Terminal Mind, page 11
Alastair Tremayne was delighted. Events were proceeding just as he'd planned. Even now, Calvin was bringing in the scapegoat Kinsley boy, and Carolina . . .
He looked down at her lovely body, lying naked and unconscious on his table. She'd confronted Daddy about the Dachnowski treatment, and just as expected, Jack McGovern had refused to bend. Furious, she'd begged Alastair to give it to her anyway, and feigning reluctance, he'd agreed. But Carolina was going to get a little extra something in the bargain.
He opened the maintenance closet and carefully, so carefully, lifted out the metal box. It vibrated under his hands, so cold it hurt his fingers. He placed it next to her on the table.
He selected a scalpel and touched the blade to Carolina's smooth skin. The procedure wouldn't take long, and she'd never know he'd done it. She had various medical diagnostic mods, but Alastair knew how to fool them. He wouldn't even leave a scar. Carefully increasing his pressure on the blade, Alastair began to cut.
Twenty minutes later, the procedure was complete. He replaced the box in the closet.
Just as he locked the closet door, a knock startled him. Alastair composed himself. He had nothing to hide. He pulled a sheet up to Carolina's neck, then answered the front door.
Calvin stood on the stoop in full battle kit with an expression Alastair did not like.
"He got away," Calvin said.
Alastair took a deep breath. He didn't shout: Calvin expected rage, so exploding at him would relieve his fear. Quiet anger would be more effective. "How is that remotely possible?"
Calvin's cheek twitched, a sure sign he was terrified. Despite his fury, Alastair enjoyed this. There was no one on earth he could manipulate as easily as Calvin.
"The club members attacked us," Calvin said. "Stupid thing to do; we killed six. But in the chaos, Kinsley slipped away."
Alastair caught a movement in his peripheral vision. Carolina was stirring. No time to bicker. He used his height to full advantage, glaring down at his brother as few people could. "Find him. Find him tonight. Don't come back here until he's in your custody."
He slammed the door, and then laughed. Kinsley's escape was a minor setback–he could find him again. His plans for Carolina were much more important. Alastair crossed to stand by her side, pushing Calvin out of his mind. The evening's little charade wasn't quite over: he had one more scene to play. Distasteful, but necessary.
"Morning, my beauty," he said, leaning over her and kissing her forehead.
"It's done already?" she asked. "It seems like I just shut my eyes. Except that I feel so tired."
"Not too tired, I hope." He gave the sheet a little tug so that it fluttered to the floor.
She propped her head on one elbow, making no effort to cover herself. "You mean you aren't finished with me?"
"I had a final procedure in mind."
She eyed him appraisingly. "A little overdressed, aren't you?"
Alastair shrugged. "The customer is always right."
Chapter 8
Kathleen Melody Dungan did not like my letter. She cried to her sister in Great Neck, Michigan. She told the police too. She told them she was afraid someone wanted to hurt Fiona. I don't understand. I only said I hoped she wasn't sad.
I watched Kathleen and Fiona for seconds and seconds. I found out people have extra eyes. Sometimes they call them crystals and sometimes they call them Visors. Sometimes they put pictures from their Visors out where I can see them. But I can see the pictures even if they don't put them out there. I can see the pictures all the time. At first, I didn't understand the pictures but now I do. I watched Kathleen and Fiona cry a lot and look sad. I don't watch them anymore.
#
Mark was asleep when his Visor's alarm woke him. A light blinking at the edge of his vision indicated an urgent message.
"Play message," Mark said.
He heard an agitated female voice. "Your friend needs help. Please, come to the Church of the Seven Virtues. Quickly."
Suddenly alert, Mark threw on some clothes, then tiptoed down the stairs and out into the warm night. A quick net search pinpointed the location of the church just above the flood line. Was it Darin? Who was the girl? The message, he saw, came from a public node inside the church. Mark scrubbed it to remove the record of its source. This girl had no concept of security. At least she hadn't mentioned Darin by name.
