Limbus, Inc. Book II

by Brett J. Talley

  He held his breath and angled—no bullets. The guard must be changing clips. To fire so quickly the gun must be a semiautomatic.

  Evans crouched, let out one breath, pushed the shaking bubble with his hands, and sprang away from it. The second it hit the ice a bullet lanced it, probing for him.

  Evans moved in a circle, trying to get his little speargun into position to fire. Each time he breathed, he shoved the bubble from him and danced a different way to the side. The bullets came up through them, the water shook with the sound, but he was not hit. Evans fought to watch the bootprints with one eye and the bullets with the other. His mask limited his field of vision dangerously. Evans circled, working to get the open entrance hole between him and the bootprints.

  A bullet, perhaps a hysterical shot, came up through the ice almost at Evans’s feet.

  The guard was close to the hole now, on the other side from Evans. The last few shots he had been pivoting—Evans would see the heels disappear as the man rose to his toes in the pivot. The ice, Evans imagined, must now be awash from the fountains of water that had sprung up whenever the bullets plunged through the ice. The man was not trying to move on the slick ice but was wisely holding still, turning, and then aiming his weapon. Evans doubted that, unless he was an ice diver, the guard knew his boots could be seen—and he could see nothing of Evans but the ghosts of bubbles.

  Evans blew breath out, pushed the bubbles behind him and to the left, leaped with his ten-pound weight a long moon-leap sideways from the boots so that at last he had the open water of the exit hole between him and the guard. Thunder, water vibrations, bullets whizzed like bees through his bubbles as they touched ice. Evans landed kneeling. Through the shining surface he saw, as if beneath him, blue sky and the gray parka of the guard, aiming a long brown stick toward the water. The water magnified everything, so that Evans saw the guard, shimmery but large, saw the gun fire and kick, saw him as clearly as if he, Evans, knelt on a rock, and looked at a six-foot long fish just beneath him in the clearest water.

  The guard would see him just as clearly too.

  Before the guard could swing his gun and shoot through the hole, Evans fired. The speargun’s stempoint, nine times larger than a .45 Magnum, hurled up out of the water into the guard’s stomach, glanced off the inside of his ribs, and—with the one-ton stainless cable holding it to the stem—the five-inch blade swung like a clock hand inside the man’s tissues, from eleven o’clock to five o’clock, slicing through half the organs in his body.

  Evans saw the print of the guard suddenly on the ice. One cheek and the side of his nose were pressed against it, enlarged, like a child’s against a store window, while his rifle was trapped beneath him.

  Evans straightened and walked around the hole. The guard lay under his feet. The ice turned pink: the icy water on the surface had diluted the blood.

  Evans looked up. The guard lay with his arms stretched above his head, like a ballet dancer.

  Evans no longer felt anything when he killed. Gore no longer startled him.

  God, it was so hard to breathe; he sensed his reason going. Get out. Evans stepped over the hole into the other world. The suit ascended.

  Hooking his inflated legs over the edge, then drawing his floating body out with short pulls of the spikes, Evans lay, suited, in the water beside the hole, looking at sky. He ripped his mask aside and breathed.

  Evans pressed his suit valve down, deflated it.

  He stood up, slowly.

  The enormous weight of his body returned as the Earth’s pull reasserted itself. He had not weighed more than ten pounds during the last thirty minutes, and now he weighed one hundred and seventy. It was like being yoked with cannonballs. The extra fifty pounds of his tank was a crushing weight on his back.

  Evans looked down at the water and felt dizzy; looked up at sky and felt confused, out of his element. The guard lay next to him in a red pool already partly frozen. Evans put down his pistol. He would hide the man in the water.

  As soon as the Comanche left Evans’s hands, he heard someone behind him say, “Hold it right there.”

