Total Recall

by Piers Anthony

  Helm made no comment. He just kept driving.

  Quaid ran out of the hotel. He looked for the soldier of fortune, but the man was gone. Damn it! Maybe the stranger had saved his life—and maybe he hadn’t. Could he trust him? Suppose he had been safe in the hotel room, and this had smoked him out to where the goons could gun him down? That didn’t seem to make a lot of sense, but then very little of the past day did.

  But he was forgetting the satchel. Maybe that would answer some of his questions. He started for the phone booth and was dismayed to find that an old lady had beaten him to it. She had the satchel in her hand.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “That’s mine.”

  The old lady regarded him sourly. “I don’t see your name on it,” she snapped.

  Quaid took hold of the satchel and pulled it gently. “Someone left it for me.”

  The little old lady refused to relinquish the bag. “Let go!” she hollered.

  Quaid pulled a bit harder. “Please, ma’am. I need it.”

  “Find your own bag!” she replied, clutching the satchel to her chest with all her strength. “You should be ashamed of yourself, you big bully!” A few bystanders had gathered, to enjoy the free entertainment.

  Quaid was at a loss. He didn’t want to hurt the woman, but he needed that bag. He jerked it forcefully from her grip, nearly losing his turban in the process.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he apologized. “I’m sorry.” He turned on his heels and ran. The little old lady’s voice echoed after him.

  “Fuck you, asshole!”

  From a doorway, the soldier of fortune watched. He held his breath during Quaid’s awkward struggle with the elderly woman, and sighed with relief when Quaid gained the bag and ran off. They had been through a lot together, on Mars and Earth both, and the man who was now known as Quaid had saved his life more than once. In fact, it had been that man who had first brought him into the Agency. At the moment, the soldier wasn’t sure whether that had been a blessing or a curse.

  He thought of how the Agency had changed since he had been recruited. It had originally been formed to oversee the diverse intelligence-gathering groups of the Northern Bloc. Its mission was to keep the spooks in line and insure that they did not become too powerful for the Northern Bloc government to handle.

  Then Vilos Cohaagen had been appointed Head of the Agency. Under his leadership, the Agency had not only acted as watchdog on the other groups, but had gradually absorbed them. The cooperation it received from a wide variety of law enforcement bureaus was deceptive. They cooperated with the Agency because, to a greater extent than anyone imagined, they were the Agency. Cohaagen had the imagination to see what could be done with such a network and, more important, he had the political savvy to make it grow invisibly. No one questioned his actions because no one noticed them. By the time they realized what he’d done, it was too late.

  Cohaagen had used the Agency to gather a vast amount of dirt on key people in government. His file on the Chairman was especially damaging. When the time was ripe, he had used the dirt to win his appointment as Mars Colony Administrator. Cohaagen knew that whoever controlled the Martian turbinium mines controlled the Northern Bloc, all of the Northern Bloc, not just a few powerful politicians. Without turbinium to fuel their weapons, the Northern Bloc would be forced to surrender.

  The Chairman knew this too, but he also knew that Cohaagen would have to resign from the Agency in order to take up his post on Mars. The Chairman thought that by sending Cohaagen to Mars and naming a successor to head the Agency, he would regain control of it and neutralize Cohaagen.

  The fool. The Agency’s new leader had been Cohaagen’s puppet. For all intents and purposes, it was still under Cohaagen’s control. And now the turbinium mines were his, as well.

  As long as he could hold them. The soldier of fortune smiled. Cohaagen might be an effective Agency Head, but he knew nothing about running a colony. He was so intent on political intrigue that he ignored the welfare of the people on Mars, especially those who worked in the mines. When they protested their deteriorating living conditions, he cracked down on them without mercy. But his terror-tactics were backfiring, creating the revolution that now threatened to halt turbinium production and undermine Cohaagen’s quest for power.

