The Installed Intelligence Trilogy Collection

by Phoenix Ward

  And Karl did.

  With all the will he could muster into his uneasy muscles, the psychologist crawled from under his desk and moved to the door. He reached out and grabbed the knob, then hesitated.

  “It’s okay. Open it,” Maynard said.

  Karl threw the door open with a bit more force than he’d intended, wincing at the rattle the frame made when the door hit the wall. At the I.I.’s reassurance, however, he was able to continue.

  “Take the left,” Maynard said.

  Left, Karl echoed. Left goes to the lobby.

  “That’s right.”

  We’re just going to go out the front door?

  “That’s right.”

  Karl inched along the wall, perhaps slower than Maynard desired, but he couldn’t help his terrified caution. He’d seen his father and his friends shoot guns when he was a kid, but had never had any interest in it himself. Somehow, the gunshots seemed so much louder now than they had back then. Maybe because they were being aimed at him and his colleagues. Maybe because blood had been spilled.

  The psychologist stopped in his tracks when he turned the corner and found a dead body. With a few gags and gasps, he managed to sit still and recognize the corpse as the young man from Kuwait who had joined the lab last spring. He turned away once his gaze caught the whites of the body’s cold, dead eyes.

  “Keep going,” Maynard said.

  I can’t, Karl replied.

  “You have to.”

  They’re dead. They’re all dead. There’s nothing I can do.

  “That’s right. So keep moving.”

  Somehow, Karl managed to find the strength to peel his stare away from the dead Kuwaiti kid and pick himself back up to standing height. With some effort, he slid against the wall on his shoulder, taking each step like there were lead weights attached to his ankle. Even the I.I.’s coaxing couldn’t spur him along faster.

  “Wait,” Maynard said.

  Karl stopped dead in his tracks. He perked his head up in order to hear around himself better, but his pulse seemed to pound out any silence in his ears.

  “There’s some movement up ahead,” Maynard said.

  Where? Karl asked.

  “It’s a closet on your right,” Maynard said. “Someone’s coming out into the hall!”

  Before the psychologist could react, the closet door had opened and closed. From it emerged not a gunman in full Kevlar, but an older Indian woman in a lab coat.

  That’s Sada, Karl thought.

  “Who?”

  She’s one of the neurologists!

  “Karl?” Sada whispered, squinting through the dark. She was reaching out to feel along the wall.

  “It’s me, Sada,” Karl said.

  “What’s happening? Are we going to die?” she asked. Her eyes grew wide with terror.

  “No, Sada,” Karl said. “We’re going to get out of here.”

  Without a moment’s pause, a small crunch came from down the hallway. Karl turned to see a bit of light wash onto the carpet, accentuating the fluorescent lights in the corridor where they poured over the walls.

  “Freeze!” a man bellowed.

  The light pivoted to shine right in Karl and Sada’s faces. The scientists blinked as the man, hidden in the gloom beyond his flashlight, shouted at them.

  “Hands on your head!”

  “Do it,” Maynard said.

  I was planning to! Karl retorted.

  The two scientists obeyed their orders, shivering with panic.

  “Names!” the gunman barked.

  The two scientists spoke at almost the same time.

  “Sada Bedi.”

  “Karl Terrace!”

  The barrel of the gunman’s rifle shifted slightly to the right of Karl before opening fire. Bullets ripped into Sada at least half a dozen times, a terrible look of shock and confusion filled her face as she dropped to the ground with a gurgle.

  Karl flinched at the explosions and covered his face. Instinctively, he was convinced he was dead, or at least would be soon. He waited for the next barrage of bullets to tear into him.

  It never happened, though. The gunman lowered his rifle once the neurologist was dead on the floor, turned, and walked away. Karl looked up just as he saw the man in full body armor stroll down another hallway, regarding Karl as if he were not there.

  Sada! Karl thought, though he was too terrified to vocalize it. He took a knee and checked to make sure the neurologist was really dead.

  “Karl, we have to keep moving!” Maynard said.

  He killed her! Karl replied.

  “I know.”

  But he didn’t kill me.

  “Seems that way. Look, Karl, we can ask questions later on, but first we have to make sure we survive that long. Got it?”

  How! We are in the jaws of Hell right now.

  “No, not yet. But we will be soon if you don’t start moving. Down the hall the gunman came from. Now.”

  Why would I want to go that way?!

  “It’s our only way out. Come on, he’s gone. I’ve checked. And he didn’t seem interested in you for some reason, anyway. Let’s go.”

  Karl was trembling like a hypothermic baby, but he still managed to take his eyes off the dead Sada and put some weight on his legs. With tremendous effort, he pushed off toward the entrance lobby.

  “Hold it,” Maynard commanded.

  Karl dared not argue. He stopped dead in his tracks as if his next step would fall onto a landmine.

  He stayed in that pose for what seemed like hours before Maynard spoke again.

  “They’re waiting for us.”

  Pardon? Karl asked.

  “I can feel the cerebral computers from here. There are at least four people with C.C.s in position outside the entrance.”

  Four of the terrorists? Karl wanted to clarify.