  *

  The process was a long one but not nearly as painful as Blaine had expected. There were the headaches, of course, as the nannites enhanced his pineal gland and, in concert, the rest of his body. Scars from childhood seemed to fade away in a matter of hours. His blood pressure stabilized. His eyesight improved. His physical dexterity increased, as did his overall strength. They fed him well, trained him well, treated him well, and within a few weeks, he even managed to make himself forget that he was, in essence, a prisoner, their guinea pig, a subject who’d been “volunteered” and taken by them at his ex-wife’s request.

  He often asked if he could see Jennifer and the children, but each request was met with either flat refusal or hasty excuses. Once he even refused to perform the tests Copeland had ordered until he was allowed to at least speak to Jennifer.

  “You mustn’t do that,” said Tasha Willing during one of her rare visits. “The nannites have a secondary programming that can be activated by anyone at Limbus with the proper security clearance—admittedly, that’s only five people, but any one of them can do it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘secondary programming?’”

  Her face was, for the first time, cold and expressionless. “The process is a bit complex, but what it comes down to is this: with the push of a button, the nannites in your body can send you into the most painful convulsions you’ve ever experienced. Push another button, and the pain doubles.”

  He stared at her. “You wouldn’t dare kill me, not after all the work that’s been done and all the money that’s been spent.”

  “True. But things could be made very unpleasant for you, and I’ve come to understand that you’re feeling rather sprightly for a man of your age and previous health concerns.”

  “Just tell me—am I ever going to see my ex-wife and children?”

  “Eventually, yes. But if you continue to cooperate, I think we can…how does the saying go? ‘Sweeten the deal,’ even more.”

  It was four days later, as Blaine lay on the examination table while a robotic X-ray camera traveled up, down, and around his body, that he found out what that meant.

  “The Enticement,” said Copeland when Blaine asked him about it. “That’s what I call it. It’s a fucking carrot they dangle in front of you. In my case, it’s my family, too. Twice a month I get to see them for twenty-four hours off-site. The rest of the time, I’m here. Always read the fine print on employment contracts, especially with this bunch.”

  “So they’re not lying to me? I mean you got to see your family eventually, right? So they’ll let me, as well?”

  “Remain still, please. Yes, they do keep their word, amazing as that might seem.” Copeland looked around, noted the locations of the security cameras, and rolled closer to the examination table. “Don’t react to this. I’m serious. In fact…” He removed a hypodermic and gave Blaine a shot. “That’s a muscle relaxant to make certain you won’t react. I’ll just wait a moment. All relaxed? Good. You’ll be asleep in a few moments, but I want you to know what it is they’re going to use for your Enticement.

  “Your sister Carolyn is alive and well. Whatta you think of them apples?”

  *

  From that moment on, Blaine Evans’s soul was freed, and with that freedom came, as Copeland had promised, a kind-of godhood—if godhood is measured in lives that are spared and taken away, and Evans’s almost was a certain day on the ice a few years and many assassinations down the line.

  *

  Idiot!

  Why had he thought there’d be only two guards? Hover-cars moved fast and furiously, could cover half a mile in a few seconds. The sound of shooting must have been heard for miles along the ice! They probably fired up the first of the hover-cars before he’d even escaped the compound.

  Oh, you moronic horse’s ass!

  The ice was forming white crystals around Evans’s suit
. The skin on his face tightened: ice crystals were covering it. He had to dry.

  He was preparing himself to turn and face them down—he thought now only in terms of them because to think otherwise could be lethal at this point—and had just begun to pivot when he saw a thin leather strap come flying down across his field of vision. He managed to get his hand up in time to prevent the strip from constricting around his throat.

  Evans spun around, his would-be strangler holding tight, and saw that there was, indeed, a fourth guard. This one had a pistol and was trying to aim at Evans’s head but there was too much movement right now for the guy to get off a good shot. Any hit right now would just be lucky, even though the guy could take Evans with it if he were quick enough, which he wasn’t, but that was all right with Evans because, right now, he was dominated by pain both from within and without, and pain changed his world, put a cloud around him he couldn’t see through, preventing him from acting in accordance with logic and experience and training.