  The soldier of fortune shook his head. He was not a politician. He had no interest in matters of state. But, unlike many of the thugs who had recently been recruited, he did have a strong sense of personal honor. The things Cohaagen had ordered him to do to suppress the revolt on Mars were not honorable. He was a skilled professional, not a petty sadist. He wanted out of the Agency and he wanted out fast.

  His duty to the man called Quaid done, he could continue to effect his carefully planned disappearance. He had made a promise and he had kept it, at great personal risk. Now he could lose himself again, his promise fulfilled. He sauntered casually into a side street, trying to act like an ordinary pedestrian, but he was nervous. He knew that the Agency was after his friend and would stop at nothing to nail him. He had helped a buddy, as he knew he must, but if the act were ever discovered, it would alert the Agency and put his own disappearance in jeopardy. That was why he had to conceal his identity; the less known about him, the better.

  Cruising around the Galleria, Helm saw someone who looked familiar. He nudged Richter and pointed. Richter, too, recognized the man. His eyes condensed to points. What the hell was Stevens doing here? Hadn’t he and the quarry been buddies back on Mars? Were they in on this little game together? Richter would soon find out.

  Helms cut the car into a parking space. Swiftly and silently they got out, stalking the man.

  Stevens left the inner circle of the mall, his eyes darting nervously into the dimness before him. He turned his head briefly to see if he was being followed—and walked straight into the arms of Richter and Helm. Helm grabbed him and smashed his head against a wall, then landed a few solid kicks to his ribs and kidneys. Stevens slumped on the sidewalk.

  “What’re you doing here, Stevens?” Richter asked. “Visiting your old pal Quaid?”

  “What are you talking about?” Though dazed, Stevens recognized Richter, the Agency enforcer, the kind of thug that gave the organization a bad name. Stevens leaned on one hand, propping himself up as best he could, but he knew that he was doomed.

  “Do I have to explain?” Richter raised his foot and brought it down on Stevens’ widespread hand. Stevens screamed as the bones in his fingers snapped. Helm shut his mouth with another well-aimed kick.

  “Where is he?”

  “Can’t say,” Stevens mumbled through blood and broken teeth. “Classified.” Evidently, the ploy with the towel had been successful, and they had lost the quarry. Let him stay lost. Stevens didn’t intend to take his friend down with him.

  Richter ground his heel into Stevens’ hand. The pain jolted straight up his arm to his shoulder.

  “You can tell us, Stevens,” Richter said soothingly. “We’re on the same team.” He bounced casually on Stevens’ mangled hand.

  “Okay, okay!” Stevens wheezed. “Just call Cohaagen; get clearance.” Furious, Richter stomped on Stevens’ shin, cracking it against the edge of the curb.

  “Are we clear yet? Hunh?” he taunted.

  Stevens rocked in agony. He knew he couldn’t take much more. Suddenly he felt a faint flutter of hope. Helm’s attention had been diverted by something; he elbowed Richter and pointed.

  “There he is!” Richter peered into the distance and saw Quaid walking past a JohnnyCab stand on the far side of the mall. He had something white wrapped around his head and was carrying some sort of bag. Richter smiled malignantly. Yeah, Quaid was holding the bag, all right.

  Gun in hand, Helm took off in pursuit, but Richter lingered, looking down at Stevens’ crumpled form. Bending slightly, he tapped Stevens on the shoulder. The man looked up, into the barrel of Richter’s gun.

  A shot sounded.

  CHAPTER 12

 
Johnny

  Quaid had the satchel, but he still had nowhere to go. He walked down the street in the rain, no longer noticing it. He hoped the bag had what he needed, whatever that was. It seemed like a very slender thread on which to hang his life.

  Suddenly, he heard a sound that had of late become all too familiar: someone had fired a gun. He supposed it wasn’t that unusual in this neighborhood, but he’d been through too much already to take it for granted. Looking for the source of the sound, he saw two men racing toward him. They were too far away for him to see who they were, but he didn’t wait for introductions. He turned and plunged into a waiting JohnnyCab, ducking down and trying to hide his head.

  Johnny turned to the back seat and smiled his patented smile. “Welcome to JohnnyCab. Where can I take you tonight?”

