Harsh Lessons, page 16
And let the tears fall.
Chapter 26
Henderson's waking was a cruelty beyond belief.
He lifted his head, the simple movement skewering his throat, the pain tearing a thick sound from him. Sanchez was free, he saw, and his heart leaped at the sight.
Only to plunge past his boots. The man was still there, too. Both stood a short distance away, watching him.
'He is awake now.'
It was Sanchez who had spoken, in the same lifeless tones the man used. Sanchez.
Tears welled from his eyes, blinding him. Two pairs of feet approached.
'He will be untied now, as agreed.' Sanchez.
'As agreed. But first he must be rendered unable to communicate.'
'It is already done. You have crushed his voice-box.'
'He can still write. Mages could read his mind. A lobotomy is necessary. It is a simple procedure.' He held a cooking skewer in one hand.
Henderson struggled, but once again the implacable grip took him, this time around the back of the neck. He tried to scream.
But Sanchez moved up behind the man. A meaty sound of impact, and the grip was gone, the skewer dropped.
The man turned to face Sanchez.
'Why do you attack? An agreement had been reached.'
'The agreement was a lie: a trick to make you release both prisoners.'
There on the finger of bridge that pointed brokenly into space, Henderson fought the pain. Blinking tears from his eyes, he struggled to focus on the scene before him.
There was no more conversation. The two simply fought, with a speed and brutality he'd never before seen; could scarcely believe. Sanchez's leg flashed in an arc, the man's arm swung up to block – to the ugly sound of bone breaking.
Sanchez paused, warily.
Though his arm bent unnaturally, the man didn't flinch.
'Why do you attack? You can think clearly.'
Sanchez circled closer. 'You break the law. You are being arrested. You should allow yourself to be taken into custody before you are severely injured. You cannot defeat someone trained in unarmed combat.'
Henderson watched, not breathing, as the man seemed to consider Sanchez's words.
'Perhaps you are correct.' With his good arm the man drew a gun – Marta’s own gun – turning from her to take a single step towards him.
For Marta Sanchez, thought now flowed crystal-clear and blindingly fast. Perhaps the criminal did not know the gun was keyed to Sanchez alone, that only Sanchez could fire it? She circled in to take advantage of the possibility. When the other transferred it to the left hand – poorly held due to the broken arm – the moment came. As the criminal raised the gun jerkily to Henderson's head, Sanchez darted forward.
The weapon was inches from Henderson's face when it swung away, moving to the oncoming threat. The finger squeezed the trigger before the distance could be closed, but the security lockout prevented the gun from firing in the criminal's hand.
Sanchez's body slammed into the bulkier figure while her hand fastened on the gun, wrenching it from the now-weakened grasp. She saw Henderson staring at the side of the weapon; saw his eyes widen; saw his mouth open to cry out. But the man's arm had reached around the back of Sanchez's head, the heavy hand clawing into Sanchez's face, gripping the chin. But, as planned, too late: the gun was up, pressed now to the criminal's head, the trigger pulling. The hammer of the gun struck.
Sanchez had time to deduce the gun's failure was because it had been unloaded; that the entire maneuver had been a trap.
Despite locking her neck muscles rigid, her head continued in its implacable turn. Sanchez felt spinal disks crack and part; a visceral crunch, shocking in its intimacy. All sensation ceased. Sanchez's head now faced the criminal, his eyes locked on hers, expressionless.
Crystal clarity of thought held that one final image, before thought itself blurred into endless dark.
On the ground at Henderson's feet, the red digits of the ammo-counter on the side of the barrel read "00."
He watched, helpless, as the man dropped his partner's body to the ground, then approached to squat on his heels before him. For several seconds neither spoke.
Strangely, he felt no fear, even as one large hand reached out and gripped the back of his neck. It tightened with dismaying strength.
'This has been very instructive.'
Then muscles clenched, and with a gristly crackling sound, Henderson, too, spasmed and fell still.
