The train did indeed arrive in Washington, D.C., some forty-five minutes later. However, it was another hour and a half before the shipping module was plucked from its flatcar by a huge crane, loaded onto a truck, and hauled to an unspecified location. Then there was a good deal of muffled conversation and clanking before the door opened and Saxon was able to roll down a ramp.
As Corvan and Kim followed, they found themselves in a large, open area. It smelled of freshly baked bread, and as the reop looked around, he saw rank after rank of beat-up delivery trucks. Due to the occasional food shortages, they resembled the armored cars of twenty or thirty years before, and carried armed guards. All bore side panels which showed a wealth of baked goods spilling forth from a stylized cornucopia. Most had been defaced with graffiti.
A woman in an electronic party mask approached and invited them to follow. As the woman turned away, Kim saw her mask ripple and change from the face of a well-known porno star to a perfect likeness of Rex Corvan. One of the WPO's many member companies had taken advantage of Corvan's fugitive status to make some money. Kim looked at Corvan, but saw no reaction. Apparently he'd missed it.
They followed the woman across the parking area and into a freight elevator. When the woman turned to touch a button, her mask had changed to resemble a French mass murderer. Kim preferred it to the likeness of Corvan.
The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors slid open. Now the smell of freshly baked bread was even stronger and Corvan could hear the sounds of machinery. Whatever else the Exodus Society used it for, the bakery was hard at work making bread. The odor made Corvan's stomach growl.
Somewhere nearby, a tone sounded and a voice said, "Would Nick Obero report to mixer station one. Nick Obero, please report to mixer station one."
The woman led them down a hall, past a number of metal doors, and into a large room. Hard white light threw heavy black shadows onto the concrete floor, and odds and ends of utilitarian furniture sat haphazardly around the room.
"If you'll just take a seat, they'll be with you in a moment," the woman said, and Kim thought she was smiling behind the mask.
Corvan wore a frown as he took a seat and sprawled out.
Kim sat on the edge of a beat-up table and lit a fag. "What's wrong?"
Corvan shrugged. "I feel as if I should do something, but I don't know what it is or how to get started. Does that make any sense?"
Kim smiled and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Kinda like we lost control somewhere along the line?"
Corvan looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure we ever had control, but yeah, kinda like that."
Their conversation was interrupted by noise in the hall. A few seconds later Saxon rolled into the room, closely followed by Carla Subido and a man in a Lone Ranger mask. An old-fashioned six-gun at his hip added to the impression. He had "guard" written all over him.
Carla Subido looked as she always did, well groomed and nicely turned out in an expensive leather jacket, tailored slacks, and handmade boots. Her eyes glittered as she took them in.
Saxon stopped and spun in a half circle. "Ms. Subido, it's my pleasure to introduce Kim Kio and Rex Corvan."
Carla forced a smile. This was a new situation and organization. All organizations can be conquered. All you need is a knowledge of the interpersonal relationships involved, the ability to manipulate them, and the patience to do so. And while you're waiting for things to go your way, it pays to be pleasant.
"Hello. Chris tells me I have you two to thank for my present situation. I congratulate you on your skill."
Kim dropped the fag and stepped on it. She wondered if Corvan had noticed the use of Saxon's first name. Sarcasm filled her voice: "Thanks. Coming from you, that means a lot."
Everyone looked at Corvan and waited for him to speak. White light glinted off his eye cam, and his nose pushed a long, hard shadow down across his jaw. It tightened. He started to record. As it did, a red indicator light began to blink on and off in the armrest of Saxon's black box. He ignored it.
"Why?" Corvan asked. "Why did you kill the president, his wife, my friend Neely, and God knows how many others?" He really wanted to know.
Subido was silent for a moment, and when she answered, it was with the same lie that she'd used on Saxon. The only lie they might believe, the one which edged her away from villain and toward the role of victim and contained just enough truth to be credible. She let her shoulders droop and looked at the floor.