  “Just drive!” Quaid snapped. “Quick!”

  The mannequin paused, then spoke with the same friendly tone. “Would you please repeat the destination?”

  Quaid glanced back through the rear window. The two men were close enough now for him to make out their faces. They were the two goons who had been after him at the subway station. They must have traced him here despite the towel!

  “Anywhere!” he exclaimed, still looking back. “Go! Go!” He saw Richter draw some heavy artillery and aim it. “Shit!”

  Johnny did not move. Neither did the cab. “I’m not familiar with that address,” he said.

  Now Helm had his own gun out and was taking aim. They were still half a block away, but those guns looked like young cannons from here.

  “McDonald’s! Go to McDonald’s! Now!” Richter and Helm started firing. Still the cab didn’t move.

  “There are fourteen McDonald’s franchises in the greater metropolitan area. Please specify—”

  Enough was enough. Quaid knew that if he didn’t get moving in seconds, he’d be done for! He grabbed the mannequin and wrenched it from its moorings, dragging the thing into the backseat and taking the steering wheel with it.

  Bullets shattered the back window. Quaid wished briefly for the old days, when all vehicles were required to use shatterproof glass or plastic. He leaned over the driver’s seat and reached awkwardly for the joystick on which the steering wheel had been mounted. The cab lurched forward.

  Johnny’s head spoke: “Please fasten your seat belt.”

  Without the steering wheel, Quaid barely had control of his vehicle. How was he going to manage?

  As well as he had to, he thought grimly, as bullets whizzed past his ears. He gunned the engine and tried to maneuver the sensitive joystick into a left turn down a side street. Another window shattered and he jumped, sending the cab into a spin. He was flung to one side as the cab turned in a neat circle.

  Richter and Helm poured on the gunfire. Windows exploded around Quaid as he tried to regain control of the cab. He jerked the joystick in the opposite direction—and it broke off in his hands!

  “Shit!” The cab stopped spinning and sped onward, leaving Richter and Helm behind. For a moment Quaid thought he was in the clear. Then he glanced through the windshield.

  He was headed directly for a concrete wall.

  “Prepare for a collision,” Johnny said calmly. “Prepare for a collision.”

  Quaid felt hysterical laughter fighting its way out as he struggled to reach the nub of the joystick, but it was quickly replaced by sheer terror. The car was completely out of control and the wall was getting closer by the second. A crash was unavoidable. He opened the door to jump to safety.

  Then he remembered the satchel! Clinging to the doorframe with one hand, he reached back into the cab and hauled the satchel from on top of Johnny’s smiling face.

  “Prepare for immediate impact,” Johnny said, unperturbed.

  Quaid leaped! This, too, his body knew how to do; a stunt that might have killed an amateur hardly bruised him, as he tumbled clear and rolled down an embankment, hanging on to the satchel as if for dear life. Seconds later, the cab smashed into the wall and exploded in flames.

  Quaid was safe, for the time being. But Richter would soon be after him again, when he discovered there was no corpse in the JohnnyCab. Quaid had to lose himself better than he had before, and stay lost.

  He climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darkness.

  Richter and Helm pulled up short as the cab exploded. The rain was still coming down, but it could do little to extinguish the great gouts of flame that flared from the ruined vehicle.

  They gazed at it, catching their breath while savoring the destruction. All kinds of mayhem were nice, but fire had its own special appeal. Helm started forward, but Richter held him back.

  “Not yet,” Richter said, offering Helm a cigarette. “I like my meat well done.” He lit his own cigarette, then turned to watch the barbecue.

  Meanwhile, below, Quaid was climbing over a fence, satchel in hand, unobserved. This was the industrial section of town. He headed into the comforting concealment between two brick buildings. With luck the goons would be distracted by the smashed cab above long enough, and would lose his trail entirely. He ran on, gaining confidence. Now he needed to find a private place, out of the dreary rain, to check the satchel. He put a hand to his head, holding the ragged turban in place; he was lucky he hadn’t lost that during his encounter with the wall!