  For a moment, as the thin leather strap cut into the flesh of his hand, Evans was feeble and clouded and clumsy and ripe for death.

  Standing stock-still—a target on a shooting range.

  But the other guard, the kid with the gun, was too slow and the moment went by.

  Evans’s brain began to clear. You’re the best there is! he raged at himself. Maybe you’re getting too old for much more of this shit, but right now you are STILL THE BEST THERE IS and you have to do something NOW!

  He hit those words hard in his mind because the kid with the pistol was moving around, trying to get a decent aim again, and so what if his mind was clearing up? A bullet could crush clear tissue as well as cloudy, and the strangler-guard behind him was strong, almost as strong as Evans, and he had to use that to advantage somehow, had to do something extraordinary, something remarkable, something unique, jaw-dropping, and awe-inspiring, that was all, nothing to it, and he had to do it in the next five seconds.

  Go.

  And think about raising your rates next time.

  The Strangler was strong but the Strangler was shorter than Evans—

  —the kid with the gun was getting closer—

  —the Strangler was quick but the Strangler was now stationary—

  —the kid raised the gun into the firing position, supporting his firing arm with his free hand, a classic shooting-range stance —

  —so if you can budge the Strangler, if you can unsettle his balance, if you can do that—

  Evans faked going right—

  —and went right.

  The kid whirled left and fired into empty air and the surprise on his face was all that Evans needed; he powered everything he had into completing the next move, and behind him, he could feel the Strangler’s strip loosen slightly as the man’s balance momentarily deserted him.

  And with all the power in his great body, Evans hunched forward, pulling the Strangler with him, and when he had his balance, Evans put all of his strength into a shoulder throw, sailing the Strangler helplessly over him and into the too-slow kid.

  The two of them went down hard on the ice, and the kid was stunned as he hit, losing his grip on his weapon, and the gun skidded across the ice. Evans saw it but so did the Strangler, and the Strangler went for it, scrabbling and sliding along the ice like a desperate roach.

  Evans let him.

  His right hand was next to useless, bruised and bleeding from the leather strap, so he merely watched as the Strangler got closer to the gun—

  —then Evans kicked the Strangler’s head off—

  —or tried to. The Strangler was ready and grabbed Evans’s foot and snapped it around, tripping him—but not before Evans got off one good, spiked kick into the Strangler’s shoulder, then followed it up with a blow from his left hand, but it only grazed the Strangler’s head because even on his knees, even still dazed from the throw, even bleeding from the deep gashes left by Evans’s spikes, the Strangler could still move, and Evans went for another left-hand blow, and again the Strangler spun free; another left-hand barely connected as the Strangler writhed and twisted, and he really was like a roach, a water bug that you could see and chase but somehow never catch, and both of them went for the gun then, but it was clumsy going for both of them, pained going, skidding-on-the-ice going, and when Evans saw that he might not get to the gun first, he kicked at it and sent it spinning toward the exit hole and smiled as it teetered on the edge then fell in with a soft plop! as the Strangler chopped him on the neck, but Evans faked sideways enough so that the Strangler missed a death-spot—but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell, didn’t make his nerves shriek, didn’t start his brain to clouding again which—coupled with his desperate need for heat, for warmth, for drying—served to slow him momentarily, but Evans would not allow that to happen, not for long, anyway. If I cloud, I’m gone, it’s that simple, so he wriggled away from the Strangler’s grip and connected with a spiked kick to the side of the Strangler’s head, ground-zero on a death spot, and when his spiked boot hit, there was a double cry of pain, and who was to say whose was the greater agony, his or the Strangler’s. All he could be sure of was that the Strangler’s was over a lot sooner.

