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Farther down, hundreds of metres below, was the docking area for the flying saucers, but these could not be seen from up here, being obscured in a pit of pitch-dark blackness. Slightly dizzied by what he
was looking down upon, overwhelmed, as he always was, by the sheer magnitude of it all, he turned away from the window and pressed the bell located beside the intercom fixed to the door of Brandenberg's office.
Yes?' Brandenberg said through the intercom.
'It's Michael.'
'Good. Come in.'
Michael entered. He found Brandenberg seated, as always,
behind Wilson's old desk, framed by the panoramic windows and their stupendous view of the vast, snow-covered Antarctic wilderness. Brandenberg indicated the chair at the other side of his desk with a wave of his hand. Michael sat facing him.
'You spoke to your parents?' Brandenberg asked rhetorically, since the answer was obvious.
'Yes,' Michael said. 'Clearly, you've decided to move against the cyborgs and you're sending me. I'm deeply gratified, sir.'
'Be just as deeply cautious,' Brandenberg responded sardonically, 'because what you're going to attempt will be extremely dangerous.'
'I always knew that,' Michael said.
Brandenberg nodded affirmatively, his slightly crooked lower lip curving into a slight smile. 'So,' he said, 'I take it you're prepared to leave immediately.'
'I'm prepared and keen.'
'Try not to be too enthusiastic, Michael. Try, instead, to remain distant and objective, thinking calmly at all times. You're not doing this for personal glory, but for the good of this colony and, ultimately, for the good of the whole world. Keep this firmly in mind each time you have to make a decision. By this I mean that what might help you in the short term could be detrimental to Freedom Bay, thus the world, in the long term. Instant victory isn't always a good thing and can often be deceptive. Think coldly and clearly.'
'Like Wilson,' Michael said.
Brandenberg smiled again. Yes, like Wilson. At least, as pragmatically as Wilson. Whether Wilson's alive or dead we still can't say for sure, but he's certainly the guiding light for the cyborgs, the spirit behind them. So think like him and try to anticipate what he'd be planning in any given situation. Do that and you might survive.'
'I will,' Michael said. 'So what have you planned?'
Brandenberg sighed forlornly, as if not sure that what he had planned would actually bear fruit, let alone be feasible in the first
place. Your task is to insert yourself into Washington DC and then somehow get into the White House.
Once inside, you're to ascertain if Wilson is actually there, either in body or in spirit, then somehow put a stop to him or, if he isn't actually there, put a stop to the work of the cyborgs and free the White House. If you succeed in doing that, we can follow you in and gradually wrest control of the whole country out of their hands. Whether or not this is possible is, of course, an issue of debate. In all fairness, I must remind you of this fact.'
'Can I ask why you decided to move at last? Was it because of my belief that I'd made some kind of contact with Wilson?'
'Or with some manifestation of him,' Brandenberg emphasized, then sighed again. Yes. I find it difficult to accept that myself, but the possibility remains that, given Wilson's state of scientific advancement at the time of his death, he could hive somehow put himself back in circulation, either in the body of someone else — a human brain-implanted to such an advanced degree that he virtually is Wilson — or as a clone brought up from birth to be as near to an exact replica as possible. It is, after all, only a matter of time before the biocomputer combines with the cyborg to produce a clone that not only looks like the original person but also thinks and feels like him. This could be the case here.'
Yet this Wilson — or this person . . . this manifestation . . . this presence that I assumed was Wilson —
seems to be making telepathic contact with me, as if he knows me and has a reason to draw me to him.
How do we account for that?'
