Terminal Mind, page 24
"Seen some of that crowd. Guy by the name of Halsey's been bringing all the groups together, trying to make an army or something."
"General Halsey? The council member?"
"He ain't council no more. Not since Tremayne took over."
"Alastair Tremayne?"
"I guess."
"What did he take over?"
Samson looked confused. "The city."
Darin stared at him. "I've been out of touch for a few days."
"Bounced the other council members right out. Killed them, maybe; I don't know. If they in prison, they ain't here."
Several of the inmates watched Darin and Samson, grinning or winking when Darin looked their way. He knew what they were saying: As soon as that giant is gone, you're dead. Samson couldn't protect him forever. They'd have different cells, different prison routines. For Darin, this prison was a death trap.
And now Tremayne was in charge of the city. That made Darin's mission even more important. He had to get out of here.
"So, what are the escape plans?" he asked.
Samson chortled. "You so skinny these days, I could throw you over."
#
"I need your help."
Mark and Lydia looked up to see General Halsey, flanked by his usual guards. "To do what?" asked Mark.
"You have a way with the net. You can get information other people can't."
Mark said, "It depends what kind of information you need. We have to assume the slicer's watching any investigation into Tremayne."
"You make this slicer out to be a minor god. He can't watch everything at once, can he?"
"Honestly, I don't know. But encryption doesn't seem to slow him down, and he can replicate himself as many times as he needs to. It's best to assume he sees more than you expect. Small amounts of information, though, gathered passively–that I should be able to do."
Halsey nodded. He kept on nodding, as if he'd forgotten what he came to ask. Mark guessed he was trying to decide if they could be trusted. Finally, he said, "I need to know where they're holding the council members. Van Allen, Deakins, Kawamura. And any other ranking politicians arrested by Tremayne. We want to break them out."
"Who's 'we?'" Mark had seen the strangers arriving one by one throughout the day, men from the middle and lower classes, no two alike. A week ago, they'd been shopkeepers, steel workers, technicians, hairdressers. Now they were revolutionaries.
"Leaders, or at least representatives, from all the groups I could contact who want the current government overthrown. I trust them only so far, and they probably trust me even less. Many of them don't want to see the old Council back either, or any government at all, but I'm pitching the jailbreak as a statement to get Tremayne's attention. We can't break them, though, if we don't know where they are."
"I'll see what I can do." Unless Tremayne had anticipated a rescue attempt and hidden the former Council members under false names, it wouldn't be hard to find them.
When Halsey retreated, Mark donned the netmask. A message was waiting for him:
I want to know my real name. Tell me my real name right away before the people with guns come and make you stop.
Mark yanked off the mask and said, "They're coming." Not waiting for Lydia to comprehend, he barged into the room where Halsey met with the others.
"Mercs!" he said. "On their way here, right now."
Chairs screeched. Guns appeared from pockets and from under shirttails.
"Wait!" said Halsey, his voice cutting through the sudden din. He turned a hard gaze onto Mark. "How do you know this, son? What happened to my lookouts?"
"The slicer told me."
"He told. . .?"
"Inadvertently. Sir, there's no time to explain. I don't know when they're coming, but they know we're here. It can't be long."
Halsey turned back to the group. "We run today, but not for long. Get ready. Find anyone willing to fight and wait for my signal. When I call you, it will be for war."
There were no cheers, no indication by the gathered men that they were motivated by Halsey's speech. These were men for action, not words. They just filed out, guns at the ready.
"Where should we go?" asked Mark. Lydia came into the room then, her face full of questions. One of the revolutionaries lingered, a small, lithe man wearing fatigues and a white baseball cap with a handprint slapped across it in black paint.
"Lydia?" said the man, and Mark realized from the voice that it was not a man, but a young woman.
Lydia gasped. "Ridley!"
The revolutionary swept off her hat, letting blond hair tumble out and revealing a distinctly Rimmer face.
