Terminal Mind, page 12
Lydia eyed the crowd outside warily–most people still couldn't fit in the building–but they remained calm. An hour passed, and the line advanced, but slowly. Lydia found herself with little to do but watch.
Darin still showed no signs of waking. She checked back regularly, but each time Mark shook his head. No change.
A shout from the north end of the sanctuary brought her that way, but it was only Ridley, speaking angrily to someone over a net channel, not bothering to keep her end of the call private. "No! Yes, I am. No, I will not 'Come home.' These people need help, and I'm helping them.
"They're people, Mother, not animals. I'll come home when they've all been helped, and not a moment. . . What? You can't do that. Tell him he can't. This is a peaceful gathering, nothing illegal. Talk to him, please!"
Suddenly, Ridley was crying. "I hate you!" she shouted. "I hate you!"
She looked up, saw Lydia, roughly wiped away tears with a sleeve. "We're going to have company," she said.
"Who?"
"Mercs. My dad has contacts in the Justice Council. He told them there's a labor demonstration going on here."
A Comber girl tugged on Lydia's sleeve. "Miss Stoltzfus?" she said.
Lydia ignored her. "Surely when they get here, they'll see it's a lie."
"No, they won't. They'll shut us down, they'll turn everyone away. We have to do something!"
"I don't see what we can do."
"Look at all these people! We're doing it, Lydia, we're making a difference!" Tears shone in her eyes. "I won't let them shut us down."
"But they're armed, Ridley, and all these people. . ." Lydia turned in exasperation to the Comber girl, who had persisted in tugging on her sleeve and saying her name. "What do you want?"
"Miss Stoltzfus, it's Mark McGovern; he said to come get you. Your friend is awake."
#
Alastair didn't expect Marie Coleson to appear at his office door. He didn't even recognize her until she shook his hand and introduced herself and her friend.
How had she found him? Why was she here? He smiled, trying to act natural. "Can I help you ladies?" he said.
"You once knew my husband, Keith Coleson. He worked for you in Norfolk."
Control. Keep control. She can't possibly know.
"Coleson. Yes, I remember. Please come in. Sit down."
They settled into his waiting room chairs. Marie Coleson. He had only met her once or twice, though he'd seen her picture on Keith's desk countless times. A Navy soldier now, apparently. The uniform suited her, though not half so well as it suited her pretty friend. Alastair turned his gaze to Pamela Rider, tracing his eyes along her buttons and seams and insignia. The severe exterior couldn't hide her body, and those soft curves imprisoned in rough cloth only heightened the effect. It rattled some women to be frankly admired, so he made no secret of it. He moistened his lips, looking her up and down, and caught a cold stare in return.
"Mr. Tremayne," said Marie, "I'm sure you recall my husband died about two years ago, shortly before your lab shut down."
Alastair reluctantly returned his attention to her. "Yes, a flier accident, wasn't it? Very sad."
"Do you know . . ." she trailed off, then tried again. "This might seem strange, but I'm trying to find out if Keith was involved with another woman. Before he died."
"Ms. Coleman," said Alastair, steepling his fingers and trying to look compassionate. "I was his employer, not his confidante. If your husband was unfaithful, I had no knowledge of it. Our relationship was strictly professional."
"But you worked with him every day. Did he mention other women? Leave at odd hours? There were fewer than a dozen of you working in that lab–who was close to Keith? Who might he have confided in?"
Alastair searched for an adequate response. The last thing he wanted to do was direct her to other employees, employees who might forget the large bonuses they were given for their discretion.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Coleman; I don't know. The general vision for the venture was mine, and the backing, but not the day-to-day implementation. I had several other business interests to manage, and I spent little time at the lab myself."
Marie deflated. He could see it. She would have left right then, he was sure, but the pretty one persisted.
"What were you working on in that lab?"
"A pipe dream," he said. "A noble, but ultimately flawed, bid for immortality."
"Using what technology?"