How, indeed?' Brandenberg responded, again sounding sardonic. Then he shrugged, slumping deeper into his chair. 'We have no way of knowing that yet — and your confusion as to how to describe him is understandable. All we can say for certain is that you have the gift for telepathic communication and it's known that biocomputers will, sooner or later, communicate the same way. If this . . . this Wilson is some kind of resurrected persona, some marvellously recreated facsimile of the original, either in a physical body or as some kind of bio-electronic entity,
then his influence could be as strong now as it was when he was still alive — certainly with the cyborgs. In fact, the cyborgs could have created this Wilson from instructions left by him before he died, which was just before cloning became possible and well before biocomputers came into being. A biocomputer would be as alive as a human brain, with all its reasoning powers, and this . . . this Wilson communicating with you could be something like that. If this turns out to be the case, I've no idea how you're going to deal with it. But since you're the most advanced adept we have, having — as far as we know — all the parapsychological skills required for what you may be confronted with, naturally you were our first choice.'
'You're flying me to Washington DC?' Michael asked.
Brandenberg shook his head. 'No. That would be too dangerous. The cyborgs control the whole of the country, but they're particularly vigilant over important areas — and Washington DC is one of them, obviously. None of us here have left Antarctica since the takeover because of the cyborgs' control of the skies, but in this case we don't have a choice. We're going to fly you in to a pretty remote area, hoping that our own saucer — the most advanced we've so far developed — will get there unimpeded, perhaps being mistaken for one of their own or simply blocking their radar scans, which we can now do. But given our lack of experience in this area, we can't guarantee success. To be blunt about it, we might not even get you as far as the United States.'
'And if you do?'
'We're going to drop you off well away from Washington DC, well away from that whole area, in an isolated location in the Great North Mountains that divide West Virginia from Virginia. Depending on what route you take, that's about ninety miles, or nearly a hundred and fifty kilometres, from the heart of Washington DC. We'll drop you off near Woodstock, which will enable you to make your way across the Shenandoah Valley. It's heavily forested and will give you good protection. From there, you'll have to make your own way to Washington DC, playing it by ear the whole time. Don't travel by night. Though the cyborgs' surveillance flights don't bother too much with that area, the odd ones almost certainly fly over it occasionally and chances are they would do so at night, after the midnight curfew. So, surprising though it may seem to you, daylight travel is safer.
Also, don't necessarily trust anyone you speak to. While just about everyone you speak to may seem normal, an awful lot of people in the World have had cyborg brain-implants — and that makes them as
close to an alien being as you're likely to get. In other words, though they might seem perfecdy normal, they're controlled by the cyborgs and will instantly report back to them.'
'The walking dead,' Michael said.
Brandenberg smiled. 'When I was back in the World, as a young man, as an Air Force Captain, I saw an old black-and-white movie called Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The plot seemed a bit far-fetched at the time, but it wouldn't be these days. When people receive cyborg brain-implants, they do, in effect, become zombies who, though looking and behaving perfectly normally, have no will of their own and live only to spy for the cyborgs. You have to watch out for them.'
'Is there anyone I can trust?' Michael asked, becoming aware that the World he was going to visit was more treacherous and dangerous than he had imagined.
Yes. There are plenty of people out there who are actively fighting the rule of the cyborgs and you'll probably need some of them to help you survive in Washington DC and even assist you when it comes to getting into the White House. The question is: how do you find them? Concerning this, I can only say that you should look, in particular, to people your own age — young people — the kind who most openly revolt against the cyborgs. Many of them, I have to tell you, aren't worth their own spit and only do what they do for vicarious thrills. Many of them are into drink and drugs, playing dangerous games with the cyborgs only
because, like the disenfranchised of any society, they've nothing better to do and are dumb enough to think they'll always get away with it. Nevertheless, they're probably the only age group you can approach with any confidence: it'll be up to you, if you make contact with some of them, to use your own judgement as to their reliability. Certainly, you've got to get some help from somewhere, from streetwise kids, even if only for survival in the city until such time as you can infiltrate the White House. Just be careful who you trust, is all I'm saying. Apart from that, I can't help you.'
'I haven't packed anything,' Michael said. 'My parents wouldn't let me. They said you'd take care of that.'