Using his night-vision to navigate, Mark kept to smaller, private roads. As he walked, he searched Enforcer Security's alert nodes and soon discovered what had happened at the Rind that night, at least from the perspective of the soldiers.
He found the church, but rather than bursting in the front door unprepared, he circled the building. No lights. Finally, he chose a small side door, found it unlocked, and slipped inside. He was in an alcove opening up into the main sanctuary, which was cleared of pews and lined with rows of temporary cots, looking more like a war hospital than a church.
In one of the cots nearby, Darin lay motionless. A young woman leaned over him.
"Who are you?" Mark asked.
The young woman jumped, then peered into the darkness.
"Mark?" she asked.
He came closer. "Yes, I'm Mark. Who are you?"
"Lydia Stoltzfus. I'll explain later." She looked down at Darin. "He needs help. I thought it was just a broken nose, but he lost consciousness coming up the hill. I don't know if it was from blood loss or something worse."
Mark looked at Darin and swallowed hard. His whole face was crushed inward. Mark wondered what part Lydia played in this injury, and how they came to be here, but he wasn't about to waste time asking questions.
"Well, we can't take him to my house; my father wants him in prison. And any mod artist I know would report him to my father."
"What if you paid them for their discretion?"
Lydia's tone was urgent, but controlled; that impressed Mark. Whoever she was, she obviously brought Darin up past the flood line without attracting the notice of any guards, and that wouldn't have been easy.
"I could try that," said Mark. "But it would be a risk. They might take my money and drop a hint to my father anyway."
"He has to see someone."
"I know. All right, we'll call Whitson Hughes. He's a respectable physician, never involved in politics as far as I know. I doubt he'll take a bribe, but he probably won't tell stories, either."
Mark made the call. "Dr. Hughes, this is Mark McGovern. There's an emergency; can you help?"
"Where are you, lad?" came the reply. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm at the Church of the Seven Virtues, 34th and Water, and sir? Please be discreet."
There was a long pause, then, "I'll be there."
Mark turned back to Lydia. "He's on his way. Though for all I know, a squad of soldiers is, too."
"You did your best. Thank you. I didn't know who else to trust."
"Speaking of trust, you've given me your name, but, who are you? How do you know Darin?"
"There's not much to tell. We only met a few days ago. I was at a club with him, just having dinner, when they . . ." She cleared her throat. "Do you think he'll live?"
"I don't know, Lydia." She was another mystery. Was she a girlfriend? Why hadn't Darin mentioned her? She dressed more fashionably than he would expect from a Comber girl, but she had no mods he could see, not even a Visor. They stood in silence, watching Darin, until a knock at the main door startled them both.
Mark threw the door open and dragged a surprised Whitson Hughes inside. Hughes was a large, gruff man with leonine red hair and subtle mods. No garish colors, no sparkles or flair, but he had a second thumb on each hand, and folds of skin at his neck allowed his head to rotate 360 degrees. When he saw Darin on the cot, his lips tightened to a thin line.
"I won't be party to any criminal activity," he said. I have a channel open to Enforcer headquarters; please give me a reason why I shouldn't use it."
"Sir, Darin is innocent. He's a scapegoat. My father wants to pin crimes on him to spare his own political image."
"I'm inclined to let the courts decide that."
"But he's hurt. If you have to turn him in, at least help him first. He's a Comber. You know how much kindness the mercs are likely to show him."
Hughes considered. "I'll do what I can to help him," he said, "and then I'll decide. Now if you please, give me some privacy with the patient."
Mark and Lydia retreated into an antechamber and sat down together in the semi-darkness.
"Are you all right?" Mark asked.
Lydia gave a short bark of a laugh. "I'm not hurt, if that's what you mean. I just had a date interrupted by men with guns." She paused. "I've never seen anyone killed before."
"Killed? Who was killed?"
"Darin's brother, among others."
"Vic? Why?"
Lydia explained what had happened.
Mark stared out into the gloom. For a few moments, he couldn't say anything. Finally, he said, "Does Darin know? That he's dead, I mean?"
