David Walton, page 20
“You mean she’s…dead?”
“Not yet. But she won’t survive. The malformation is too small, too delicate, to repair with current technology. There’s nothing anyone can do.”
She cried. Alastair held her and stroked her hair. “I know,” he said. “I know.”
After a while, she looked up. “What should we do?”
“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll get my equipment set up, and we can terminate the pregnancy.”
Carolina looked up at him, her eyes bright. “Is that necessary?”
“It’ll have to be done, sooner or later.”
She made a visible effort not to cry again. “All right,” she said.
“Now you go home and rest. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll cancel my appointments tomorrow, and we can spend the day together. We’ll make it through this.”
He walked her to the door. On her way out, she kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted this baby as much as I did.”
Once she was gone, Alastair locked the door. He returned to his lab and reactivated the hologrid, this time examining the real pictures from Carolina’s womb. The real baby’s appearance differed dramatically from the stock holos: it was several times bigger, for one, and several months more advanced. A side effect of the Dachnowski treatment was that it accelerated embryonic growth; as a result, the child looked more like a thirteen-week-old fetus: about three inches long, with fingers and toes, and a brain structure sufficiently advanced to feel pleasure and pain. Its physical features were out of proportion, and somewhat deformed, but that wouldn’t matter, this child wouldn’t be needing her body anyway. Thirteen-week-old babies had survived outside the womb—some practitioners had successfully done it after only twelve—so Alastair thought the extraction and slicing process would have a good chance.
Then he would see just how successful his years of research and invention had been. A thirteen-week-old mind should be a blank slate. By contrast, Samuel Coleson had been four years old when he was sliced, his mind already patterned with memories and youthful experiences. He’d adjusted well, but was unpredictable, emotional, prone to seek relationships of the sort he’d had in life. This new slicer would have no such deficiencies. The electronic environment would be all she’d ever know. He would be all she’d ever know.
Alastair rotated the holographic image, admiring his handiwork.
He said, “Welcome to the world, Servant Two.”
“You’re saying this is your son?” asked Mark.
Marie sat with her face in her hands, unable to answer, unable to look at anyone. She’d finally allowed Pam to lead her back to the McGoverns’ parlor, but she didn’t trust herself to talk. Pam answered for her.
“That’s him. Marie’s husband and son were killed two years ago in a flier accident. Or not an accident, apparently.”
Pam continued to talk, relating the rest of the story, but Marie didn’t listen. She needed to think.
Sammy. Her little peanut. The grief came back fresh, just as bad as before. Or maybe worse—back then she’d simply thought her son was dead. But he was still dead—dead to her. Dead to any hope of physical life. Her throat hurt so much she could hardly swallow, but she had no more tears.
How had Tremayne done it? The bodies in the burned flier had been genetically identified as Keith and Sammy. Could he have doctored the forensic lab tests? She doubted it. It must really have been their bodies. That meant he sliced Sammy earlier in the day, then staged the accident to cover up his death.
“Sammy’s still out there somewhere,” said Mark. “We just need to get a message to him.”
“Sammy’s dead,” she said. “I saw his body; he’s gone. That thing you’ve been talking to doesn’t remember its past, and it doesn’t remember me.”
“How do you know? Slicers usually retain memories. They may be locked inside somewhere, made inaccessible by trauma. If he had some clue—”
“Don’t try to give me that hope. I don’t want it. He’s dead. I knew that when I came here. The thing I need to do now is find my daughter. If she’s dead, too, then I’ll just go home.”
A sound from outside startled them.
“What’s that?” asked Pam.
“The front gate,” said Mark. “Someone’s coming in.”
“Your father?”
Mark shrugged. “Everyone stay here,” he said. “I’ll go see.”
He stood, but before he could leave, the door to the room opened, and in walked Carolina. She stopped, surprised to see them all. “Friends of yours, Mark?”
Mark stared at her, his mouth open.
“Mark? What’s wrong?”
