feel the knife, you’d better freeze, because if you keep moving, I’ll kill you. When you’re on your feet, you will step fifty centimeters forward, then slowly move your hands behind your back. You will then lace your fingers together. Now, slowly, stand up.”
Fiore, to give him his due, has a cool enough head to do exactly as I tell him with no hesitation and no hysterics. Or maybe he just knows exactly what he can expect if he doesn’t obey. He can’t be under any illusions about how hated he is, can he?
“Forward one pace, then hands behind back,” I say. He steps forward. I have to stretch to keep the knife around his neck, but I reach down with my free hand and follow his right arm round. Now is the moment of danger—if he were to kick straight back while blocking with his left shoulder he could hurt me badly and probably get away. But I’m betting Fiore knows very little indeed about serious one-on-one physical mayhem, and the bag over his head should keep him disoriented long enough for me to do this. I step to one side, reach into my pocket with my right hand until I find what I’m after, then squeeze the contents of the tube over his hands and fingers. Cyanoacrylate glue—the librarian’s field-expedient handcuffs. “Don’t move your hands,” I tell him.
“What is it—” He stops. Of course he can’t help moving his hands and the stuff flows into small cracks. It’s less viscous than water but it polymerizes in seconds. I move the knife round to the side of his neck and examine my handiwork. He might be able to get his hands apart