Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [71]
The information Sergei had pulled together said that the mark had some kind of alarm system set up in the house proper, but no human guards. Made sense—if you have something to hide, why invite strangers in? Likewise, the mark wasn’t hooked up to the local police department’s monitoring system. If you don’t want strangers, you doubly don’t want strangers with badges, and FBI-supplied downloads of stolen art.
She was close enough now to see that the white clapboard had been painted recently, likewise the deep blue shutters. A low hedge of holly bush ran along the foundation, preventing any would-be burglar from getting too close. She removed a slender plastic tube from her belt and extended it to its full twelve-inch length. The lens at the end adjusted for the darkness, and she was able to focus in on the nearest window. There were plain white curtains hanging from either side, and the suggestion of white furniture. Recalling the blueprints spread out on the kitchen counter, Wren decided that this must be the sitting room off the kitchen. Which meant that she was on the wrong side of the house.
“Damn.”
Changing the magnification on the spyglass, she inspected the window itself. Faint lines ran through the glass in a meshlike pattern. That ruled out a first-floor entry, but she hadn’t been planning on one, anyway. “Not a duckling, but a swan,” she said, raising the spyglass up further, passing the second floor and continuing on up to the roof. And what she saw there made her smile.
The sleeves of her bodysuit were flexible, like the rest of the material, until it came to her wrists. The cuffs around each hand hid several layers which extended to cover her palm and hooked into the microfiber of her gloves. The palm of each hand was now covered with five powerful-looking claws—sharp enough to find purchase in anything short of concrete. Also sharp enough to tear her suit, which is why she hated using them. But so equipped, the wood shingles of this house would be easier to access than climbing the tree, earlier. In fact, it took her five minutes, only because she was muffling her motions, keeping her weight spread like a spider’s—not the ideal conditions for a human to climb under. But five minutes later, she was at the nearest second-floor window.
The mesh was absent from this pane. The lock was electromagnetic, probably wired throughout the house and tied into the master control box. The only way to unlock the window would be to enter the key code into that box, and Wren would be willing to bet her paycheck that the mark was the only one who had the key.
Whoever had sold him the system had given him a pretty good household system, especially when tied into the first-floor precautions, and the external defenses. But they hadn’t accounted for someone like Wren. She moved further on up, onto the roof, and lay down to regain her breath, and still the shaking in her arms. Once her body was sufficiently under control again, she swung herself over the roof, head first, until she had eye contact with the locking device. Once the image of it was secure in her mind, she closed her eyes and reached for the tiny twelve-volt hum that was coming from it. It was like some kind of surreal virtual reality race, chasing one spark of power through the thousands of relays that made up the house. She ignored the feel of blood rushing to her brain from her physical position, and the distractions of a more powerful hum of electricity from the generator hidden somewhere under the first floor, falling into a warm campfire glow of the dedicated security system. She could feel a backup generator there as well, but no other power source. Just as well—this way she didn’t have to be delicate, for fear of triggering a blackout throughout the neighborhood. Those tended to be messy and attention-catching.
With the portion of her self still inside the system, she gathered up as much energy as she could take. But instead of storing it within, the way she had at the Frants building, she punched it up into a ball, and