  “It’s impossible to discern,” the I.I. answered. “They’ve got their IDs masked.”

  Karl moved up to the receptionist’s desk, now vacant, and sat against it like a soldier in the trenches. Sweat poured from his hairline and dripped through his eyebrows, making it even harder to gaze at the front door.

  It could be the police, Karl noted.

  “And if it’s not?” Maynard asked.

  Then we’re dead.

  “Perhaps best not to take chances, then?”

  Perhaps.

  “Hold on,” the I.I. suggested. “I think I can find us a way out.”

  And then what? Karl wanted to know.

  “Does it matter if we’re dead?”

  I guess not.

  “Then let’s worry about this first,” the I.I. commented.

  Okay, Karl agreed.

  “Follow the left hallway. Move carefully,” Maynard said.

  The psychologist looked toward the direction the I.I. indicated. It was scalded with a bit of black soot—clearly the site of a recent detonation. Maynard must have detected the insecurity through Karl’s nerves.

  “There’s no danger that way,” he assured his host. “Any bad guys have moved deeper.”

  “You’re sure?” Karl asked aloud.

  “Of course,” Maynard started. “Remember, if you die, I die. We’re in this together.”

  I guess that makes me feel better, Karl thought.

  “It shouldn’t,” Maynard said offhandedly.

  Ignoring that last contradiction, the psychologist followed the demolished corridor. To his dismay, it led only to a fallen pile of rubble that blocked his passage.

  Great plan, Karl commented internally.

  “Don’t get smart on me,” the I.I. replied. “Look to your right. You see that panel?”

  That’s a laundry chute, the psychologist recognized.

  “Indeed it is,” Maynard commented. “And it’s our ticket out of here.”

  Are you serious? Karl asked.

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Maynard countered.

  No.

  “Then slide, damnit!”

  With a
bit of audible disdain, the human pulled the handle down on the chute door and climbed inside. There was a small lift built within the shaft that acted like a miniature elevator for traveling garments.

  What if this leads to an incinerator? Karl mentioned.

  “What?” Maynard said.

  In many labs, they destroy the garments after use rather than laundering them, Karl explained. You know, an incinerator?

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Maynard admitted.

  Are you serious?

  “Calm yourself,” Maynard urged. “We’re getting out of this.”

  Rescue

  Maynard had been correct. There was a side exit in the laundry room, which was not an incinerator.

  “What are you waiting for?” the I.I. hissed inside Karl’s thoughts.

  The psychologist could barely hear him, though it would be impossible not to since there was no actual sound to miss. Still, the words felt fractured and hard to understand as his mind raced.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Maynard urged.

  Just a second, Karl thought. I don’t want to run out there and get myself shot.

  “By the police?”

  Sure. How do they know I’m not one of the terrorists? How do they know I’m unarmed? What if they are mid-standoff and some tense cop pumps a hole into my chest?

  “You’re not the first person to flee an active shooting, Karl,” Maynard said. “They’re trained—they’ll know how to make sure you’re safe without spilling any blood. Otherwise, hostages would be getting gunned down every time a bank gets hit or a school goes under fire.”

  I guess you’re right.

  “So why aren’t we moving yet?”

  I don’t seem to be able to, Karl thought. The I.I. didn’t miss the fog of fear over his mind.

  “It’s okay. On three. We’re going to get outta here and be just fine. You got that?”

  Okay. Karl nodded.

  “One… two… three!”

  The sunlight was brighter than Karl had expected and stunned him for just a handful of seconds. He blinked through the rays, raising his hand to shield his eyes. Before his vision could adjust, he heard movement.

  He threw his hands up, unsure if he had been noticed yet. He started to walk short half-steps forward until the light relented.

  There were at least half a dozen police cruisers on the street, sirens ablaze. Two self-driving SWAT carriers were rammed nearly up to the front door of the lab. He could see a few officers in full tactical gear stepping toward him, automatic rifles raised.

  They stopped about a stone’s throw away.

  “Freeze!” a voice barked. “Stop moving right now!”

  Karl obliged.

  “On your knees!”

  He fell a little too hard for comfort, tearing through his pants and scraping his knee, though he hardly noticed it.

  “I’m unarmed!” he yelled, his voice cracking.

  “Hands on your head!”

  His fingers hadn’t even grazed his hair before two officers were upon him, each with an arm in their grip. They brought his wrists together behind his back and slapped a pair of handcuffs over them.

  With a gentle, yet firm pull, they heaved Karl onto his feet and began patting him down. One of them signaled to the other officers, who watched from the vehicles on the curb.

  “I’m not one of them,” he told the cop on his right. “I’m not one of the shooters.”

  There was no response. Instead, he was brought over to the foremost SWAT vehicle. Just behind the driver’s door, which was wide open, stood a middle-aged man with deep creases on his cheeks that dominated the face beneath the helmet.

  “Hostage?” he asked one of the officers leading Karl.

  He replied with a nod.

  The older man turned to Karl. “We’re just taking you into custody for your own safety,” he said.

  Then he turned to the other officer, the one on Karl’s left.