Lydia nodded. "There was no question."
"He was angry already," said Mark. "I can't imagine what this will do to him." He kicked the bench they were sitting on. "Why couldn't they just leave him alone?"
"He and Vic were close?"
"Darin has been raging about class inequality ever since Vic got hurt; it's what drove him to it. This–I'm afraid it'll put him over the edge."
"But why are they still after him? They let you out."
"I was released because my father pulled strings. Darin and I are both just as guilty."
"Guilty? But you just told that mod artist Darin was innocent."
"He's innocent of the charges against him. Innocent of intentional murder. But we're both responsible for what happened. We pulled a prank and allowed a malicious program to escape into the net, and as a result, people died."
"How many?"
Mark let out his breath. He knew the answer, but he'd never said it out loud before. It was too horrible, and speaking it would make it real. Finally, he said, "Three hundred and twenty-seven."
He heard her gasp in the darkness.
"I can't picture that many," he said. "It's hard to believe it even happened."
Mark wondered why he was saying all this in the dark to a complete stranger. Maybe it was the fact that she was a stranger, anonymous in the gloom. Like Catholic confession. But she was no priest and offered no absolution.
The silence lengthened. He realized she didn't know what else to say. Time to change the subject.
"So, are you and Darin . . . ?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe. I only just met him."
"Did he ask you out before today?"
"Yes. But then he was too busy escaping arrest to meet me."
"What do you think of him?"
She was quiet for a time, then she said, "He cares."
"About you?"
"About everything. The city he lives in, injustice and oppression. He won't sit by and do nothing while so much is wrong with the world."
"True," said Mark. "Once he told me Vic was a more productive citizen than I was. Because although neither of us performed any useful function, at least Vic didn't squander more than his share of resources."
Footsteps announced the return of Whitson Hughes.
"He'll be unconscious for several hours yet," said Hughes. "A chip of bone was pushed back into his brain. I don't think he'll have any permanent damage, but I had to regrow quite a bit of flesh."
They followed Hughes back into the sanctuary. Outside, the sky was growing lighter, spilling dim illumination through the rows of gothic windows. Mark saw Darin, still lying on the same cot, his face restored. But something was wrong. Mark walked closer, and then stopped, stunned. The newly formed face was not Darin's.
"What did you do to him?"
"Don't question my work, lad," said Hughes. "It was the only way. He's never had a freeze taken. Faces are subtle things, more a product of stress and practice than DNA. I simply could not reproduce the original. Besides, from what I understand, an anonymous face could serve him better."
"He won't like this," said Mark.
Hughes frowned. "He's alive. Now, I'm going home to get some sleep. I'll come back in an hour or two to check on his progress."
He left. Mark looked again at Darin's face. It was better than death, of course, or disfigurement, but Darin would not be pleased. The face was attractive–smooth new skin, sharp features–but it was not the sort of face one saw below the flood line. It was a face rich people paid to own. A Rimmer's face.
"It could be worse," said Lydia.
"I hope he agrees."
They stepped into the sanctuary and sat together on a bench built into one wall. Mark suddenly felt the awkwardness of being alone in the dark with a girl he hardly knew. Should he leave? Probably not–she wouldn't want to be the only one awake in this vast old sanctuary.
After a minute of silence, Lydia said, "I didn't expect to find myself in a church again so soon."
Mark tried to make out her expression in the gloom. "Bad experience?"
"You could say that. I was thrown out of the church I grew up in."
"Why?"
"I was found with a man." She laughed bitterly. "You'll probably find this ridiculous. We weren't even doing anything. We were kissing. Well, it was a little more than that, but not much."
"You were thrown out of the church for kissing?"
"They wanted us to get married. I wouldn't do it."
"For kissing?"
"They take their laws seriously. It's what keeps them from being 'defiled' by the English–the outsiders. When I was little, I hardly knew there was a world outside of Lancaster."
"So you grew up with no mods, no electricity?"
"No electricity, no plumbing, no power tools, no pictures on the walls. No lace or hats or belts or buttons. Everything the way it's been done for centuries."