"Virtual minds, digital personalities; it's been called by many names. We had ideas for solving some of the problems in the field, but mod technology evolved too fast, and we ran out of funds."
"The shutdown had nothing to do with Keith's death, then?"
"No, not at all. We would have closed within the month anyway."
"And now you've joined the competition."
Alastair produced a smile again, though it was growing thin. Why was she badgering him like this?
"Mod technology is where all the advances are being made these days. Now, unless I can interest you in some of my services . . ."
"One more question," said Marie. "In Norfolk, you subcontracted your lab's payroll to Lakeland Industries."
"Yes, I believe I did." Where was this going?
"According to their records, you paid significant end-of-the-year bonuses to each of your employees before the lab shut down."
"Those are private records, Ms. Coleman. I could press charges."
"All of your employees, that is, except for my husband."
"Naturally. He was dead. I'm sorry, but there's no reason to think he would qualify for additional compensation. If you've come here hoping to extort back pay . . ."
"That's the strange thing. The bonus checks were drawn up and signed on December 10, more than two weeks before his death. Yet his name was absent."
Alastair gaped at her. Surely he hadn't been that foolish. But then he remembered. "Your husband waived the bonus."
"Why would he do that?"
"He cared about the project. He knew we were in a tough financial position and wanted to help out."
"How could a project in financial distress afford to give bonuses that large?"
Alastair stood, furious now, using his height to tower over them both. "Ms. Coleman, if you have allegations to make about the conduct of my company, you can bring them before the Norfolk Business Council. Otherwise I have nothing more to say."
He glared at them. Wordless, the women stood and walked out. It was all Alastair could do not to slam the door behind them.
The crazy part was it was true. Keith had waived his bonus that year. He'd always been a believer in the cause, a passionate worker, which is why he'd been so easy to manipulate. He'd pictured himself on the threshold of the biggest breakthrough of human history; no sacrifice was too great.
Now these women had sniffed out a discrepancy, something suspicious enough to warrant an investigation. It didn't matter that it was explainable; he couldn't afford to have the lab's records scrutinized. Something would have to be done.
#
The face in the mirror was not his own. A spotless face, reflected unerringly in the spotless mirror, but not his. His hopes were ruined. His dreams, smashed. In one day, Vic killed, and now his own face! Who would follow him now? How could he rally supporters to his cause? He looked like a Rimmer.
Darin pushed himself to his feet, slapping away Mark's attempt to help him. "Don't touch me. Where's Lydia?"
She turned the corner, eyes wide, as pretty as ever, and he cringed, wanting to hide his face in a sack.
"Lydia. Help me get out of here."
"You should stay and rest," she said.
"I don't need rest. Look what he's done to me. I won't stay here, not with him."
Lydia and Mark looked at each other. Darin saw the expression that passed between them, and suddenly he understood. He stared at Lydia.
"You told them," he said.
Her eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
"You told them where to find me. You met me at the club, then you turned me in."
"Don't be crazy," said Mark. "She half-killed herself getting you up here."
Darin took a step back, seeing them for what they were: Rimmers, both of them.
"You were in this together," he said. It was so obvious now. "But of course you were."
"It's not a conspiracy," said Mark.
"How else did they know I was there? You told them!" He advanced on Lydia. "Are you happy now? Do you see what you did? Vic is . . ." he trailed off, trying to keep his emotions in check. "You killed him."
"She helped you," Mark said. "The club fought the mercs; if she hadn't brought you here, you might have been killed yourself."
Darin saw their pitying expressions, registered the scene around him: the crowds of Combers, the cots, the mod doctors. So that's what he was to them. A charity case. Turn him in, rehabilitate him, make him a good little citizen.
"Oh, sure," he said. "You both helped me a lot. Bending down like God from his heaven. Throw more money my way, and you can fix all my problems."
"It wasn't like that," said Lydia. "You were hurt. It has nothing to do with how poor you are."