Mark still stared, looking from Carolina’s swollen belly to Marie and then back again.
“Marie,” he said slowly. “I think I know where your daughter is.”
Darin marched toward the wall, caressing the pistol under his jacket. The ancient gun weighed a good deal more than any modern hand weapon, but Darin liked the heft of it. It felt substantial, dangerous. The bullets inside had no intelligence at all, but that, too, was to Darin’s liking—no rich man’s computer system could interfere with the laws of motion. It was raw, physical power that he alone controlled.
The wall seemed to grow larger as he approached it—a ten-foot barrier of fabrique broken only by a narrow gate. Darin knew the wall circled the city, but from this close perspective it seemed straight, not curved at all. Four mercs manned the gate. He was banking on the chance they weren’t monitoring every person who came through. With his face, he shouldn’t raise any suspicion, but a random ID check and he would be burned.
Darin repeated to himself the oath he swore before leaving the Black Hands. “I am the sword of the people. I am the judge that comes in the night. I grant no mercy, nor ask for it. My life is forfeit to the cause.” Curling his index finger around the trigger of the gun, he approached the gate. The guards watched him pass, but said nothing, and that easily, he was through. Darin relaxed his grip on the pistol. This was going to be easier than he thought.
The next problem, of course, was finding Tremayne. Just an hour earlier, he’d seen on the news that Tremayne had been voted onto the Business Council in Jack McGovern’s stead. That meant Tremayne would be spending most of his time at City Hall. But City Hall would be crawling with mercs, and besides, Darin had never been there. The less familiar the location, the worse his chances would be. He needed someplace familiar, someplace unguarded, where Tremayne wouldn’t suspect an assault. He wondered if Tremayne was still with that slut, Carolina, now that he’d taken her dad’s job. If so, he’d come to the house before long, or else Carolina would go to him.
With the weight of the pistol hanging reassuringly against his side, Darin started the long climb up toward the McGovern’s mansion.
Alastair walked through the darkness from City Hall toward his office, a smile on his face. It was past eleven o’clock, but he felt too elated for sleep. The Business Council members had just elected him to their number; only Van Allen had objected, as he predicted. Van Allen was distracted by the catastrophic failure of her personal system and all its backups shortly before the meeting, and although she insinuated that Alastair was to blame, she had no proof. In fact, Alastair thought her intimations weakened her position, since they made her look desperate.
Once inside his office, Alastair placed a call to Michael Stevens, the CEO of United Medical, a Philadelphia-based celgel producer and one of the largest business interests in the city. Stevens would have already heard of his nomination to the Council and would not be happy.
“This changes nothing,” he said when Stevens answered.
“What do you mean, nothing?” said Stevens. “This wasn’t part of our plan.”
Normally such a comment would have irritated Alastair—the plans were all his; men like Stevens were pawns, not players—but he was in such high spirits he didn’t mind.
“Michael, relax. I’m with you a hundred percent. The Business Council is an artifact, led by politicians instead of businessmen—people who know nothing about how business is actually transacted in this city. It’s time for a change. You tell your friends I’m not a turncoat; I mean to bring down the system from the inside.”
“You mean to? All by yourself?”
“Michael, Michael. We’re a team, remember? You and the others are the real leaders of this city. Together, you control more than half of the capital. We’ll replace the old system with something that makes sense.”
“When? While you delay, we’re losing money. Some of us can’t afford to wait much longer.”
“I need another three weeks. Two weeks at the least.”
“Two weeks, then. We’ll be waiting to hear.”
Alastair disconnected. He’d gained the support of a key segment of Philly’s business leaders, but top executives were used to dictating their own timetables. And slicer or no slicer, Alastair couldn’t afford to lose their support.
The conversation had deflated his mood, but he stopped by his shop anyway. He wanted to prepare for the next morning. Carolina would arrive early, and he wanted to check his equipment to make sure everything was ready. He’d only have one shot at this. If the fetus died before the mind transfer was complete, years of effort would be wasted.