'Yes,' Brandenberg said. 'I will. You can't wear your own clothes because all our clothes are made right here and would be instantly recognized as not having been manufactured in the US. As there are no imports or exports any more in the World, any clothing not made in the United States would instantly draw unwanted attention to you. So we've manufactured some clothing especially for you, based on designs found on the Internet, styled to suit someone of your age in present-day America, and with local labels prominently displayed. Likewise with your shoes, comb, toothbrush and other personal possessions.'
'Identification if I'm stopped?'
'The cyborg patrols only stop people to abduct them, so if you're stopped by them you'll be finished —
you'll disappear and not be seen again — so just keep out of sight if you see a flying saucer or ground-based cyborg vehicle. You will, however, need new identification to show to local police, supermarkets, normal people who may imagine that you're a cyborg spy; and, of course, you'll need the plastic cards of a "real" person in order to obtain money from cash dispensers.'
'That's surely impossible,' Michael said.
Brandenberg smiled triumphantly. 'No, it's not,' he said. 'In preparation for this day — and for the day when, hopefully, we
can send more men back there — we've spent the last few years hacking into various computer systems in the World and inserting the details of fictitious people, giving them full backgrounds and personal
histories, then opening bank and shopping accounts for them. The hacking also enabled us, for instance, to make regular electronic deposits and withdrawals from those accounts to ensure that they would, if checked, look like they were being used all the time. Since all statements in the World are now sent by e-mail, we were able to make up false e-mail addresses for the automatic sending of those statements. Those addresses, however, while seeming to be in the US, all originated here and the statements come in on our own computer screens. So you'll be given the detailed history and documentation of one of those fictitious US citizens, one based in Washington DC: that means you can withdraw money, pay rent for accommodation and, of course, buy anything you need for as long as you're there.'
'How do I communicate with Freedom Bay?'
'You'll be given a I OOO-megabyte notebook computer that you can use for e-mail that can't be intercepted or received by anyone but us. Your fellow adept, Leon Turturro, has been instructed to keep track of your movements telepathically and you can, should circumstances prevent the use of the notebook, try to contact him by telepathic means. You can also use the notebook for hacking into other computer systems, notably those of the cyborgs, but including the banks and retail outlets with which you'll be dealing on a daily basis. Okay?'
'Sounds great.'
You sound like a child,' Brandenberg said testily, 'and that means you're too excited for your own good.
Stop being excited, Michael. This isn't a childish game. It's an important job that could, if you happen to get caught by the cyborgs, lose you your liberty, your mind, or even your life. So keep your ego out of this. 1 hink of yourself as a machine. Don't be swayed by vanity or childish pride, which could lead to mistakes. What we're doing, we can only attempt once — and we can't afford to foul up. Now, are you ready to leave?'
'Yes,' Michael said.
He was ready for anything.
Chapter Fourteen
Gumshoe crossed the 14th Street Bridge, took the exit for the National Airport, then burned along George Washington Memorial Parkway, passing the occasional SARGE or Prowler. He glimpsed the occasional flying saucer gliding overhead, ascending or descending vertically, or simply hovering over a stalled car, preparing to abduct the unfortunate driver who, once taken, would never be heard from again. Knowing this, Gumshoe detoured every time he saw anything relating to the cyborgs, though he always came back to the route that took him to Mount Vernon. It only took him twenty minutes. Once there, he continued another three miles south until he reached the expansive, well-kept grounds of Woodlawn Plantation.
Formerly the property of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, the late-Georgian-style mansion, surrounded by green lawns, rose gardens, large trees and boxwoods, all resplendent in late afternoon sunlight, had fallen into neglect with the coming of the cyborgs. It had then been rescued by a charity organization that had turned it into a nursing home for hard-pressed artists, musicians and writers — a desperate last gasp for the preservation of culture in a society now controlled by the cyborgs and hence devoted almost totally to scientific advancement.
Jesus, man, this is some joint!' Bonnie Packard exclaimed
when Gumshoe had brought his motorcycle to a halt in the curved driveway in front of the riverside
entrance.