  Gasping, cramping, bleeding, Evans managed to get to his feet, then moved past the dead Strangler and finished off the kid quietly before staggering into the drying shed. It was so blessedly warm, so heavenly toasty and welcoming, and he fell onto the pile of blankets he’d left there, wrapping himself in them like a child hesitant to leave its mother’s womb, and then he reached for the thermos of hot tea and sipped it, then gulped it, not caring about the searing pain in his throat, and soon he was able to breathe easily and move freely with only a little agony. He managed to get out of his wetsuit and into some dry, warm clothes, taking care to check out the window for signs of other guards who might have heard the shooting earlier. As he looked, he saw maybe a dozen hover-cars rising out of the compound, swarming together, massing like dark, angry hornets, but before they could clear the distance, the air ignited in a thunderous flash and Evans grinned because the first of the six bombs he’d set in the compound were now detonating, seven seconds apart, and would level ninety-percent of the main building by the time they were finished, so that meant he was probably safe for a little while, thirty minutes tops—and that reminded him about the radio, so he staggered over and flicked it on, turned the transmission dial until he got the frequency he needed, instructed the person on the other end to patch him through.

  When the person he wanted to speak to was on the other end, Evans said, “It’s ‘Come-And-Get-Me-Time.’”

  “Did you get the disks?”

  “You’ll have to pick me up to find out, won’t you?”

  “I’m not in the mood for attitude, Blaine.”

  “Neither am I. I need medical attention, so have a doctor ready.”

  “You’ll have everything you need. Give me your location and I’ll have the chopper airborne in five minutes.”

  “You’d have a little trouble landing where I’m at.” He gave them an alternate location, a field less than half a mile from his present location. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “The chopper will be waiting.”

  “It damned well better be,” said Evans, “or your precious disks are going right into the lake.”

  “What a trusting soul you are.”

  “Just my warm and fuzzy nature. Don’t be late. Oh, and this time, I want to see live footage of my sister, not just fucking photographs. And Copeland gets an extra day with his family.”

  “You’re making demands?”

  “Let’s call it ‘negotiating’ and remain friends.”

  And with that, he killed the connection, gathered up his weapons, and set about preparing to blow up the shed and most of the ice supporting it.

  As he made his way through the surrounding woods to the rendezvous area, Evans couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the man he used to be, back in the life that now
seemed like some pathetic dream. From librarian to guinea pig to assassin; the next step, according to Copeland, was just short of becoming a god.

  And gods could make demands. Gods had bargaining power. Gods were not to be fucked with.

  Especially the crazy ones.

  And the librarian Blaine Evans, now having reached the end of his transmigration, knew damned well that he was crazy.

  There was a certain comfort in that.

  Fourth Interlude: A Pawn in their Game

  The witching hour had long since come in that village ringed by unforgiving cliffs of basalt. And to Conrad, it seemed as though he had entered some strange world beyond our own, where nothing was as it appears, and anything could be possible. He looked down into his empty stein. He needed another drink, but more than that, he needed someone to talk to.

  He pulled his coat tight around him once more and headed out into the night. He did not turn to or fro from his path this time. This time he headed straight to the Van Gogh. He ignored the eyes that peered out at him from beneath darkened eves. He did not stop to ponder what appeared to his passing glance to be the image of a globe, etched into the crumbling façade of an abandoned building. He continued on through the snow-filled streets, stopping only when he reached the door of the pub. He said a silent prayer it would still be open and pushed.

  But of course it was open. Mikhail was a creature of the night, and as the bar’s door swung wide, there was Mikhail, standing behind the bar, drying a glass.

  “Ah, my American friend. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come around tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Conrad mumbled. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”

  Mikhail squinted in the dim light. “Are you alright, my friend? You seem…distracted.”

  Conrad pulled himself up on a stool and collapsed on the bar. “I’ve just got some things going on. It’s nothing.” He looked down at the chess board. Mikhail had left the pieces where they had been the night before, as was their custom. He studied the position, but he could not concentrate. He picked up his knight, but then he put it back down again. Mikhail smiled. Conrad grabbed his bishop and moved it to attack the white queen.