Mission came to the first syn on the catwalk and slapped an interrupter on his back. He was running too fast and didn't have the rhythm down. He couldn't get another interrupter out in time for the next syn, so he put his elbow out and slammed her off the catwalk. As he planted an interrupter on the third syn, he could sense Carson peppering the fallen female with shot after shot.
Mission was always disturbed by the irrelevant claptrap that floated through his mind when he should be absolutely focused. So instead of just planting the interrupters as fast as possible, he kept wondering how long he had until the ultrasound stopped, and what he would do at that point.
He moved closer to one of the speakers in the bay and the siren vibrated right through his skull. The sadistic computer voice reminded them that they had sixty seconds to live. How many syns had he disabled so far? Six, perhaps seven? That would make this next one number eight, a female with blond hair. As he rounded the octagon corner, and onto the next wall, he closed to arm's length, and she came alive. She slapped him hard in the shoulder and the impact threw him against the wall so hard that he bounced back toward her. He reached out with his left arm holding the interrupter and she knocked his arm up with a sweep of her right hand. Mission felt his arm snap on impact, but his hand flying up brushed her face and he released the interrupter. She collapsed in a heap, taking Mission down with her.
As he struggled to free himself, he noticed the bay looked like the Fourth of July. Carson definitely made the operation difficult for the syns. A shot from across the bay hit so close to Mission that the sparks flying off the railing burned him. He knew the next shot would hit him and he jumped off the catwalk without even looking. Reduced gravity will fool you. You feel so light that you find yourself thinking that a fall can’t hurt you. But your mass is still exactly the same and the collision with the ground is still brutal. Mission hit the top of the forklift with his upper back which spun him around and threw him face first into the driver controls.
Mission went under for a moment and his own scream brought him back. Carson pulled with all his might on Mission's leg and his body jerked free of the forklift controls and fell to the floor. Carson squeezed off an impossible shot through the wire mesh roof of the forklift, through the catwalk railing and into the eye of a male kneeling down. It was a direct hit and the syn flew across the bay and slammed the far wall, motor groups still churning. As Carson dragged Mission behind the dozer, the computer voice cheerfully reminded them that the bay doors would introduce them to their mortician in forty-five seconds.
The syns on the left side of the bay increased the pressure as several of them moved much closer to the dozer. Mission and Carson fired in desperation when Susan screamed. A male held her by the hair on the back of her head, out at arm's length. As Mission turned with the Glock, the syn pivoted Susan around between them so that a clear shot wasn't possible. The computer voice gleefully announced that all their worldly troubles would end in thirty short seconds. The syn stiffened his right finger and as he started to bring it up to Susan's face, she stopped fighting the arm that held her and slapped him in the face. That's great Susan. Slap a combat model. Only now it slumped to the floor. Susan screamed as they hit the floor and the impact yanked out part of her hair. As the syn rolled over, Mission saw the disk on his face. Susan had slapped him with an interrupter.
She crawled back to cover and the clearly gloating computer voice told them they had fifteen seconds. Mission grinned at Pierce and he grinned back. Mission shouted, "Hell of a fight! What if we blow the control panel?"
Pierce shrugged, so Mission lined it up and ...
The entire door they had used to enter the bay blew off the hinges taking part of the wall with it. The force of the explosion snatched them up and tossed them like rag dolls. It was strange. Mission couldn't think. He couldn't possibly stay conscious. Yet his eyes still saw and his ears still heard.
A group of five dived through the hole in the wall, wearing full combat gear. Everyone’s attention was on this new group.
Mission didn't recognize their weapon, but it took three of them to carry it. Carson screamed, “No!”
It was some sort of huge, rapid fire, high impact mini cannon. One of the three setting it up was female. She turned slightly and Carson screamed again. “Vivienne!”