'It sure is,' Gumshoe said, waiting until Bonnie had slipped off the pillion seat before swinging his right leg over and propping the motorcycle up on its support. 'Maybe we can find you a room here. I mean, it's used as a nursing home.'
'Up yours,' Bonnie said.
Standing in front of the portico over the entrance to the elegant building, which had symmetrical one-storey wings connected to the two-storey main house, Bonnie looked even more bizarre than she actually was, with her short-cropped pink-and-green hair, shaved eyebrows, striped face, blue-painted lips with fake blood, and, of course, her black-leather jacket with silver chains, skintight white T-shirt, black stockings, hotpants and high-heeled black leather boots. Nevertheless, there was something sweet about her, something soft behind the hardness, a suppressed sensitivity, and Gumshoe was increasingly taken with her, despite his own reservations.
'Vtnez avec moi,' Gumshoe said, starting towards the entrance.
'What the fuck's that mean?' Bonnie retorted, stopping him in his tracks.
'Sorry,' he said. 'It just slipped out. A little bit of the old parkz-vous frangais.'
'Think that makes you smart, do you?'
'I'm only taking lessons. Certain phrases just keep popping out before I can stop them.'
'Bullshit,' Bonnie said. 'You're just showin' off, that's all. You think that Frog language makes you somethin' special, but it doesn't, believe me.'
You don't think I'm something special?'
'No, I don't.'
'My heart's breaking,' Gumshoe retorted as he turned away from her and walked up to the entrance, leaving her to follow him, which she did. Stopping behind him as he rang boldly on the doorbell, she said, 'So what are we here for?'
'I want to talk to someone,' Gumshoe replied, 'and this is where he's staying.'
'Who is he? Some kinda geriatric?'
'I suspect so,' Gumshoe said.
The door was opened from inside and an overweight middle-aged woman with a severe face under pinned-up greying auburn hair stared grimly at him. She was wearing a black blouse, black skirt and flat-heeled shoes.
Yes?' she said flatly.
'This is the Woodlawn Rest Home?' Gumshoe asked.
'It sure is.'
'I'm Randolph Fullbright,' Gumshoe said, using his best speaking voice, 'and this is my friend, Belinda Packard, made up and dressed in that peculiar outfit because we're on our way to a kid's party where she'll be entertaining them later this afternoon.' He caught Bonnie's sharp glance, but ignored her and turned back to the grim-faced housekeeper, smiling pleasantly at her. 'Do you have a resident here who goes by the name of Harbinson?'
The woman glanced suspiciously at Bonnie, taking in her bizarre apearance, then returned her unflinching gaze on Gumshoe.
'Why do you want to know? Are you related?'
That means he's here,' Gumshoe said.
'That's no secret,' the woman responded. 'He's been here for years. So are you related?'
No,' Gumshoe said, deciding to start his lies with a truth. 'My dad's an old friend of Mr Harbinson and he just found out he's here. He phoned me from New York, where he lives, and asked me to drop in and pass on his regards. Is this a good time to see him?'
You should have phoned in advance,' the woman said.
Sorry,' Gumshoe said, feigning contrition. 'I just never thought. I mean, I'm only in Georgetown and this place is so close, I just jumped on my bike without thinking. Any chance of seeing him?'
'Well . . .' The woman glanced again, this time with open distaste, at the gum-chewing Bonnie.
'It's just to say hello,' Gumshoe said pleasantly. 'I'm sure he'll be real thrilled to hear from my dad.'
The woman shrugged indifferently, then stepped aside to let him and Bonnie enter. 'Well, I guess it can't hurt. I'm Mrs Weatherby, the housekeeper. Okay, come on in.'
They both stepped inside. Mrs Weatherby closed the door behind them, said, 'This way,' then led them across a central hall with nineteenth-century furnishings and paintings, a drawing room on one side, a smaller sitting room on the other, then up the stairs to the central hall of the second floor.
'Nice house,' Bonnie said.