"Numalo made me do it. I—I was in love with him . . . and he used that to make me do horrible things. And then when he thought I had betrayed him, he tried to kill me." When Subido looked up, there were tears trickling down her cheeks. "It was wrong, terribly wrong, and there's nothing I can do or say which will make it better."
It was an extremely convincing act, one which Saxon seemed to buy because he was looking at Subido with an expression of approval which bordered on adoration.
Fearing the worst, Kim looked at Corvan. But his face was like stone, and when he spoke, his voice was ice cold. "You are a lying, manipulative, cold-hearted bitch. You are without a doubt the greatest traitor this nation has ever produced, and like all dangerous vermin, should be immediately eradicated."
"Enough!" Saxon said, his face flushed and his hands trembling. "We all have our differences here, but verbal abuse will help none of us. For my part, I think Ms. Subido is genuinely sorry for her actions, and while that won't right all of her wrongs, it doesn't give you the right to attack her."
Saxon cleared his throat and seemed to collect himself as he looked around the room. "The fact is that we have an opportunity here, an opportunity to turn a terrible wrong into a magnificent right, and do something for the greater good. Right in this room we have the knowledge, the talent, the expertise to turn things around."
Corvan felt angry at first, then betrayed, and finally scared. And one look at Saxon confirmed his worst fears. The light made tiny horizontal shadows beneath each ridge of scar tissue. It made him look strange, monstrous, like something from beyond the grave. Worse than that, however, was the look in his eye, which said, "I know what truth is and that gives me the right to impose it on others." Saxon was no better than Subido.
"Unless we act," Saxon said, "and act quickly, the entire nation will be plunged into chaos. Bit by ugly bit the press will uncover the truth until everything is known. And while I share your interest in the truth, our country will be leaderless. God knows what might fill the vacuum."
"Everyone knows what will fill the vacuum," Corvan responded tiredly. He had a pretty good idea where Saxon was heading and wished the other man would get to the point. "If the president dies or is incapacitated, the vice president takes over. Assuming, of course, that someone can find the woman and convince her to do some work. That's the way our system operates."
Saxon nodded impatiently. "Of course. But there's another possibility. With Ms. Subido's help we could keep President Hawkins in charge awhile longer. That would give us time to prepare the vice president and arrange for a smooth transition."
Corvan shook his head sadly. "Oh really? And how long would that be? Long enough to make sure that the United States builds a thousand spaceships? To turn away from our problems in the hope that humanity can escape into space? You're so transparent it makes me sick. Besides, the VMG is gone, we destroyed it."
Saxon's response was surprisingly calm. "So your answer is no? You won't help?"
Corvan looked at Kim. She nodded. "That's right," Corvan responded, "our answer is no."
Saxon shrugged. "It was worth a try. Although Nollins will do whatever he's told, the man has no creativity, no spark. The two of you would have been much better. But things are seldom perfect." He forced a crooked smile. "As for the VMG, well, it may interest you to know that thanks to Ms. Subido here, one still exists. It seems that she and our friend Numalo commissioned a backup three weeks ago. It's right here in Washington, D.C., and, from what I'm told, it's ready to roll."
&nb
sp; Saxon looked from Corvan to Kim. "What? No screams of outrage? No cries of self-righteous indignation? No? Well, it's just as well. I have a country to run." He motioned to the guard in the Lone Ranger mask. "Take them away."
Corvan started to object but didn't. One look at the determination on Saxon's face told him it would be a waste of time.
Two more guards appeared, summoned by some silent signal, and they held ugly-looking Ingram machine pistols. Both wore the ever popular stocking masks and identical dark brown coveralls.
As Corvan and Kim were led from the room, Saxon and Subido were already locked in earnest conversation, one of her carefully manicured hands resting on his shoulder, while a look of almost sexual pleasure occupied the good side of Saxon's face.
Corvan and Kim were marched down a series of hallways and into a small room which had the look of an employee lounge. There were a couple of overpriced vending machines, a sink, a table and chairs, a ten-year-old holo set, and a broken-down couch.