-
Disten looked down at the broken arm, considering. It was interesting the policewoman had grasped the physical capabilities of Perfection so quickly. It had taken Disten several days to unlock the speed and strength improvements.
This was the first significant injury since attaining Perfection. It was interesting how the normal physiological response to a pain stimulus was entirely absent. Nevertheless, medical attention for the arm should be sought. Then perhaps there should be a period of waiting while it healed.
First, though, these bodies should be removed and hidden. The death of the two officers would inevitably draw police attention, but it would be short-lived. There was no corporate or political advantage to be had from this area.
Moving deeper into the dumps area would further reduce the risk of discovery. More subjects could safely be drawn from that area, too – the human waste that lived there providing ample practice material. Failures would be removed by the local predators. With the knowledge gained tonight, good progress would follow.
For perhaps another thirty seconds the man stood, calmly thinking. Not disappointed at having come close but failing: simply satisfied that Perfection could indeed be communicated, if the correct techniques were used. At last, with the good arm, Henderson's body was gripped, then hoisted up and off the metal rod it was bound to. Turning, Disten carried it back to the female's corpse, the male’s feet dragging across torn concrete slabs of quake-twisted roadway. The body was dropped beside its partner’s. Stripping both of their comms harness, each camera was crushed between two pieces of rubble. But after several minutes spent trying to destroy the radio links, the small case-hardened nut shapes remained unharmed.
After a pause for thought, Disten tore off a gobbet of flesh, pushing each device deep inside, one after the other. Walking then to the brink of the jutting roadway, the chunk of meat was hurled far into the night. Disten watched it arc away out of sight. With the extra elevation, the distance achieved would be two, perhaps three hundred meters.
It should suffice. Checking the jammer, the Active Links light finally showed red, staying red even back at the bodies. Safe now to switch the jammer off.
Bending, both bodies were grasped by their shirt fronts and lifted.
Pain flared from the broken arm, and Disten paused, frowning, assessing the extent of the damage and the sensation of fresh injury being done. Dropping the female, the damage stopped. The male's body was carried back down the broken highway to the Great Wall Electrikar registered to Marc Disten.
Two hundred and sixty meters away, Sanchez and Henderson’s radio links reconnected to the emergency network. Had a display been paired to Sanchez’s, it would have shown her ex-husband, the PASWAT’s Detective Diego Berlusconi, had just tried to call.
Disten went back for the second body.
Chapter 27
The call tone woke Harmon from a deep sleep, and he rolled over to see Leeth watching him from a chair across the room, her knees tucked under her chin. A brief look at her face was enough to reveal her emotional state – simultaneously sated, pleased, angry, confused, and uncertain: in short, vulnerable.
The insistent tone continued, and he angrily answered it. 'What?' Father's face appeared, looking annoyed. 'Please be in my office in five minutes, Doctor. And bring Leeth.'
'For what purpose?'
Father's expression hardened. 'Five minutes.' The image died. Harmon drummed his fingers against the firm mattress, thinking. Father had been angry, at Harmon himself and at Leeth, and did not want to explain or give details. Which suggested he didn't want to allow preparation.
Harmon rose, and as he did, a half-remembered image drew him back into the lounge. For long moments he stared across the room to where the chair leg stuck out into space, speared high in the wall above the sofa.
Spinning around he stalked back into the bedroom. 'Come,' he snapped as he passed the girl in the chair, and proceeded to the bathroom. He just had time for his ablutions, he decided, eyeing his face in the mirror. Unshaven and pale. How long had it been since he'd seen real sunlight? Would he ever see it again?
Leeth had not appeared. He scowled into his reflection. Stepping back to the bedroom he took control of her once more. «Leeth – Mode One.»
'Come here,' he ordered, this time loud enough for microphones to overhear as he returned to the bathroom. Ten seconds later, while he shaved – he disdained depilatory creams – he saw her face appear in the doorway, and cast the Mindmeld.