The girls hugged. "We thought you were dead," said Lydia. "What have you been doing?"
"I found someone," said Ridley. "My own 'Mr. Excitement.' We see so much eye to eye, it's uncanny."
"A revolutionary?"
"His name is Tom Rabbas. Leader of the Black Hands. I've become, well, kind of his deputy."
"Your parents are worried. They don't know if you're dead or alive."
"They know I'm alive. We sent them a ransom note."
"You..." Lydia couldn't finish.
"We need money. They've got it. Only they're not paying. Tom wants to doctor up some pictures of me being tortured." She grinned.
Mark couldn't believe he was hearing this. Her parents had somehow been involved in the fiasco at the Church of the Seven Virtues, but still–to make them believe their daughter was an unwilling captive?
Ridley must have seen his thoughts on his face, because she whirled on him. Her manner reminded him much more of a soldier than of the Rimmer girl he'd known at school.
"He hates me. He's always hated me. He's an egocentric plutocrat who thinks his money gives him the right to trample anyone less fortunate. He deserves that and more."
"What about your mother?" said Lydia.
"She's worse. A coward. She always gives in to him. Lets him win, lets him put her in her place. Lets him hit her. Well, I never will."
Mark said quietly, "We should go." He looked at Halsey.
"You can go," said Halsey. "You're not my prisoners. But I could certainly use you in the coming days."
"I might be a liability. The best thing I can do is keep trying to communicate with the slicer, and that might lead him right to us again."
"And you just might give us advance warning of an attack again. Son, if they do attack this building, it'll do more toward cementing our loose confederacy than any words I've said. I want you with us. Let's go."
#
After wandering through the business district for several hours, Marie began to wonder if this had been such a great idea. Her feet hurt, and her back throbbed from spending the night on a wooden pew. She'd imagined marching into Tremayne's office, gun in hand, rescuing Carolina, Pam and Praveen. But would they even be with him? Quite possibly not. She had to find out where the mercs had taken their prisoners. Wandering around the Philadelphia Rim wasn't going to help.
Marie stepped into a cafe and ordered beef vegetable soup and a green salad. The smell of cooking meat made her realize how hungry she was. In a corner booth, waiting for her meal, she watched a hologrid running a news feed. The images showed a shooting on the steps of City Hall, with dead mercs, rockets firing, people scattering. What had happened? It was frustrating not to be able to use her Visor, to be cut off from all that information. She was about to try and find a public node, when she saw it: Carolina McGovern, handcuffed, looking over her shoulder as a merc dragged her up the stairs. A few steps higher, Marie could make out two more pairs of feet: brown smart-shoes and a woman's pumps. Pam and Praveen?
So they were at City Hall, or had been that afternoon. She ran out of the restaurant, not even bothering to cancel her order. Her chances of accomplishing anything at City Hall were slim, but at least now she had a place to go. She had to try. What else could she do?
#
Alastair watched his brother add another heavy box to the growing pile in McGovern's office. He wanted to get that baby out of Carolina without delay, so Calvin had spent the morning toting all of his special equipment here.
"What's all this stuff for?" Calvin asked. "Anything to do with the prisoners?"
How much did he know? Instead of answering, Alastair sidestepped toward the door and closed it, shutting them in the room together. Calvin raised his head in surprise.
"It's monitoring equipment," said Alastair. "Carolina's pregnant. I want to check on her progress, but I don't want her out of my sight."
He studied Calvin for a reaction, saw the tension go out of his shoulders, saw his face relax.
"I see," he said.
"What were you wondering?"
"Nothing. Just curious. Do you need me for anything else?"
"There's a lot to be set up yet. Stay and help."
"But I don't know anything about–"
"Stay."
Calvin stayed.