Without uttering a word, one of the guards unplugged the single comset, tucked it under his arm, and walked out the door. The other guard checked the door's electronic lock, found it was operable, and followed.
Corvan waited for a minute and tried the door. It was locked. Not too surprising. Now to see if the guards were stationed right outside the door.
Corvan picked up a tubular chair and threw it at the door. It hit with a loud crash and fell to the floor. Nothing. So, either the guards were so professional that they knew a gambit when they heard one, or else they'd left for other duties. Given the nature of the organization, the windowless room, and the thickness of the metal door, the second possibility seemed most likely.
Satisfied that he knew the lie of the land, Corvan turned on the holo set and sat down on the couch.
Kim crossed her arms and frowned. "That's it? You give up and watch TV?"
Corvan raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a better suggestion?"
Kim looked around at the dingy walls and the metal door. "No. I guess I don't."
"Then have a seat," Corvan said, and patted the couch next to him.
Kim took him at his word. He put an arm around her shoulders. It had been a long, long time since anyone had held her, and it felt good. She snuggled in. Kim found she felt strangely good and bad at the same time.
For a long time they just sat there, watching a special report on the latest food riots in China, unmoved by the shots of starving children. After the tension and violence of the last few days, both of them were momentarily emptied of all thought and emotion, unable to identify and sympathize with a plight other than their own.
So when the voice came from a speaker located right over their heads, it made them jump. "Rex Corvan? Kim Kio?"
Corvan responded automatically. "Yes?"
"This is Martin. I have been monitoring recent conversations within the bakery via the building's intercom. For that reason I am aware of Mr. Saxon's treachery. Due to a lack of sophistication on the part of the building's internal communications system, I am not aware of your exact location. However, I have seized momentary control of the bakery's computer and am unlocking all of its doors."
Corvan heard a loud click from the direction of the metal door as Martin continued.
"Unfortunately my voice is being carried throughout the building. So if you wish to escape, I suggest that you move quickly."
Corvan looked at Kim and she looked at him. Then they were up and running for the door. It opened easily and they were out into the hall.
Corvan heard loud voices off to the right, so he turned left, and ran full out. Kim was right behind him.
As they neared an intersection, a man jogged around a corner and started their way. He wore a brown jumpsuit. Both of his hands were occupied trying to pull a stocking down over his face. When he saw them, he stopped to grab for the submachine gun slung under his right arm, but didn't make it in time.
The man went over backward as Corvan hit him with a full body block. The fall knocked most of the air out of the man's lungs, but he was tough, and he tried to raise his head. But that's as far as the man got because Kim grabbed a handful of hair and bounced his head off the concrete floor.
Corvan stripped the unconscious man of his submachine gun and two spare magazines. He saw it was a 9-mm Mitsubishi-Colt with provision for wired interface. He plugged the wire into his temple jack and a targeting grid appeared in front of his good eye. Glancing at Kim, he shook his head in amazement. "You should've been a Green Beanie. We could've used you."
"No way," Kim answered, looking down the hall. "I picked a nice nonviolent profession—and it was too, until I met you. Here they come."
There was a yell and two shots as a group of men and women skidded around a corner at the opposite end of the hall. "Run!" Corvan said, and fired a burst down the hallway to slow them down.
As their pursuers dived for the floor, Corvan took off, rounded the comer, and sprinted after Kim. He watched with approval as she opened a door marked "EXIT" and disappeared. Stairs. Stairs which would take them down to the underground garage. Maybe they could use a delivery truck to make their getaway.
Corvan reached the door and pulled it open. Bullets spanged off the heavy metal as he charged inside.
"Down here!" Corvan found himself on a landing. Looking down, he saw Kim on the stairs below. He waved and took the stairs three at a time. He was only one flight down when he heard the fire-escape door slam open, followed by a burst of gunfire. They were out for blood. Corvan paused long enough to pump three rounds up the stairwell. Even a second or two would help.
