Red

by Ryan Rinsler

  36

  The white, blurry fuzz of Stanley’s partially opened eyes began to fill his vision, cold metal on his back burning into his skin. He hurt, he throbbed. His swollen jaw ached like every fiber of muscle had been torn, and a metallic taste filled his mouth as he squeezed his teeth together, fighting against the swelling. His left elbow was stiff, as though the joint itself was swollen to the point where it was restricting movement completely, and all down his left side was sore, with sharp, electric shock-like pangs of stinging pain shooting across his chest with every breath.

  He could vaguely recollect what had caused him to be in this state. Hans Richter’s new interrogation method was inherently flawed, at least in Stanley’s case, and once that became apparent, Hans’ frustrations boiled over and were manifested as violence. This, in turn, had enraged him even further.

  What he’d not anticipated, Hans, as he sat there, allowing or revoking Stanley’s control over his respiratory system at will, was Stanley’s reaction. Once he’d acclimatized to the initial shock of the sensation, the brutality of having such a basic bodily function so key to life being controlled by somebody else, Stanley’s attitude changed dramatically. Although he wasn’t about to waste his life, he’d aligned his thoughts in such a way that he was at peace with what was inevitably about to befall him, or, at least, the end result. No amount of mental reconciliation would have helped him through the worst of torture techniques, but as the interrogation went on, Stanley found himself almost relaxed. He would lie there, calm, serene. He wouldn’t struggle, not through will power but through peace. The key to this composure was linked to Hans’ interpretation of why this technique was so efficacious – the fear of death. Once this had been removed — once the one thing that would drive him to unbearable suffering had been ejected from his mind — he no longer struggled. Stanley’s absolute inability to control the events gave him a detachment from the events themselves. At that moment he’d had no choice over whether he lived or died, no physical way to fight back, and his acceptance of this gave him a calmness Hans had in no way anticipated.

  It didn’t take him long to resort to fists. Even in the furor, Stanley knew it was no longer interrogation; Hans had flipped, his rage coming at him blow by blow. It was spiteful, uncalculated, out of character. Hans was no longer pushing him for answers, he was taking revenge out on his body, and now, lying there on that metal slab, he could feel every impact.

  Having passed out shortly after Hans had stormed from the room, he’d no recollection of how he’d arrived at where he now lay, in a large, bright room, on a metal bed, along with twenty other beds with twenty other people. His neck ached as he held up his head to further survey his surroundings, and as the only vertical person in there, a young-looking technician at the far end of the room, turned her head to learn the source of the shuffling, he dropped it swiftly and silently so as not to be detected.

  He lay there for ten minutes at least, until she began working on a person with her back to him. Her head was bowed, and she was reaching occasionally to a tray beside her, grabbing tools and medical equipment for whatever task she was performing. He glanced once more at the seemingly lifeless corpses that mirrored his own position, lined up row after row on their metal slabs. Were they dead? Should he be dead? They were all wearing medical robes like his own, which didn’t strike him as necessary attire for a corpse.

  He propped himself up slightly, and looked behind him for any other possible exits than the obvious one a few steps from the technician. The only other door in the room entered into a small, windowed store room, and there were no windows, the walls being completely covered by cupboards and worktops, with various pieces of silver and white medical-style equipment littering each surface.

  He jerked his head around and flinched violently. The girl was stood right next to his bed, staring at him, wide eyed, panic-stricken. Her arms were hanging straight by her side, her surgical mask puffing in and out as she panted.

  Stanley was equally panic-stricken. He scrambled away from her, dropping clumsily onto the floor and landing on all fours. “Where am I?” he wheezed, holding himself up with his good arm.

  The girl didn’t respond, choosing instead to swing round and march robotically toward the open door at the far end of the room. As he caught his breath he massaged his jaw, watching as blood dripped onto the cold metal floor, before climbing to his feet. He sneezed hard, then glanced around once more. There was nothing for him in that room, no hiding place, no weapons he could see. He had to get out.

  Limping, he made his way to the door. He poked his head out gingerly, inspecting the corridor left and right. It was long, dimly lit, with closed doors either side. There was no sign of any activity, and with everything completely symmetrical, and with identical doors at either end, there were no visible clues as to which direction he should head to begin his escape.

  Right it is. He ducked out and tiptoed down the corridor, his bare feet slapping lightly on the smooth floor. It was agonizingly quiet, his every movement being amplified by the distinct lack of noise. Each door he passed was locked, the lights off in the room into which they led, and after ten or more failed attempts he decided against trying anymore and increased his pace toward the door at the end. As he reached it, he glimpsed through the small window into the next corridor beyond. There was virtually no visibility to the left or right, with only a blank wall ahead of him. He pushed slightly on the door, which opened easily, allowing him to peer down the brightly lit corridor. It was busy, with staff walking quickly between rooms, but it was eerily silent. No one was speaking, not even a murmur, and each were seemingly in a world of their own, making no eye contact whatsoever.

