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marked with unisex pictograms, Lukas stopped at the entrance to the service area, flashed his ID card past an open slot, and leaned over for a retinal scan. A red light changed to green and the lock clicked open. When the door snapped closed, Lukas wasalready one hundred feet away, barreling ahead as terror gripped his gut.
901
. A panel marking the entrance to a hibernation tank flashed by. In seven minutes, the computer would be online and his unauthorized entry logged. Then a chain of events would unfold with clockwork precision—and not in slowed-down time but the real stuff. A signal would flash to maintenance.
902
. The workers on duty would run a trace to confirm the access. That would take thirty seconds. After confirmation, a second signal would flash to security. The officers there would analyze his heat signature and plot his movements from the instant he’d entered the service area.
903
. Lukas had seen it before in tests and exercises—a three-dimensional hologram with a red line snaking along the route followed by whoever had breached security. That would take another thirty seconds. At 18:11, the mother of all alarms would go off and unleash the computer program to seal every door. Tight.
904
.
    In the ten years since the hibernation stations had replaced obsolescent prisons, there had never been a breakout. Vlad Kosmerl, the head of security—a weird Slovak with a milky eye—would now have the opportunity of a lifetime to make a name for himself and prove his knowledge of the system by thwarting the breakout.
905
. He would grab it. His first order would be to power cameras and passive security mechanisms: gas, induction fields, high-voltage beams, concussion explosives, epilepsy-inducing lights, and scores of sophisticated toys designed to stun, maim, or kill.
906
. Then he would fire the alarms and arm the hair triggers of hundreds of heat and motion sensors. Moving—even breathing—would be suicidal. Once the alarm tripped, only the inmates immersed in their cold fluid would be safe.
    907
. Lukas pumped his legs with more energy, vaguely aware of his dismal style, knees rising almost to his chest, arms moving like pistons, and huffing to rival Emil Zátopek, the long-distance runner they’d dubbed “the Czech Locomotive” over a century before. Although he’d tried to get in shape for his race through the corridors, training mornings and evenings for the past two months, Lukas was rapidly reaching the end of his endurance.
908
. His ribsached, and the staccato of his heartbeats fused into a continuous roar.
    His lab coat ripped when one of his pockets caught on the edge of a water fountain outside the access to tank 909. He tore it open and shrugged his arms free without breaking stride. He careened around a bend in the corridor, smashing his shoulder into the wall. The tearing pain released fresh supplies of adrenaline into his bloodstream, and Lukas sprinted ahead. He glanced at the numbers overhead.
910
. Another three hundred feet to go.
    When a man turned fifty, most of the decisive events of his life were behind him. It was often too late to start over. For most people, life was just a new comedy with old and tired actors. Only a few got a second chance, and Lukas Hurley wanted to be one. His legs pumped harder.
    When he reached the access to tank 913, Lukas couldn’t focus his eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs screaming for air like the first time he’d visited Cuzco in Peru, at more than 11,000-feet elevation. Lukas fumbled his card in the lock’s slot but missed. Through blurry eyes, he peered at his shaking hand. He was falling apart. After two more tries, the card slid into the slot and the door snapped open. Five minutes left.
    Raul and Laurel jerked in unison when a loud snap sounded at their backs. Laurel swiveled her head and froze.
I know this guy!
She stared at the man slowly bending in two at the far end of the platform, his back against the closed door. Slight