The three took concentrated fire as they completed setup. Two of them fell heavily. But the canon was ready! A single sweep with the weapon across the two catwalks utterly destroyed any still functioning syns. Mission was dimly aware of that damned computer voice saying, "... seven ... six ... five ... docking aborted. Docking procedure is aborted."
Mission wondered who these rescuers were and why they couldn't have shown up five minutes earlier. He looked around for Susan. She tried to move on her hands and knees, shaking her head, and trying to regain her senses. The back of her head seeped blood. Carson was screaming incoherently, and holding himself up by locking his fingers in the forklift controls. This was bad. Mission could smell it. Carson’s shoulder still burned with the chemical charges and he was deep in the grip of shock. He needed a med tech and some morphine now. Then Mission remembered that during his gravity defying run, he saw Montag wedged behind the power shovel with an arm missing and a gaping, burning hole in his abdomen. In the dimmed recesses of his mind, it occurred to Mission that Montag was the movement across the room he saw when the shooting started. He took several shots to shield them from the fire.
Mission stood up and took a step. When his foot touched the ground, he collapsed. The next thing he remembered was looking up and seeing a shirt with a med tech emblem very close to his face. She moved back and shined a penlight in his eyes and frowned.
Mission said, "I would like a drug overdose please ... "
When he opened his eyes again, the med tech was strapping him to a stretcher. He looked over to the right and Susan was receiving similar treatment. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes open, but he tried to smile at her and said, "See? I told you I had a good feeling about this place."
Susan grimaced and said, "You are a horse's ass."
He opened his eyes again as they started to carry him out and he said, "Wait! Wait a damn minute!"
The med tech tried to calm him and he struggled. "No! It's ... it's my partner, Montag. He's synthetic. Tall, dark skinned, missing an arm. He's ... he's hurt over behind ... the power shovel. He ... protected us. Fix him ... fix him up, okay?"
As the med techs carted Pierce off, he reached out, grabbed onto the dozer and yanked himself off the stretcher. Vivienne lay face down, motionless. Tears streamed down Carson’s face as he gently cupped the back of head at her neck to turn her over. He brushed back her hair from her face and…
Vivienne’s face, burned by ion fire, revealed the polychromadrine underneath. She was a syn!
It took five med techs to pull Carson from the mining bay. The only intelligible word amongst his screams was, “No!”
47
Mission finally allowed himself to do one of those things that he not only enjoyed, but was also quite good at. He threw a fit at the med tech station and everyone in it.
"You are insane if you think I am spending the night here! As pathetic and claustrophobic as my room is, it is infinitely preferable to this place. I want a generous supply of Dilaudid, I want my arm repaired, and I want to be carried back to my room."
The med tech's expression was no different than if he had asked for a cup of tea. "You have experienced a number of physically debilitating trials tonight. Standard procedure is to hold the patient for observation for 24 hours."
"I don't care about your standard. It doesn't care about me. I’m an individual and I want to be treated as one. When in the hell are you going to set this arm?"
"We are bringing a technician with an osteopathic specialty. You do not have a simple break. The bone almost penetrated the skin."
"Wonderful. That's wonderful. Does your expertise allow you to give me painkillers?"
; "Yes, I am fully qualified to ... "
Mission roared, "Well give it to me and then get out of my sight!"
The tech scurried to one of the cabinets to return and inject Mission. Suddenly he didn't know why he had been mad. These techs did the best they could. He smiled at the wonderful tech and said, "And the doctor here needs painkiller as well."
Susan said, "No I don't Mission. I'm okay."
Mission whispered to the tech, "I think she's still a little groggy. You should leave her painkiller in case she suddenly needs it."
The med tech left the room. Mission turned to Susan and asked, "Have you heard anything about Carson?"
She shook her head and said, "No. But I suspect it's much like your last injury. The wound is quite painful and it causes a high degree of shock, but he should stabilize in a day or two. Physically, he’ll recover."
Mission slowly nodded. "Yeah. I hope so.”