  He saw the girl. She was far down the corridor, walking quickly toward him, with two more people marching behind her. Others were getting out of their way as they saw them coming, and Stanley knew exactly where they were headed. He closed the door quickly, then began frantically trying the doors he hadn’t checked. Suddenly one burst open. He fell inside, quite accidentally, having not anticipated it to move at all. He quickly closed it behind him and crouched, the darkness of the small lab in which he was now hid providing a somewhat unrealistic sense of security.

  Noticing a lab coat hanging on the wall beside him, he grabbed it and swung it on. He shuffled around the room, rummaging through cupboards until he found a box of surgical masks and hair caps, and donned them quickly, leaving nothing but his eyes visible. Shoes were a problem – he wasn’t about to find any in a cupboard – so he grabbed a couple of shoe covers from the dispenser by the door as he returned, and disguised his bare feet as best he could.

  Hearing footsteps he peered through the window, ducking as the three of them passed. He waited a few moments before poking his head around the door, just in time to see them disappear into the lab from which he’d just escaped.

  Within a few seconds they would discover he was no longer there and would be straight back out to find him, so without hesitation he squeezed through the half-open door and opened the double door leading into the main corridor once more. Without looking around, trying not to alert suspicion, he stepped assertively out into the hubbub and began walking, still limping, toward the elevator at the end of the hall. Nobody acknowledged him. Not a single person. They were all walking quickly to wherever it was they were going, each with a glazed expression, a thousand yard stare, not focusing on anything in particular.

  He made it to the elevator, and seeing it was just about to close, with six people inside, he made a snap decision to divert into the nearby stairwell. He glanced behind him as the door closed – floor B12. He had a lot of climbing ahead.

  As he ascended, his legs sore, arm aching, he was fully expecting one of the exit doors to burst open as he passed it, with legions of Scouts pouring out to accost him.

  But as he climbed, step by step, floor by floor, they didn’t.

  B08. He stopped once more to catch his breath. The number of floors between breaks was
being reduced with each stop, his legs beginning to give way, his lungs working at full capacity, his injuries amplified. He set off again, and with no idea where he was going or for which floor he was aiming he was simply putting one foot in front of the other, making his way to the surface.

  Suddenly a door opened a few flights above him. As it did, he flinched, and slamming his foot down awkwardly in panic he twisted his ankle, causing his standing foot to slip. He face-planted the concrete stairs and slid violently downward, tumbling near the bottom until he landed hard on his side.

  He lay there for a few moments before pushing himself upright. He could hear footsteps approaching from above him, quickening as they went, so he pushed himself backward into a seated position, propped against the wall.

  A young man hurried around the corner, a look of concern on his face. “What happened?” he asked.

  Stanley looked up, but didn’t answer. It was over. His escape had failed. He smiled to himself, knowing that he’d tried, and at least defied the assholes who had put him there in the first place. He pictured their faces as they’d burst into the room and seen his empty metal tray, and wondered if they would face the same fate he was about to having lost one of their patients.

  The lad whipped out his BlackBook and dialed someone. “I’ve got a, a tech who’s fallen in the stairwell on floor… between seven and eight. Zone Freddie Zero Zero. Yes.” He snapped it shut. “Help is coming.”

  With that, and without looking back, the young man hurried on his way down the stairs. A little surprised that he’d not been questioned or I.D.’d, Stanley shook his head slightly as he watched the man disappear, then rested his head on the wall. He was broken.

  Not more than three minutes later, a door opened and down the stairs came two medical officers.

  The woman looked him in the eyes. “Focus. Are you able to walk?”

  “Um, yes, I think so,” he said, still with his surgical mask covering his face.

  She dispensed a painkiller via a syrette she jabbed in his thigh, and after a few moments a wave of warmth came over him. With the help of the man she was with they brought Stanley to his feet and they made their way slowly up to the door of floor B99, where, waiting outside in the empty corridor, was a wheelchair.

  The trip to the infirmary was a short one, with a few elevator rides and spaced-out rolls through busy corridors. The bed in which they laid him was comfortable, glass panels surrounding his cubicle. The ward was busy, with all of the patients on display, all sleeping.

  The two medical officers who had helped him had left, and over walked another lady holding a BlackBook.

  “It looks like you had quite a fall,” she said. “Two cracked ribs, dislocated elbow, reseated, broken jaw, various other lacerations and impact bruising. All from a slip on the stairs. You must have fallen down quite a few steps.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have I.D.?” she asked.

  “No, nothing.” He was trying to be as coherent as possible, despite the effects of the painkiller. “Must’ve lost it in the fall.”

  “Thumb here,” she said, holding out her BlackBook. “Interesting, the Medevac team said they left nothing behind.”

  He lifted a shaky hand and pressed lightly on the screen, a blue bar swiping up and down, reading his thumb print. The BlackBook made a noise, to which the lady reacted by whipping it round and reading the screen.

  Without saying anything she turned and walked off, pushing past two nurses who were about to enter another cubicle.

  Stanley sighed. It wasn’t a sigh of despair, nor one of relief. He didn’t know what it was. He was just waiting.

  Five minutes went by, and as the drowsiness began to wear off, Stanley’s nerves began to kick in. He wasn’t restrained, and the door at the end of the ward didn’t appear to be secured. He could just leave.