  Helm had gone for the car and radioed for backup. Now he, Richter, and four other agents watched as two firemen foamed the smoking wreck and searched for remains. One of the firemen backed out and crossed over to Richter.

  “Nobody home,” he said, with a shrug.

  Richter and Helm looked at each other in amazement.

  “Maybe he burned up,” Helm said.

  Then the other fireman called out from the wreckage. “Wait a second! I’ve got something!”

  Richter and Helm approached eagerly as the fireman dragged a charred form from the foam. It was the smoldering remains of the mannequin driver. The ghastly head turned.

  “Thank you for taking JohnnyCab,” it said brightly. “I hope you enjoyed the ride!”

  The quarry had slipped the noose again! Enraged, Richter smashed his fist into the Johnny head, cracking its jaw and shutting it up. He grimaced and drew his hand back quickly. The damned thing was hot!

  An agent ran over to him. “We picked up a reading at the cement works,” he said. “It’s weak, but it’s him.”

  “Move!” Richter shouted.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hauser

  Quaid zigzagged through the industrial complex, trying to stay out of sight while exploring for a suitable building. He wanted something that was deserted but not too obvious as a hiding place.

  Quaid had been in such places many times on the job. He was familiar with the acrid smell of chemical waste leaking from rusting drums; the sight of tangled, outdated machinery; the oily orange and green scum floating on the surface of each puddle. He knew better than most people how many factories had closed down since the war with the Southern Bloc had heated up. With the big money going into weapons manufacture, the production of ordinary items had all but ceased.

  It meant little to the wealthy, such as those in Quaid’s new tower block. The luxuries they craved were supplied by small, specialized “boutique” factories. Now, as in the past, the rich were getting richer and the poor were getting screwed. The abandonment of the larger industrial centers had meant shortages and deprivations for the average person. It had also made it that much harder for people to find jobs: the new defense plants were almost entirely mechanized.

  No wonder so many people were emigrating to work in the Martian mines. Not only were huge bonuses offered, but job security as well. It looked pretty likely that the demand for turbinium would continue to increase for a good long while.

  Turbinium was a rare resource, unknown on Earth, but relatively common on Mars, a key ingredient in the particle beam weapons program. Exactly what it was and how it was used was classified information; it wasn’t even listed in most refer
ence works, but it was known that the Northern Bloc’s space-based weapons system depended on it. The stuff was more valuable than diamonds and as long as the war continued, miners would be needed to wrest it from the Martian soil.

  Quaid stopped in his tracks as he spotted a likely hiding place: a large, dilapidated factory building in which he was sure he could find a hiding place. Later it would be scheduled for demolition, to make room for a turbinium processing plant, but right now it was deserted. The windows weren’t even locked; there must be nothing in here worth stealing.

  He climbed through a window and finally out of the rain, ducking his head to avoid getting the turban knocked askew. He found himself in a cavernous industrial ruin. Water dripped through holes in the roof. Ideal!

  He wasted no time. He set the satchel on a corroded assembly-line apparatus and removed the contents, hoping feverishly that they would somehow tell him something about his true identity. Maybe then he would understand why those thugs were trying to kill him.

  There were packets of Martian money: lots of it. He whistled to himself as he flipped through the red banknotes. Since Martian currency was valid on Earth, just as Earth credits were valid on Mars, this would solve any financial problems he might have. But at the moment it wasn’t what he needed. He needed something to save his life.

  The next items proved to be of more interest. There were two ID cards. One, made out to someone named Brubaker, held a photo of a face that matched his own. His hands trembled with excitement. Was his real name Brubaker? Was Brubaker the man those thugs were after? He scanned the other ID. The photo was that of an overweight, many-chinned woman of indeterminate age. She had to be someone important to him—why else would her ID be in the satchel? He stared at her face, searching within himself for any spark of recognition. Could she be a relative? His mother? A girlfriend? It was no good. The face meant nothing to him. Pushing back a surge of disappointment, he continued to empty the satchel.