So. A hidden camera. In his own quarters. Probably related to Father's summons. A muscle ticked in his cheek. If he'd cast the spell last night instead of just Percepting her aura, he would have known, then. Though given the state of her emotions, perhaps it was just as well he'd not attempted it. But why hadn't the foolish girl told him, herself?
As they walked the corridor together, Leeth following obediently behind, Harmon fumed but continued his sub-vocalized instructions. «You will speak only when spoken to. You will agree with any suggestion I make. You will not contradict anything I say. If asked what we were doing, you will merely explain you were being punished. That you deserved it. Understood?» Reading the futilely resisting acceptance in her mind, a brief smile touched his face.
He had half-expected Father to make them wait, when they arrived, but the door whisked open while they were still meters away.
Father spoke as they entered, staring coldly at them both. 'At 21:32 last night the audio monitors in the hallway outside your quarters registered a heavy impact on the inner walls, Doctor. This was the same time the emergency cam in your room went off-line. The cleaning bot this morning reports a broken chair and an anomaly in one wall.
'Explain.'
Harmon went straight to the attack. 'I was told, when my ward and I agreed to join this organization, that it was committed to the ideals of democracy and fairness embodied in the once-extant American Constitution. Was that a lie?'
Father's eyes narrowed. 'No, Doctor.' For several seconds he was silent. 'How is this relevant?'
'Because at 9:30 last night, the "emergency" concealed spy camera in my private quarters was activated. A clear betrayal of trust. Is it the practice of the Department to spy on its own people in their private rooms? Because if it is, I dislike the implications. How can you hope to restore America if you resort to methods that betray the very soul of the thing you are trying to heal? What comes next? Secret police? Compulsory lie detector tests?'
Father's eyes narrowed. 'The United States is not run like a mega-corporation, Doctor. The room monitors are only for emergency use, and require Eagle's special authorization. These are serious accusations. Can you back them up, or is this merely empty rhetoric to cover some fresh tantrum of Leeth's?' He looked at the girl, but she simply gazed back at him expressionlessly. He turned back to Harmon.
'Leeth believes Nelson hacked the system.'
Father stilled, then massaged his temples. 'I see. Is this true, Leeth?'
At last, a direct question. Her jaws unlocked. 'Yes, Father.'
'How do you know?'
There was a hint of reluctance as she answered. 'I heard the camera's focusing mechanism.'
Father was silent for a long time then, staring at her. Absorbing the new information. For some reason, he looked from her to her uncle; and he didn't seem pleased.
'Just like it was a minute ago, in this room,' she added.
Father's head swung up and around, to stare at the wall behind her, where she'd heard the chirping sounds coming from.
In another part of the complex, Nelson swore. She can hear the cameras? Little bitch!
Father's hand lifted from his console. Then for perhaps half a minute he watched the security system probes at work. At last he raised his head. 'It seems I owe you both an apology.'
'More than that. You must re-earn our trust. I demand the "emergency" monitors be removed from Leeth's quarters and my own. As a sign of good faith.'
Father inclined his head. 'You are in no position to make demands, Doctor, but I'll pass your request on to Eagle. You realize, though, that in the event of a real emergency-'
'I believe both Leeth and I are prepared to take that risk. Correct, Leeth?'
'Sure,' she agreed, bitterly.
Chapter 28
Josh Taverner groaned, eyes fluttering open, and moistened his mouth, swallowing something he immediately wished he hadn't. What time is it? He tried to access his link, but it futzed out. Sitting up on his bed, the room swam and he hunched forward. Not sure if he was going to pass out or throw up.
In the darkness, he waved his hand, and felt the plastic bottle on his bunk-side table go flying. Oh, yeah. Electrolytes. I'd been gonna drink that before lying down.
«Lights» he sent; but nothing happened, and he swore. 'Lights!' he croaked.
His bedside lamp burst on, and he slammed his eyes shut against the glare. Then carefully eased them open, and tottered forward to the bottle of orange-colored liquid, rolling to a stop on the concrete floor. He downed it in long gulps, and felt the fluid race through him like spring rain.