"Vic is dead because of how poor I am. Everything that's happened to me has been because of how poor I am. You talk about the plight of the workingman, you organize food drives and feel good about yourselves afterwards. But you're not one of us. It's not your loved ones who are dying so that Rimmers can live."
"I'm sorry about your brother," said Lydia. "I really am. It will help if you rest."
Darin shoved the cot over, sending the metal frame crashing against the stone floor. "I don't want your pity!"
They traded glances again: concerned, sympathetic. "Rimmers," he said. "To the bone. I should have seen it before."
He stumbled toward the door and shoved it open. A light rain fell. To his relief, they didn't follow him. He found his jetvac lying in the doorway and kicked it to life. At the front of the church, a crowd jostled for shelter from the rain, but he struck out away from them, heading diagonally down the slope.
Back to the Combs. Back to his own people, his own kind. He had no friends here.
#
Lydia growled her frustration. "What a conceited . . ." She didn't know how to finish.
Beside her, Mark shook his head. "I feel terrible for him."
"I don't." He'd been hurt, yes, and lost his brother in the bargain, but she and Mark and even Dr. Hughes had risked their lives for him, and he treated them like enemies. "I dragged him up here, any moment expecting a merc to put a rocket through my back. If he doesn't appreciate that, let him fend for himself."
"We can't judge him based on today. It's his grief talking, and the shock."
"I'm not so sure," said Lydia. She was annoyed at both of them now–Darin for being so thickheaded, and Mark for excusing it. But her thoughts were interrupted by a muffled boom from outside, followed by screams from the crowd.
The bustle in the sanctuary froze; she could hear fizzing noises and trampling feet. Then the main doors erupted, panicked people pressing through the gap and into the sanctuary, upending tables and cots and scattering the girls who had been directing traffic.
"Quick," said Mark. "Upstairs."
Beyond the alcove where Darin had slept, a flight of broad stone steps wound upward. A classic bell-tower topped the building, she remembered, though there was no bell. She followed Mark up the stairs, and then up another flight, until they reached the tower. The rain drove harder now, wind gusting it into their faces. She looked down.
A wedge of mercs forced the crowd to split, a few making it into the church, but most cut off from it. Pockets of foam sizzled uselessly, prevented from expanding by the rain. One of the mercs spoke to the crowd, his magnified voice clearly audible, even to Lydia and Mark three stories above.
"This clinic is closed by order of the joint Councils of the City of Philadelphia. All citizens are required to disperse."
No one moved. Sullen, soaking wet, the crowd did not press forward, but neither did they leave. The soldiers leveled their weapons.
"They're non-lethals," said Mark. "Crowd-stoppers. They won't kill anyone."
Lydia looked at him, surprised. "How can you see that from here?"
In answer, he tapped the side of one eye. Mods, she realized. "Do you think they'll fight?"
Mark shook his head. "Those are microwave heatguns. They can cook your skin off if you stick around, but no one will. They'll disperse. The clinic's over."
Lydia was glad. She hated to see all her hard work disrupted, but she didn't want violence, either. She'd seen enough of that in the club the night before.
A noise from below made her look again. Ridley Reese, shrieking, was pummeling one of the mercs with her fists. Only a few words of her tirade reached the tower. ". . . going to stand by while . . . every right to . . . cowards . . ."
To Lydia's horror, Ridley pulled the taser out of the surprised guard's belt and fired the dart into his face. The weapon wouldn't deliver its electric shock in any hands but its owner's, so the attack barely hurt the man. But he fired his spider gun into her midriff at point blank range, knocking her to the ground.
Lydia saw nothing but muddy chaos then, each merc encased in a rapidly closing bubble of humanity, firing until it engulfed him. The crowd stormed the church. Soon Veronica joined them in the tower, panting, followed by more of the girls and several mod doctors, Whitson Hughes among them.
"Close the doors," he said. "Barricade them with whatever you can."
"Why?" said Lydia. "We're not the enemy."
"The mob will not differentiate. The Combers downstairs will join the mob and tell them where we are. We represent the government, the rich–everything they hate. If they get through those doors, they will not spare us."