  “Put him in one of the vans until the scene is clear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Karl couldn’t help but notice that they’d left him in handcuffs. Maynard kept telling him that it was just a precaution, and no one could be too careful in a crisis like this, but the psychologist was dubious. Something felt wrong. More wrong than it already was, that is.

  In all the movies he had ever seen, a hostage who had just been released was always shown drinking coffee or hot cocoa or something while sitting in the open door of a police van with some generic beige blanket thrown over his or her shoulders. It wasn’t like that at all, he realized. He was cuffed in a locked vehicle, throat dry and spine aching.

  Maynard did his best to calm Karl down, but the I.I.’s dark witticism only added to the man’s stress. He bowed his head and let his palms envelope his eyes. A strong urge to cry overtook him, but he couldn’t. Even whimpering felt impossible.

  When he looked up, he could see movement outside the window. A handful of officers were leading two hostages. About a minute later, another hostage followed. One of them was a little bloodied behind the ear, their clothes torn and askew. It looked like they had crawled through Hell itself in order to escape.

  They were talking with disoriented expressions on their numb faces. Karl couldn’t make out anything from the movement of their lips, but they were pointing back at the lab with frantic energy. Perhaps they were warning of more survivors. Maybe they were worried about something they’d left behind. Who knew where the mind went to after an ordeal like this?

  There’s so few of them, Karl thought with melancholy.

  “There’s bound to be more,” Maynard said. “They can’t reasonably herd them all out at once, can they?”

  What if there are no more? Karl said. What if they’re the only survivors?

  “You can’t think like that. Not now.”

  What other way is there to think?

  “Be hopeful.”

  Hopeful? Hopeful of what? That one person died instead of two? That five people died instead of a hundred? Seems like a pretty grim result to celebrate.

  “We don’t know what the outcome is yet,” Maynard said.

  Well, we sure as shit know some people aren’t going home today, Karl thought, his consciousness festering. There are kids without parents now—husbands without wives. What kind of monster could do something like this?

  “It’s just like you said,” Maynard replied. “A monster.”

  Karl kept his eyes trained on the front of the building, staring with such focus at the glass double-door that marked the entrance that his eyes started to water and itch. His face lightened when he noticed more movement, but this didn’t come from the lab.

  Four armed officers stepped out from the other adjacent van and started making their way to where Karl waited. He looked around for any survivors being escorted, or gunmen in handcuffs, but it was just the officers. Their guns were drawn and held in a ready pose as they approached Karl’s van.

  Sweat started to build up around the psychologist’s hairline. He knew something bad was going to happen, but he couldn’t imagine what it was.

  The cops stopped just about two meters short of the vehicle. The barrels of their firearms pointed toward Karl like accusatory fingers. A lone man broke from the group and stepped up to the van’s passenger door. Karl could see it was the sergeant from before.

  The scientist gave a little jump when the door was popped open. He could feel the perspiration coating his face. A handgun was held ready in the older officer’s hand.

  “Dr. Karl Terrace, I am informing you at this time that you are now under arrest on suspicion of aiding terrorism,” the sergeant said. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

  Karl went to speak, but the air had been sucked from his lungs like he’d been slugged in the kidney. It took him a couple tries just to catch the air he needed to push the words out his mouth. When he finally managed, the sounds were weak and almost indistinguishable from the breeze
around them.

  “What for?” he asked. “What am I accused of doing?”

  “According to the evidence at my disposal, including eyewitness accounts, you’re the guy who let them in. You’re being charged as an accomplice to the gunmen,” the sergeant explained.

  Then he slammed the van door shut.

  Judgement

  It wasn’t like Karl was looking forward to the company he’d share in jail while awaiting his trial, but he found himself particularly upset that they put him away in a cell of his own, far from all the other ne’er-do-wells. Every now and then, when someone entered the block, or a call was made down to the holding cell, he could hear the others whoop and holler. He wondered if they even knew he was there.

  As the accused accomplice of a terrorist organization, he was to be kept from any other inmate until his fate could be decided. He was deemed too “dangerous” for a communal cell, since he might try to warp their dull minds and recruit them. At least, that’s what he imagined the law thought of him. He was nothing more than a violent zealot.

  Being held in jail was stressful enough on its own, especially with the deafening silence of isolation pulling on his brain, but being host to an angry I.I. made the misery exponential. The digital voice in his head fumed 24/7, making even the act of catching a quiet moment near impossible.

  Oddly enough, neither the arresting officer, his defense, or the courts had made any reference to Maynard. If they were unaware that he’d undergone the mindshare process, he wasn’t keen to help them figure it out. For the time being, it was the only ace he had left up his sleeves. He just feared that, when the moment came to lay down the Maynard card, the world would be playing a different game already. One that aces couldn’t win.

  “Those sons-of-bitches are all on his payroll, I bet,” Maynard said.

  His tone indicated he was thinking aloud more than trying to get feedback. Karl wasn’t planning to provide any anyway; he preferred to tune the I.I. out. To him, it was a form of meditation. He started to think he could achieve true zen only once the voice in his head was mute.

  “How many resources does the traitor have, anyway? Don’t you have any leads floating around in that head of yours?” Maynard asked.