  He looked around. Patients were asleep, staff preoccupied. It was obvious he’d been flagged on the woman’s BlackBook, and by now someone was likely on their way to the infirmary to collect him.

  What have I got to lose? he thought, a small flutter of excitement flicking through his body. Let’s make this hard for them. Time to be a pain in their ass.

  37

  “That him?” asked Kate.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Connor, looking down at the photo of Andrew McBride, the man they’d been instructed to find. It had been three days since Connor left Mana’s world, and, as he sat with Matt and Kate in Jacob’s truck, not two miles from Silk Corporation HQ in Mountain View, California, his hands were numb and quivering with adrenaline. Over the road was a diner often frequented by Andrew, and, from Mana’s archives, they’d had it on good authority that this day of the week was the most likely for him to be frequenting. It was just past midday, the heat of the Californian sun burning the solar-panel sidewalks almost to melting point.

  The trip to California had been smooth, with just one stop-off at a roadside PodMotel on the way, but they were all weary. Conversation was minimal between the three of them as they waited, with both fatigue and nerves playing a part in their silence.

  Connor looked at Kate and Matt, whose eyes betrayed a sleep-inducing tiredness that was about to strike. He shook his head to himself. Surely there must be someone more qualified or experienced to do this than us three? he thought.

  But they were on their own.

  The resistance in his world was scattered and weak. There were members, or people sympathetic to the cause, all over, but it was nothing like Mana’s world, or at least how Mana’s world was. There was Stanley, and maybe ten or more others who worked for Silk who were privy to the reality of the situation, but Mana had led a small army. Up until a few years ago it was a force to be reckoned with in his world, but day by day, month by month those numbers dwindled until they were left with the fifty-something that occupied the bunker now. Seeing Mana’s emotional reaction to the losses was difficult for Connor, and deep down he knew the day would likely come when it is he who is feeling that loss.

  Right now he was at the beginning of his journey, attempting to get together a team of people who could help from his own world, Black Alpha. Despite that, though, he couldn’t shake from his mind there were likely many people far more qualified to accost Andrew McBride. The problem they had was that it was impossible to even get a hint of who that might be, let alone speak to them and organize the abduction. Communication with anyone within Silk Corporation was dangerous, and Connor had to keep his head down at all cost.

  He looked at the two of them again. It was up to them.

  “That’s him!” shouted Kate, pointing hastily at a tall man making his way out of the diner. Matt jumped himself awake and looked out of the wrong window.

  Connor double checked the photo. “Yes, yes that’s him. Switch us on.”

  Matt switched on the car, but as Andrew began ascending a nearby stairway, Connor cursed. “Shit, he’s going on a Gyro. Why couldn’t he have a car? What now?”

  “Can’t we follow it?” asked Kate.

  “Whatever we’re doing, we’ll have to do it now,” said Matt.

  “Go,” called Connor. “We’ll keep track of which one he’s in.”

  “There’s hundreds!” called Kate, flicking an exasperated glance at Connor.

  “It’s OK. Right, he’s getting in a single, keep your eye on it.”

  Matt set off with a screech. “I’ll try and keep him above us,” he said as he flung the car out onto the empty main street.

  “He’s going south, turn left here,” shouted Connor, both he and Kate contorting their bodies to keep sight of the Gyro above them.

  “It’s too fast,” said Matt, wrestling with the steering as they raced down the street. The Gyro was pulling away, and then suddenly veered left and out of view.

  “Take the next left!”

  The car screeched around the corner, almost clipping the front of another vehicle as he pulled out.

  “That must be him,” said
Kate, pointing up ahead. Matt floored the accelerator, and with a huge surge the car roared even faster, until it was keeping up with the multitude of Gyros racing above them.

  “That’s definitely him!” shouted Kate again. “I can see him inside!”

  “Cars up ahead,” said Matt. After a second he repeated it louder. “Cars up ahead!”

  “This is no good,” said Connor. “Stop!” he shouted, banging on the dashboard. “There’s a Gyro station, let me out.”

  The car squealed to a halt and Connor jumped out. “I’ll call you!” he shouted behind him as he ran as fast as he could to the stairway, leaping three stairs at a time until he reached the top. Just as he did, there was a couple about to get in a double Gyro, and without thinking Connor barged them out of the way and jumped in. “Sorry,” he said calmly as the doors closed.

  “Uh, Patterson!” he shouted, being the only place he could think of in the direction Andrew was headed. The Gyro set off smoothly, and as his eyes scanned each and every Gyro ahead and alongside him, he finally picked out Andrew on an adjacent track up ahead.

  Across the city the Gyro tracks interweaved and interlocked each other multiple times every hundred meters or so, with each GyroPod in sync with the next, neatly slotting between each other as they traveled at great speed. The GyroPods themselves had an awareness of each other, a map of a three kilometer radius of all GyroPods in circulation, meaning they could anticipate the movement of any other GyroPod over a mile away and make corrective movements even ten minutes or more ahead of time before eventually meeting on the tracks.