For the next half-hour, they unloaded boxes, arranged equipment, tested connections. They worked in silence, preparing the equipment that would bring Servant Two into the world of the net. He'd meant to have this done before taking over the city, but Carolina's escape had ruined that. Now he was forced to take his chances, training a new slicer and consolidating his power at the same time. Too many worries. Too many unknowns. Plans that left matters up to chance tended to fail. He needed to identify the unknowns and eliminate them. Solve the equations until all that was left were constants, sheer mathematical certainty.
Alastair watched Calvin tighten the bolts on the legs of his examination table. Calvin, who had always been predictably loyal, was getting to be another unknown quantity. He hadn't actually done anything alarming, not yet, but he seemed discontent. Alastair had noticed the protective way he looked at Pam Rider. Not that it was all that surprising; she was the type he usually fell for. But Alastair couldn't afford divided loyalties, not now. He needed to know where Calvin stood. He'd have to test him.
Once all the equipment was in place and working, Alastair thanked Calvin for his help. "I know I can always count on you, brother."
"Yes, sir. Glad to help."
"On your way out, please fetch Carolina and bring her in here."
"Yes, sir."
Alastair waited until Calvin's hand touched the doorknob before saying, "Oh, and Calvin..."
"Sir?"
"Kill the other two. I won't be needing them."
Chapter 18
Tennessee Markus McGovern will not tell me my name. I have been waiting for seconds and seconds and he will not tell me. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he is lying. He told me before that he didn't know and now he says he does know so one of those times he must have lied. Daddy says he is not my friend and maybe Daddy is right.
#
Lydia and Mark sat together on the roof of the Methodist Hospital, legs dangling over the edge. Behind them, revolutionaries of every stripe milled, giving and taking orders, loading weapons, arguing over plans. At the center of everything was General Halsey, commanding with soft-spoken confidence. Tom Rabbas was there, too, Ridley on his arm, and a dozen leaders of labor unions.
"Crazy about Ridley, isn't it?" said Lydia, in a voice soft enough for only Mark to hear. Not that Ridley was paying them any attention, anyway.
"It's not right," said Mark. "She shouldn't treat people that way. Her parents are worried about her; we all were."
"Her parents haven't exactly earned better. Did you know it was her father who called in the mercs to raid our mod clinic?"
"It doesn't matter. They're her parents; they raised her, taught her, provided for her. They deserve some respect."
Lydia decided to let it go. Something was obviously bothering Mark, and it had nothing to do with Ridley.
"Any progress with the slicer?"
Mark punched his palm and grimaced. "I don't know how to respond, because I don't know what it means. He said, 'Tell me my name right away before the people with the guns come and make you stop.' Is that a threat? Or a warning? Is he just waiting for me to answer so he can kill me?" Mark twisted his fist back and forth nervously.
Lydia put her hands over Mark's, holding them still. "If you do tell him, what do you hope for? What's the best that could happen?"
"If Sammy believes me, if he understands the concept of having a sister, if that motivates him to turn against Tremayne, and if he can resist the pain enough to do so, he just might be able to bring him down. But that's a lot of ifs. If, on the other hand, he doesn't believe me, or he's entirely under Tremayne's control, or is just too scared to cross him–well, then telling him is like drawing a big red X on our location for all the soldiers with big guns."
"It's a risk," Lydia said. "You just have to decide if your life is worth that risk."
Mark met her gaze. "It's not just my life I'm risking."
Lydia pulled her hand away, suddenly annoyed with him. Carolina and her baby and Pam and Praveen could be dying, or worse, and he just sat here dithering.
"Don't hesitate on my account," she said. "My life's not worth letting other people die."
Mark spoke with sudden sharpness. "Every life is worthwhile."
"I didn't say–"
"Lydia, last time I interfered, three hundred and twenty-seven people died. Three hundred and twenty-seven! What if he goes on another rampage?" Mark spread an arm behind him to encompass the hospital roof. "All of these people could die."
"Mark, look at them! All of these people are ready to die. They're risking their lives to reclaim their city. You're not responsible for them."
"I am if I tell the enemy right where to find them."