Beside him, the massive bulk of the Asgard CrawlTank loomed like a friendly warning of Armageddon. He patted it lovingly as he staggered across the floor of the echoing garage-slash-workshop. With a flare of pain, he felt his neural links reconnect, and bit back a curse.
A little after two a.m., he saw. Tuesday? And the air was still hazy? Ganja-mana! Just how much did I smoke last… uh, Sunday night? He signaled the door open.
At the end of the short corridor the next door slid open at his silent command. Across the tiny squad-room, from inside the glass-fronted fridge, a liter bottle of orange Nervade called to him like a chorus of angels.
Wonder how Sanchez and Henderson got on with that stakeout, Sunday? I could murder a meat pie.
Ten minutes later, pie crumbs dusting his lap, his nausea was gone. Their comm links had been stationary now in the Dumps for over a day. Guilt gave his actions urgency as he piloted the third drone into the Dumps, hoping this one wouldn't be shot down before he could locate Marta and Hendo. Wondering if he should've already raised the red flag.
But what'd HQ do, if he did? Just say they were idiots for heading into unsanctioned areas. And probably wind up the precinct.
There! Okay, he had lock. He buzzed the drone lower, wishing he'd thought to install UV cameras in them all. He lit the scene up, sure now he'd see Marta and Hendo, waving up at him.
Instead, he stared, flummoxed, at a stretch of rubble. No one at all in sight.
Phut. The camera died. The signal from the drone lost.
'Shit! Felshing drekhead nilspecs!' He continued swearing, jumping up from his seat to pace the room. Now what the fuck could he do?
Berlusconi? Yeah, Berlusconi'd handle it.
-
Two hours later, puffing, sweating, and cursing, PASWAT detective and mage Sergio Berlusconi stared in confusion at the direction indicated on his tracker. Why her fuckwit permanently-stoned mechanic couldn't have contacted him during daylight hours…. Marta and her partner had been off-net since the evening of the day before.
This was going to be bad, he knew it.
Studying the tracker, he tried to make sense of what it was telling him. He looked around through UV goggles. The tracker said Marta’s comm-node was right here.
Shit. That meant it had been removed from its harness. Worse and worse. His powerful UV torch shone over an impossibly fucked-up jumble of rocks, the tumbled slabs of torn-apart highway. Mud-filled crevasses gaped open even now, twenty years after the Big One.
Still no one in sight.
The torch and goggles were precautions. Cutting yourself on a rusted, jutting length of rebar in the darkness was the least of the worries for any fool venturing here. A lone person shining a visible light would have attracted predators.
He swung the light down, looking for the almond-shaped radio unit, crouching down with one eye still on the tracker’s screen. He should be able to see it by now… unless whoever tore it from Marta’s harness had buried the fucker?
Between his feet, a strangely smooth piece of stone glowed under the powerful UV beam, fine… hairs…? dusting it.
Berlusconi’s world fell away. No.
Hesitantly, he prodded the lump, and it gave as he pushed.
Fuck, no. No!
With the end of the goddamned tracker unit, Berlusconi rolled the “rock” over.
For several seconds his mind refused to recognize the raw flesh, exposed striations of fat and muscle in the crusted, bloody surfaces.
Berlusconi collapsed to his knees, breath rushing from lungs that somehow couldn’t draw air.
It was Marta.
The second last thing Berlusconi had ever expected was to out-live his fitness-fanatic ex-wife. The last thing he’d expected was to learn he still loved her; even after their stupid fucking messy divorce, all those years ago.
Why hadn’t her fucking partner, Henderson, protected her? That was what partners did. That was what he’d have done!
Tears puddling in the fucking UV goggles, he ripped them off, plunging himself into darkness.
For a long time, then, the hardened cop cried, hunched forward in the rubble before managing by degrees to drag himself together.
Forced himself to think. To push aside the pain. For now.
The killers – Marta was tough, it'd need more than one to take her down – might still be hiding or disposing of her body. Even now. Though the… mutilated flesh looked dried-out. Maybe lying here a whole day, now.
