Ch.36: The Gala

Aris thinks the gas is a mistake.

He’s upstairs, standing in the center of the grand ballroom, surrounded by the elite of the underworld. The Gala has begun.

I can see it on the monitor. The camera feed in the corner of my cell is still active, flickering occasionally as the power fluctuates, but the image is clear enough.

Chandeliers drip crystal light onto a crowd of predators in tuxedos and evening gowns. The "Investors." The people who buy faces.

Aris is charming them. He is holding court, a glass of champagne in his hand, laughing at a joke made by a man with a scar running down his neck.

"The ventilation system is acting up," Aris explains smoothly to a woman in a red dress who wrinkled her nose. "Just a minor cleaning fluid spill in the maintenance sector. We'll have it cleared in moments."

He lies so easily.

He doesn't know the spill isn't an accident. He doesn't know it's a weapon.

Greta is huddled next to the vent in my cell, her eyes fixed on the bucket of frothing chemicals. The white cloud is thick now, a dense, swirling fog being sucked into the intake.

"It's working," she whispers through her oxygen mask. Her voice is muffled, tinny. "The fan is pulling it all."

"Good," I rasp. My throat feels like I swallowed broken glass. The chloramine gas is starting to sting my eyes, even from across the room.

I look at the monitor again.

The ballroom is full. Fifty people? Maybe sixty.

Security is everywhere. Men in black suits with earpieces line the walls, stand by the doors, patrol the perimeter. They are armed. They are alert.

If we tried to run, they would cut us down before we made it to the stairs.

But gas... gas doesn't care about guns. Gas doesn't care about muscle.

It goes where the air goes.

"How long?" Greta asks.

"Five minutes," I estimate. "The ducts connect directly to the main handler. It has to cycle through the filters, but chloramine is heavy. It will bypass the scrubbers."

I watch the screen.

A waiter walks by with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. He pauses. He touches his throat. He coughs.

Just a small cough. A tickle.

Then he keeps walking.

It’s starting.

Aris is still talking. He raises his glass for a toast.

"To the future," he says. "To identity without history. To freedom."

"To freedom!" the guests echo.

They drink.

They don't taste the chlorine yet. The champagne masks it.

But the air is changing.

A woman near the back of the room fans herself with a program. She looks flushed.

A man loosens his tie.

Aris frowns. He notices the shift in the room's energy. He sniffs the air.

He smells it now.

But he assumes it's just the spill he lied about. He assumes his maintenance team is incompetent, not malicious.

He signals to his head of security—a massive man with a shaved head.

"Check the vents," Aris orders quietly. "Shut down the intake if you have to."

The security guard nods. He taps his earpiece.

"Control, shut down Zone 4 intake."

I smile.

Zone 4 is the kitchen.

My cell is Zone 1. The medical bay. The priority zone.

He can't shut it down without overriding the entire system. And he locked the system down to keep me in.

He trapped himself.

"It's getting thicker," Greta says, pointing to the bucket. The reaction is accelerating. The liquid is bubbling violently.

"Pour the rest," I command.

Greta picks up the second bottle of ammonia. She pours it in.

The cloud billows. It fills the corner of the room.

My eyes are burning. Tears stream down my face, mixing with the sweat and grime.

"It hurts," Greta whimpers.

"It's supposed to," I say.

On the screen, the coughing starts in earnest.

It ripples through the crowd like a wave. One person, then three, then ten.

The woman in the red dress drops her glass. It shatters. She clutches her throat, gasping.

"What is this?" someone shouts.

Aris looks around. Panic flickers in his eyes.

"Please, everyone, calm down," he says, raising his hands. "It's just a minor—"

He coughs. A deep, hacking cough that bends him double.

He stares at his hand. He wipes his mouth.

He realizes.

This isn't a spill. This is an attack.

"Gas!" he screams. "Everyone out! Get to the terrace!"

Pandemonium erupts.

The elegant guests turn into a stampede. They rush the french doors leading to the garden. They shove each other, trampling the fallen.

Security guards try to maintain order, but they are coughing too. their eyes are streaming. They can't see to shoot.

Aris grabs the Proxy—the accountant—and drags him toward the private exit behind the bar. He isn't saving the guests. He's saving the money.

"Now," I say to Greta.

"Now what?"

"The distraction," I say. "This is it. The guards are busy. The system is overwhelmed."

I look at the door to our cell.

The magnetic lock is still engaged. But the power to the lab is fluctuating. The lights are strobing.

"The generator," I say. "Thorne cut the main breaker, but the emergency power is struggling. The ventilation fans are drawing too much load."

If we can spike the draw...

"The defibrillator," I say, pointing to the crash cart.

Greta looks at it. "What?"

"Charge it," I say. "Charge it to max. And discharge it into the door panel."

"That will kill the lock?"

"Or fry the circuit," I say. "Either way, it opens."

Greta runs to the cart. She grabs the paddles. She turns the dial to 360 Joules.

*Wheeeeeeeeeeee.*

The high-pitched whine of the capacitor charging fills the room.

She presses the paddles against the electronic lock panel on the wall.

"Clear!" she screams, out of habit.

She hits the button.

*CRACK.*

A spark arcs from the panel. Smoke curls up.

The red light on the lock flickers. Then dies.

The heavy steel bolt retracts with a groan.

The door swings open a fraction of an inch.

We are free.

But we aren't safe.

Upstairs, the house is a war zone of gas and panic.

And we have to go *through* it to get out.

I look at the monitor one last time.

The ballroom is empty of people, but full of white fog.

While they drink champagne, we're mixing chlorine gas.