He hesitated for another moment and then managed a weak smile. “See? We made it!"
"Yes, Mission, but explain to me how we’re better off. They killed Denman, shot and beat the hell out of the rest of us, and now they’re giving us Band-Aids. Where’s the up side to all this?"
Mission smiled dreamily. "Oh, we are in the driver's seat now. I'll give Atwood till 8:00 tomorrow morning to bare his soul or I'll be on the com with the U.S. Solar System Ambassador at 8:15, with troops here within twelve hours. And now we’re going to collect the data that's been slow in coming in and use it as is."
He struggled to prop himself on his pillow and nodded. "I know we're not finished, but we're in a position to drive it all to closure."
He paused. "So how are you?"
"Well, I have this bald spot on the back of my head, where my hair was pulled out. And I get the feeling I'm going to be too sore to walk tomorrow. But ... I'm okay."
"Good ... I wake up a lot when I've been roughed up. You mind if I call you?"
Now she smiled. "No, not at all."
Mission and Susan talked for more than an hour that night. The med specialist took almost ninety minutes to set Mission's arm. Then he molded a fiberglass rig around Mission's upper body like a cutoff T-shirt. The left sleeve extended all the way to the hand and the elbow bent at a 90o angle. He would need another x-ray in four weeks to monitor its progress. He knew that after the first week, the cast would itch, chafe, and smell terrible. Something else to look forward to.
There was a knock at the door and Mission yelled, "Come in."
Arthur Atwood came in carrying a folding chair. He unfolded it, set it down, and then made himself comfortable. He smiled and said, "Mission, I can't tell you how relieved I am to know you and your team is alright. The news about Dick is dreadful, just dreadful."
He clucked for a moment and then said, "Do you know what happened there in the bay?"
Mission was taken aback. "Do I know? Do I know? How in the hell would I know?"
Atwood touched his index finger to his chin. "Well, reviewing the facts I see that we have synthetics that were more than three months overdue for diagnostics and not a word from Paradox. Suddenly the company calls in a fluster, insisting on an immediate visit by a diagnostics team. A standard team is a junior grade engineer and two or three synthetic assistants. Instead we get the company's premiere psychologist/scientist, a bounty hunter, an Army Major fresh from a combat tour, and a synthetic that is not registered to an owner."
"They come to our settlement, and begin to search through the city. Then I get a call that full scale warfare is erupting in the refining bay. I am not surprised to find that your team is right in the middle. So why should I not ask for an explanation? The makeup of your team and the weapons you brought to the settlement suggest you anticipated violence. Your opponents in the bay were Paradox synthetics. So I ask again, what happened in there?"
Mission smiled. "Well, everything I heard about you suggested that you’re top flight, and you are. But no amount of finesse will get you out of this one. Now, something tells me that the brains of all the syns in that bay were somehow destroyed. But you and I both know that you are sitting on a powder keg of modified, violent syns."
"And I also know that I have enough information to get the ambassador and then the Army in here, if we can't get to the bottom of this situation."
Atwood smiled slyly. "It's interesting you mention the Army. I myself am considering asking for military assistance. Since Paradox is unwilling to fully disclose what seems to be a tragic and violent flaw in their machines, I may have to ask for a military recovery team to destroy the synthetics. Here and every place else in the solar system."
Mission nodded. "Okay Atwood. Round one to you. Enjoy it while you can."
Atwood picked up his chair and walked to the door. Mission said, "Arthur."
He turned back around to look at Mission.
"I'm empowered by Chandler Hunt to negotiate for Paradox if a settlement is possible. I try to do what I say, so I won't make promises. I still don't know the whole story. But I'm not necessarily here to shut you down or to put you in jail. You strike me as a decent man. I want you to know that there may come a time when negotiation seems attractive. I'll be here, ready to talk."
"That would be a very generous offer, Mission, if I had anything to hide. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your recovery more comfortable."