After working for an hour, fatigue started to overcome his exhilaration. He was about to leave when his system chimed to announce an incoming call. It was from Carolina. Alastair sat down in his swivel chair and crossed his long legs over his desk.
“Darling! It’s late; I was about to go home. Did you see the results of the council meeting?”
“Alastair, I…got an abortion.”
Alastair put his feet on the floor, exhaustion suddenly gone. He slowly stood to his full six-and-a-half-foot height and fought to keep his voice calm. Surely he had misheard. “You what?”
“I got an abortion. I went to Dr. Hughes. I couldn’t stand for you to do it. I hope it’s all right.”
Alastair lifted his Proteus Award off the desk with both hands and slammed it down, gouging a hole in the wooden surface. He spoke with a furious calm. “I’ll kill you. You’re a stupid little girl. That baby was mine. You hear me? I’ll kill you.”
Carolina started to cry. Alastair disconnected. He pounded the award systematically into a mug on his desk, the bronze snake-turned-bird chipping away at the pottery until only splinters remained. He dropped it, breathing hard.
The fool. Of all the stupid, emotional, neurotic things to do. He’d break her neck. He’d kill her whole family.
Alastair kicked over his chair and paced into the room. It was gone. It had taken years to customize a simulation for that particular genetic makeup, to account for its particular program of cell death and simulated brain development. And now it was gone. Servant One was all he had left.
Which meant there wasn’t any reason to wait anymore. Alastair stopped pacing. He stood in the middle of the room and slowly smiled. If Servant One was what he had, then Servant One would have to do. He wasn’t going to delay his plans until he could steal another embryo and create another simulation. There wasn’t time. The other pieces were in place.
His anger slipped away, replaced by a growing excitement. The risks were greater, but not insurmountable. He had Servant One under control now. He was unpredictable, yes, and had escaped before, but he had come back of his own accord. Maybe he would be enough.
Alastair bent, picked up his award, and used his shirttail to polish the brass surface. He called Michael Stevens.
“Forget about the two weeks,” Alastair said. “Be ready to move tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
I’m afraid. Daddy told me soon he will give me the biggest job yet. He won’t tell me what it is. I’m afraid I will not like the job. If I don’t do it though he will hurt me very much. I’m afraid the job will be to make more people sad and I don’t like that.
“We have to leave,” said Mark. “Right now.”
No one else seemed to understand.
Praveen said, “Mark, it’s after midnight.”
Carolina wiped tears from her face. “What do you mean, leave?”
“Tremayne can trace that call. He’ll know Carolina’s here. He has mercs on his payroll; they’ll be coming after her. We have to go.”
“He said he loved me,” said Carolina. “He said it was a girl. That he’d always wanted a girl.”
Mark touched her arm. “You need to think about that baby’s safety now. If he finds out you didn’t abort her…”
“You can come to my house,” said Praveen.
“Not good enough. The house computer will know she’s there, and that’s probably enough for the slicer—I mean Sammy—to find her. We don’t want to involve the rest of your family, either. We need a place that’s empty, somewhere people won’t go.”
“I can’t go anywhere,” said Carolina. “I need to see a doctor.”
“There’s no time.”
“Alastair said my baby was malformed. That she wouldn’t survive. I need to know if that’s true.”
Mark saw her glance nervously at Marie, and realized Carolina had called it “my baby.” Accidental or intentional? Was she claiming the baby as hers? Marie’s face was stony, showing no emotion, but Mark doubted the possessive had been lost on her.
“Know any deserted buildings?” asked Praveen.
“Not really.”
“Empty warehouses, movie theaters, schools, churches?”
“We could go to…wait.” Mark felt a chill. “Everybody, turn your Visors off. Remember how easily the slicer found Darin? We can’t forget it’s working for Tremayne now.”