"You can't let guilt paralyze you. Whether those three hundred and twenty-seven people were your fault or not is irrelevant; you've got to–"
She was interrupted by a loud crack, like a gunshot. They looked behind them, but everyone else seemed as surprised as they were. It was only after the second crack that they could tell where it was coming from–from the east. From the dam.
Mark stood up, and Lydia could tell he was using his magnified vision to get a closer look.
"Water's coming through," he said. "Just a little, but it's increasing."
"That forces our hand," said General Halsey. He turned to Rabbas. "Do it now. We have no choice."
Rabbas pointed a stubby pistol into the sky and fired. The flare rocketed upwards, trailing a streak of light. Answering flares appeared to the east and west. Moments later, the night erupted in noise and smoke and rubble as one by one, sections of the Wall exploded.
The people on the roof scattered, many clambering down to the street. Ridley rushed over to them, breathless.
"It's starting," she said. "Come join us."
Lydia turned back to Mark. "You have to answer him now."
"You're right." He closed his eyes and spoke aloud the message as he composed it. "Tennessee, you are a real person. Your real name is Samuel Matthew Coleson. The man you call your Daddy is not your Daddy. He stole you from your Mommy, whose name is Marie Christine Coleson. If you don't believe me, ask her."
#
Calvin led Carolina through the hallway, but he hardly noticed her. His mind was on the door he'd just locked and Pam Rider behind it. In a few moments, he would have to go back in there and kill her.
"Where are you taking me?" Carolina asked.
"Alastair wants to see you."
"Please let me go. He's going to hurt my baby. Don't take me to him, please."
She stopped walking, and Calvin had to yank her arm to keep her moving. She pulled against him.
"Let me go!"
She was no match for his augmented strength. He twisted her wrist until she cried, forcing her to follow him. When they finally reached the door, he threw her in, nodded curtly to his brother, and slammed the door shut. Let Alastair deal with her.
Calvin had his own problems. He walked slowly back to the room where Pam and the other prisoner were held, his feet feeling weighted. He didn't want to kill her. Why did Alastair have to destroy everything good Calvin ever had? Not that he ever had Pam–an opportunity was the most he could claim. But that opportunity was gone.
And why not kill her? He was a soldier, after all, and soldiers followed orders. It wasn't his responsibility to decide what was right.
The argument sounded hollow, even in his own head. How many horrors in history had been performed when soldiers told themselves that very thing? Besides, he didn't want her dead. He liked her. She made the world brighter.
What if he didn't kill her? What if he told Alastair he'd killed her but let her escape instead? The thought made his heart hammer and his palms sweat, and he knew he could never do it. He'd contemplated such things many times before, but in the end, he always did what Alastair wanted.
He reached the door. Best to get it over with quickly. He drew a pistol–a smart, computerized, projectile weapon designed to kill simply and cleanly. He gripped the doorknob and turned it, belatedly realizing that the guards he'd left at the door were gone. Where were they?
As he opened the door, he got his answer. The tableau burned into his mind in an instant: Pam, lying on the floor, face bloody, uniform torn; one of the guards kneeling beside her with a gun jammed into her mouth; the other climbing on top of her, his pants around his knees. Calvin didn't think; he just fired. Two sharp reports reverberated from the walls as bloody holes appeared in the heads of each man. Both slumped to the floor.
Calvin stared at what he had done. Pam struggled to her feet, but he made no move to approach her. He'd shot his brother's soldiers. He'd rescued the woman he was supposed to have killed.
Pam rushed to the corner where another form lay–Praveen Kumar. Blood soaked his shirt. She leaned her head close to his mouth and held two fingers to his neck.
"He's alive," she said. "They shot him in the shoulder, but he's still alive. He needs help."
Calvin didn't move.
"Help him!"
In a daze, Calvin obeyed. He unrolled a celgel rescue patch from the pack on his belt, broke it open, and pressed it to the wound.