Then Corvan was in motion, taking each flight of stairs in three or four giant leaps, stumbling and almost falling but somehow keeping his feet. The fire doors had numbers on them, numbers which continued to get smaller: six, five, four, and now three.
Corvan saw something round and black fall past the corner of his eye. "Grenade!"
But it was too late. The grenade went off with a mind-numbing roar somewhere below. The stairs shook and Corvan was thrown against the wall. Forcing himself up, the reop looked over the rail. He used his eye cam to zoom in on the crumpled figure below. "Kim!"
The rail vibrated as a bullet hit it. Corvan's face was contorted with rage as he aimed the machine gun upward. Two faces appeared in the electronic targeting grid. "Bastards!" Corvan squeezed the trigger and the feces turned into red mist.
As Corvan ran down the stairs, the word "Reload" began to blink on and off in front of his good eye. Without looking, he hit the magazine release, allowed it to fall away, and slapped a new one into place.
Oblivious to everything else, Corvan knelt beside Kim's crumpled form. There was a large, dark stain where a piece of shrapnel had hit her in the side and five or ten little facial cuts where tiny pieces of metal and concrete had lacerated her skin. A large blue bump indicated where her head had hit something hard. But she was breathing, and a quick check showed that her pulse was strong.
Picking Kim up as gently as he could, Corvan carried her downward. Up above he heard the sounds of feet on the metal stairs. They weren't giving up. He paused, looked upward, and fired when some brown cloth moved into the targeting grid. Someone screamed and someone else dropped another grenade. It was still falling when Corvan opened the door marked "1" and slid inside.
The door was almost closed by the time the grenade went off, and displaced air pushed it open again. Ignoring the sound of the explosion, Corvan shifted Kim to a more comfortable position on his shoulder and half walked, half jogged down the hall. Clear at the other end of the corridor he saw another "Exit" sign. Turning around every ten or fifteen feet, Corvan tried to look in both directions at once.
Finally he was there, twisting the knob and opening the door. He paused for a moment, listening for the sound of boots on metal stairs, but heard nothing. Stepping inside, he moved downward, swearing as Kim's limp body tried to slide forward, fighting to keep his balance.
Suddenly a now f
amiliar voice flooded the intercom. "This is Chris Saxon. The fugitives are in elevator three headed for the roof. I repeat, the fugitives are in elevator three, headed for the roof."
The voice actually belonged to Martin and didn't sound a bit like Saxon but chances were that most of Corvan's pursuers wouldn't know the difference. The reop smiled. It's nice to have friends. Especially electronic ones.
The next door said "Garage." Corvan opened it a crack and took a peek. As far as he could tell, there was nothing ominous going on outside. He saw a lot of oil-stained concrete in the foreground and some delivery vans beyond that. Good. Maybe he could load Kim into one of them without being seen.
Pushing the door all the way open, he moved through and into the garage proper. Still no signs of trouble. It seemed as if Martin's ruse had drawn his pursuers up to the roof.
In the meantime Kim was getting heavier. At first she'd been light, especially with the adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, but now she weighed him down and made it hard to move. Corvan felt terribly exposed as he crossed the short distance to the parked rigs, waiting for the shout and the rattle of gunfire which would surely follow.
It seemed like a miracle when he made it, but that didn't mean much, since all the vans were locked. Breathing heavily, Corvan worked his way down the line, trying each door as he passed, swearing as they refused to open. Then he saw something up ahead. A roll-around work light, a truck with its hood up, a short stepladder, and standing on top, a mechanic with his or her ass in the air.
Moving quietly so he wouldn't alert the mechanic, Corvan laid Kim down, cradling her head until the very last moment, gritting his teeth when he saw how much blood she'd lost.
Tiptoeing around the van, he peeked through the driver's window, saw an ignition keypad, and glided toward the front of the truck. Stepping up onto the stepladder, he stuck the submachine-gun's stubby barrel into the crack of the mechanic's substantial rear end and cleared his throat.
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