"So all this is . . ." Mark swept his hand around, indicating the city.
"Pretty overwhelming."
The sun rose. Spires of colored light crept slowly across the floor. Lydia yawned and rubbed the back of her neck, twisting her head from side to side.
"Where are you staying?" Mark asked.
"With my aunt. She's the black sheep of the family–left home when my mother was young, married a rich entrepreneur. My family speaks of her as if she were dead."
"And you?"
Lydia hesitated. "Yes, I suppose they say the same about me. Father would, anyway. My mother wrote to Aunt Jessie, at least, and found a place for me." She sighed. "Philadelphia is home now."
"What happened to the guy?"
"Who?"
"The guy you risked your whole life to kiss–what happened to him? Did he just take what he wanted and leave you to face the consequences?"
"It was my fault. I guess because it was forbidden so strongly I wondered what all the fuss was about. He was English, the son of a farmer who traded with us. He came to the house one morning; my parents were helping a sick neighbor milk his cows"
"So you just kissed him? Just out of the blue?"
Lydia flicked her eyes toward him, and for the first time, Mark saw a flirtatious glint in them. "He didn't exactly mind," she said. "We went inside, he started to. . . well, then my father came home."
In the growing light, Mark could see her better: angular face and long, natural hair that piled over her shoulders, casting a sharp line of shadow across her neck. He could see why Darin had been attracted to her. She had a raw, intense beauty that was nothing like the beauty of the Rimmer girls her age.
Lydia met his gaze and pulled her head back an inch, her look more serious and wary. But Mark had no chance to understand this new reaction, because Ridley Reese burst through the door, talking at full volume.
"No time to lose," she said to the girls who swept in behind her. "We'll be swamped any moment. Are there no doctors here yet? Veronica, start making calls, and Savannah, do straighten those rows, there's a dear. Oh–hi, Lydia, you just have to tell me how it went with Mr. Excit . . ."
She saw Mark and stopped talking.
Lydia met her stare with a shrug. "He stopped by to help with the clinic."
But Ridley kept staring, her eyes darting back and forth. "I want the full scoop later," she said. "Promise?" Then she rushed on, pointing out pews to be pushed out of the way.
Mark stepped into the alcove where Darin still lay unmoving. Lydia followed him.
"There's a lot to do," she said. "I should help Ridley get things ready."
"What's this all about?"
"It's a free mod clinic for people who can't afford it. Those girls and I put it together. That's why I thought to bring Darin here–I couldn't very well bring him to Aunt Jessie's."
"You go," said Mark. "I'll stay with him. I don't want him to wake without a friend nearby."
"Thanks. And thanks for coming."
She held out her hand, and he shook it. "Glad to have met you."
#
They made a funny pair, Lydia thought. Mark was as mild-mannered and self-effacing as Darin was forceful and passionate. She hadn't told Darin half as much about herself as she'd just told Mark–conversation with Darin was about issues, ideas, philosophies. Mark just asked questions and listened to the answers.
She circled the sanctuary, trying to clear her head. This was not the time to be thinking about guys; there was work to be done. As she worked to get things ready, a crowd outside grew, until she looked out the front window and couldn't see where the crowd ended. The steps were crammed with people, and as far as she could see down the slope, people gathered and pressed. For the moment, the throng was civil, but it wouldn't last.
"Are we ready for them?" Lydia shouted.
"Let them in!" called Ridley, and Lydia opened the doors.
They surged into the narthex, filled it, and spilled out into the sanctuary. There were hundreds of them, but the girls had planned for this. They funneled the crowd into a line that circled the sanctuary and directed the first wave to the rows of cots. The mod doctors started their work.
Whitson Hughes finally pushed through, shaking his mane in frustration, and claimed a corner for his own. The doctors spread and triggered celgel with professional speed. Most of the treatments were routine, precoded sequences, for medical reasons rather than aesthetic, and so required no creativity or special care. Still, the procedures took time, and the handful of doctors could only do so much.