When they’d all done as he asked, Mark said, “That church where the clinic was held, the Church of the Seven Virtues. I don’t think it’s used now. It’s a place to go, anyway, until we find somewhere better.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Marie.
Mark didn’t object. “We’ll all go.” He turned to Lydia. “You don’t have to come. Tremayne doesn’t know who you are; you should be in no danger.”
“I could help,” said Lydia. “Just tell me how.”
“We’ll need food. Other supplies too, probably. You and Praveen can bring us what we need, if you’re willing.”
Lydia nodded. “I can do that.”
“Great. Praveen, you and Lydia take the pod, go back to your homes until tomorrow morning. The fewer of us trying to sneak out of here, the better. The rest of you, come with me.”
Darin reached the McGovern mansion after midnight. His head pounded with a bad headache; he hadn’t eaten all day, and walking so far had exhausted him. The mansion was brightly lit to deter thieves, so Darin had no difficulty picking his way around the trees at the side of the road.
The upstairs windows were dark, but the parlor light downstairs still burned. The curtains were drawn, so Darin couldn’t see who was inside. Now that he was here, he didn’t know what to do. He was unlikely to spot Carolina or Tremayne at this hour, and any attempt to break into the house would just set off alarms.
He briefly considered knocking on the door—Mark would let him in—and spinning some apology, begging to be friends again. But he couldn’t do that; the thought of apologizing to Mark after what he’d done made him feel sick. No, he’d find cover behind some bushes and sleep there. In the morning, with any luck, Tremayne or Carolina or both would come out.
The gate slid open. Darin ducked behind a tree. Mark stood in the gateway, peering around as if looking for someone. Did he know Darin was there? Had some sophisticated security system already given him away?
Mark stepped out, with Carolina in tow. Behind her came two women Darin didn’t recognize. They all glanced around suspiciously, and Darin realized they were afraid of being seen. Or afraid of muggers hiding in the dark? If they wanted to go somewhere in the city, why didn’t they just use the pod?
They closed the door behind them and crept down the road and out of sight. What were they doing? Darin didn’t know, but there was only way to find out. He followed them.
At first, he worried they would spot him, but once they moved out of the mansion district and down into the streets of the city proper, trailing them became easy. Despite the hour, many people walked the lighted streets, keeping Darin inconspicuous. He guessed they were headed for Praveen’s house; a long walk, but the right direction. Then they split up. Mark and Carolina headed uphill while the other two women headed down. The strangers were nothing; Darin stuck with Mark and Carolina.
They wound through the streets, keeping to those less traveled, as if they knew they were being followed. Finally, they too turned downhill. They made their way to a church—no, the church, the church where he’d been maimed by those he’d called his friends. What mischief were they up to now? More operations to turn Combers into Rimmers?
Darin hid behind a trash bin, watching the church, and felt suddenly sad. It was easy to hide behind the anger, but he couldn’t keep it up forever. When he was honest with himself, he knew tears shimmered just behind his eyes, waiting for an unguarded moment to break free. He missed Vic, no matter how frustrating taking care of him had been. And Mark—could he actually have meant well by giving him this face? Could he have misjudged so badly?
It was hard to believe; Mark wasn’t stupid. No, Mark must have done it on purpose. He was scared, like all the Rimmers, and acted to neutralize a threat. Darin gritted his teeth. He’d been fooling himself to think a Rimmer could be a friend.
Alastair showed up late for his own inaugural, giving Michael Stevens a chance to act. To a gaggle of reporters eager for news, Stevens laid the groundwork.
“I and twelve other business leaders have drafted the following petition,” he told them, “requesting that Dr. Tremayne be elected Council Chairman.” He flashed the petition to the reporter, and in seconds all the networks had it. “This is more than a petition; we are calling the council to account. Together, the twelve of us own thirty-seven percent of Philadelphia, but our assets are not tied here. If Philadelphia will not accept fair and reasonable terms of business, perhaps another city will. Dr. Tremayne has seen our terms and supports them fully. We call on him for reform.”
