Free The Catalyst (Targon Tales) by Chris Reher Page B

other patients walking there, no doubt under doctors' orders to keep their circulation moving. Strolling along without hurry, she scanned the hallways for exit signs. One appeared overhead and she followed its suggestion to turn into another corridor. Medical staff and some patients stood near a bank of elevators just ahead, waiting for their ride. Two uniformed and armed soldiers watched them closely, perhaps hoping for some malfeasance to liven up the late hours of their shift.
    Nova retraced a few steps and used the key tab on the rebel’s smock to open the door to a laundry supply closet. “Hate elevators, anyway,” she grumbled and opened the hatch to the laundry chute. As she hoped, the shaft was outfitted with deep indents along the way to facilitate maintenance. It took only a few seconds for her to heave herself across the lip and begin the climb downward. She descended as quickly as she could, not looking down, not wondering how many floors existed below the base hospital. Twice she had to flatten herself against the slick wall of the chute to avoid being swept along by bundles of bedding and towels. She stopped to remove her hospital slippers to find better purchase on the plastic footholds. She was not in the top physical shape she had been only days ago and she felt herself growing weaker with each floor she passed.
    At last, light and cooler air reached her and she saw a mountain of laundry piled on the floor below. She gripped a metal rail at the bottom of the shaft and twisted to peer into the service hall. Seeing no one, she let herself drop, blessing the pile of unvarying whiteness that so closely matched her clothing.
    After a moment’s rest she rolled from the heap and stole along a system of conveyors, ducking behind bins when a worker or two strolled by. The laundry system was fully automated and few hands were required to keep things organized. It took an eternity before Nova found what she was looking for: a row of bins on tracks containing clean flight suits, helmet-pads, sub-gloves, and pressure suit liners along with the standard grey shirts and shorts worn by the pilots living in the barracks on the lower floors. She missed two of the carts that were abruptly put in motion and leaped into a third.
    The containers whipped along on their tracks, jolting Nova at every turn and every sudden stop. She pulled a few bundles up between her and the sides of the bin to cushion some of the worst of the blows but the ride soon had her feeling queasy and disoriented. She managed to dig her way down to a flight suit of approximately her size and slipped into it. She almost shouted out loud in protest when her cart slammed to a stop without due consideration of her already bruised shoulders.
    She peered over the edge of the bin and then quickly vaulted out of it and across the rails before the next one arrived.
    "Now where the hell are you, Whiteside?" she murmured and looked around. A nearby sign on a double-door indicated that she was on the third level. She had no idea what the third level was for but, considering the flight suit delivery, she assumed it to be the flight decks. The base was built into the almost vertical side of an escarpment and the bays had been carved out of existing tunnel entrances leading deep below the surface. She pushed through the door and slipped into the hall beyond.
    This level stood in sharp contrast to the antiseptic environment she had left above. The walls were bare, cracked in places and dripping unpleasantly. A cold draft met her, hopefully from open bay doors near the parking garages for the planes. She headed into the draft, shivering as she moved along the deserted corridors. Surely, Seth could be found near the Dutchman.
    Eventually, her instinct and a few less-than informative signs led her to the hangars. She hurried along the perimeter of a vast parking garage, moving behind vehicles and crates whenever possible. She saw a few technicians working on a shuttle in