Another doctor closed his eyes, murmured something over a com channel, then said, "Help is on the way."
The tower contained little with which to block the doors. Mark twisted a tapestry into a rope and tied it through the door handles. Two chairs–the only furniture–were fabrique and would not break, so they wedged them under the handles as best they could.
Shouting men charged up the stairs, pushed against the doors, cursed. The attackers threw themselves at the barrier again and again, forcing a gap between the doors. A knife slipped through the gap and began sawing at the tapestry.
Then the cavalry arrived. A flier roared in from the north, firing into the crowd still on the steps. It flew straight at the tower, then reared upright into its hovering position, disgorging soldiers. Most dropped twenty feet to the ground, unhurt, but three of them leapt onto the tower and gripped the stone with sticky hands. They clambered inside and kicked away the fabrique chairs just as the tapestry gave way. The doors opened.
Combers surged into the room, straight into a volley of smart rockets that tore them to pieces. The mercs advanced down the stairs, firing, and Lydia heard shouts of rage turning to shrieks of fear.
Minutes later, it was over. A merc climbed the stairway to lead them down. Lydia followed, holding Mark's shoulder for support as she picked her way over the dead.
The stairs, hallways, alcoves, sanctuary, narthex, and even the stone steps outside were littered with bodies. Each was killed cleanly, without any more damage to the church building than bloodstains on the carpet.
We came to help these people, Lydia thought. And now they're all dead. When she'd been trapped in the tower, she'd hardly had time for fear, but now she could feel it like a cold vise, gripping her stomach. She realized for the first time what a fragile hold the Councils had over the city. Like the great dam that held back the Delaware: damaged, patched, only barely containing a flood of violence that could wash the city away.
And Darin was out there somewhere. On the other side.
Chapter 9
I am very sad. I don't want to be Thomas Garrett Dungan. I don't want to write to Kathleen or Fiona. Maybe I should write to Daddy. But I don't want to. Daddy hurt me. He hurt me and hurt me until Tennessee Markus McGovern sent that little bug. I like the name Tennessee Markus McGovern. Maybe I will write him a letter instead.
#
The five voting members of the Philadelphia Business Council took their seats with slow dignity, having kept the lesser members and representatives from other councils waiting for nearly half an hour. Alastair, following in Jack McGovern's train, sat behind him in one of the chairs reserved for staff and council. McGovern's chief-of-staff had been unexpectedly sick, and conveniently, Alastair was on hand to take his place.
"This emergency meeting of the Council of Business and Commerce is called to order," said a functionary. "Mr. Chairman."
Jack McGovern stood. "In recent weeks, escalating violence has threatened to tear our city apart. Ten days ago, a steel mill mutiny was only barely put down, last week's dam crisis aggravated that fear and unrest, and this morning's riot at the Church of the Seven Virtues claimed forty-five citizens' lives. This special congress has been called to decide upon a course of action. The chair recognizes Ellen Van Allen."
McGovern sat down, and Van Allen, who at 157 was the council's oldest member, stood. She looked no more than fifty, but she was old enough to remember the Conflict, and had an aged dignity in her eyes and demeanor that her young body could not entirely conceal. Alastair distrusted her implicitly.
"Honored colleagues, Mr. Chairman," she said. "This state of affairs can no longer be tolerated. The city is no longer under our control. Either we must make more concessions, or we must employ more force. The Combs must be pacified or they must be conquered."
She sat down. In her short opening statement, Alastair realized, she'd drawn the lines for a dispute among the remaining four council members, taking no side herself, but virtually guaranteeing hers would be the deciding vote on any resolution. She also didn't bother to defend the right of the Business Council to resolve these civil affairs; with its hold over the city treasury and all city commerce, it had long since cemented its place as the foremost ruling council. Of all the council members, Van Allen could give Alastair the most trouble, politically. He couldn't predict her, and he couldn't manipulate her. That made her his enemy.