Mission banged his fist down on the bed frame. Easy as pie. Just like you planned. All that the incident in the bay accomplished was to reshuffle the deck. Now he had to back up and come at this problem from another angle. One that didn't involve outsmarting Atwood.
48
An hour later, Mission knocked on Susan's door. She wore her bathrobe and her puffy face radiated a rainbow of bruises. He sat down next to her and said, "I take it you feel like hell."
She nodded and said, "This is how you feel after one of your encounters?"
He nodded and she added, "And you do this willingly for a living?"
He smiled, "For some reason, people perceive physical pain as much worse than emotional abuse. Truthfully, I'll take the bumps and bruises."
"Well, each to his own. I never want to do this again."
"I'll remember that next time we choose members for a strike team."
Susan cocked her head and said, "So why did you let me treat you so hatefully when you were roughed up like this?"
"Oh, didn't I mention I've been running a tab for you?"
"I don't know how I can ever pay you back" she said with mock innocence.
"I have some ideas."
Susan looked at him with more scrutiny. "So, did you talk to Atwood?"
"Yep, and I earned an F in boardroom debating. He's way over my head."
He told Susan about the conversation and she listened carefully. "I don't rate that as a loss, Mission. That was round one and you looked each other over. All he did was remind you that he has the home field advantage."
Mission shook his head. "No, he turned me over his knee, spanked me, and sent me to bed without supper. But, this is good to know. I don't think I can out-argue the man, so I'm going to look for another way to take this on."
He turned to Susan and asked, "Have you given any thought to what happened? I mean, who were the ambushers and why did they attack, and who were the rescuers? There seems to be two groups in New Angeles, struggling for power."
"I don't know Mission, I can't make sense of it."
Mission perked up and said, "Hey, you know why I came by? I thought we might visit Carson and Montag."
"Okay, I'll grab a quick shower and then we can go."
"I'll ask for a gravity sled. I don't feel like walking."
Carson smiled weakly as they walked in. Mission nudged Susan with his elbow and said, "You see? Carson feels terrible because he hasn't thrown a fit, have you?"
Carson shook his head and Mission sat down at the foot of the bed. He smiled and said, "Okay, here's what you do. You scream at the top of your lungs and throw your bedp
an at the first person who shows up. Unless it's one of us. Then you make a lengthy series of completely unreasonable demands. You know, you want a tossed green salad for lunch, you want a personal assistant for the duration of your stay, and you want to smoke Cuban cigars here in your room. Then you personally abuse the staff, questioning their ancestry, their mother's virtue, and their father's actual genus and species. Boy, will you feel better."
Carson pointed his chin toward Mission and said, "How bad is the arm?"
"It's okay. They'll take more pictures in three weeks, six days, and then hopefully I get out of this fiberglass dinner jacket."
"Susan. How are you?"
"Just sore. I expect to be the Ice Queen again by this weekend."
"What about Montag?"
"That's where we're headed next. We'll drop back by and let you know how he is."
Carson nodded and said, "What about me?"
Susan said, "A doctor hasn't spoken to you yet?"
As he shook his head, Mission already yelled. "Hello? Can we get some information on this patient? When is the last time someone checked on him?"
When no one appeared immediately, he fumbled at the databay with his unwieldy cast and finally asked Susan to download Carson's chart into her com. As the data came available, he and Susan looked it over.
Susan said, "You lost some muscle. Burn trauma to the deltoids. The IV drip is feeding you a steroid combination to promote healing, and some new wonder drug antibiotic."
Mission grabbed the reference from her and said, "Hey, they are giving you some wimpy anti-inflammatory for pain instead of an opiate."
A med tech rushed in and said, "Only medical personnel are permitted access to those files."
Mission said, "Well, if you had been here ten minutes ago when we asked for information, you could have stopped us. Now what is the prognosis and when can our friend get out of this torture chamber?"
Living in Syn Page 21