Before he had time to judge, the robed figure from the floor behind him sprang up and pinned Romulus's arms down at his sides. The gas hadn't affected him! Romulus fought to free himself, hoping his mask would stay over his face. His mentor struggled with his own opponent miles away across the room. Romulus tried to hurl himself back against the wall to knock the robed man off, but he was off-balance and still weakened from the shock of his fall. He tried to pull his gun arm free, but the figure held it fast. All around him was chaos, and he only half saw Diomedes connect with a backward elbow jab and fling his stunned assailant to the floor with disproportionate strength. Romulus himself could manage no such feat and cried out as a sharp pain stabbed into his wrist. He looked down in time to see his gun fall from his hand, bloodied from where pointed black fingernails had pierced his skin deeply. Another hiss filled his ears, this time from his own attacker, and he turned to see the glint of fangs poised to sink into his neck. He tried to pull away when a sharp retort filled the room. Warmth splashed the side of his face in the same instant that his attacker slumped away.
A split second after looking down the barrel of the gun that saved him, Romulus spun belatedly away from his fallen attacker. He intended a glance down at the body to assure himself that the man wasn't still coming for him, but that glance turned longer until Romulus was staring at the sight of the cultist laying wrecked and lifeless on the floor.
"He won't get up," Diomedes said finally.
Romulus nodded and pried his eyes from the body. His own heart continued to pound in his chest. "Thanks," he managed.
If Diomedes heard the expression of gratitude, he made no show of it. "There's no more up there." He motioned with his gun to the alcove above the tunnel from where the second cultist must have come. The gas hadn't worked on either of them. Had he thrown the grenade wrong somehow? The thought echoed in his mind; everything else was strangely absent.
"I screwed up." His gaze fell again to the body before he had to look away.
His mentor only grunted and bent down to the body of the man he had thrown from his back. That one had been in the alcove when the grenade burst. It made sense that the gas hadn't affected him, at least at first. But the other had been right in the middle of the cloud. Why hadn't it worked? It had to be his fault. If things had worked correctly he would have been out completely when they entered. He wouldn't have attacked him.
He wouldn't have gotten shot.
"This one's alive," Diomedes said. "We'll take him and go. Before more come." In one quick motion the large man had the body up over his shoulder and was waiting for Romulus to climb back into the tunnel. Things were moving swiftly. Romulus knew he was falling behind. He pressed the thoughts quietly filling his mind back into a dark corner and started for the tunnel.
"Hey," Diomedes began, looking at him. The tone of his voice suggested he had noticed something. Romulus turned.
"Wipe that blood off your face," his mentor said. "We'll look suspicious enough carrying this around."
Romulus blinked for a moment and then touched his fingers to his cheek. The warm sensation he now recalled feeling earlier returned as his fingertips pulled away red. "Oh, damn," he whispered. He stared at the crimson gel. Why in God's name hadn't the grenade worked?
"Use the dead one's robe. Just get it off and get in the tunnel." Feeling queasy, Romulus nodded and listened to his mentor.
VII
The reporter sat silently in the floater, his eyes wandering occasionally as Felix acquainted him with the circumstances surrounding their own search for Wraith. He still seemed to be taking everything with a grain of salt. His body language told Felix that he had begun to trust him a little more—his arms had uncrossed, at least—but he still appeared to hang on to the possibility of a trick. Felix supposed he couldn't blame him too much, but hoped he wouldn't hang on to it much longer. It remained for Felix to see if it was the immediate situation that made Brian so cautious, or if he was just another victim of paranoia.
Felix hoped it was the former. It was already going to be difficult enough to get Diomedes to allow him to join them. Maybe things would work a little smoother if he prepped Brian for that beforehand.
"So you're sure he's tied in with the warehouse arsons?" Brian asked. "There's nothing in my files to even suggest that." He'd been skeptical of that idea the moment Felix had told him of it.
"No," said Felix. "But my associate seems to have evidence to that effect."
"Diomedes, you mean."
"Yeah, and I wouldn't press him on the matter too much until he's had a chance to accept your presence in this little venture."
"Uh huh. And that would be when?"
Felix chuckled. "About five or six years should do it."
"Great. Sounds like a friendly guy."
"Well, I'm not completely certain how, ah, comfortable he'll be with letting you join us. As I said, he's the one that hired me, and he wouldn't even've done that if he didn't think it absolutely necessary. He'll be worried about you getting in his way or stabbing him in the back somehow—or maybe writing about him. He'll certainly be worried you'll try to get yourself a cut of his pay. If I know him as well as I think I do, that is."
"I'm just after an interview. I couldn't care less about money or anything else."
"All the same, might be better if I do the talking when they get back," Felix said. "Unless I'm wrong—which I realize is a foolish colloquialism—"
"What is?"
"'Unless I'm wrong.' We're all correct about everything unless we're wrong. There's no point in saying it."
"So why say it?"
"As I said before, I don't always have a point," Felix reminded him with a smile. "Just a habit of mine. But as I trying to say, Diomedes might have a problem with the interview, too."
"And why is that?"
"Call it a hunch. It's that whole 'unless I'm wrong' thing."
"So you did have a point," Brian said.
"I suppose I did. Isn't life amusing?"
What Felix suspected was that Diomedes, if he was truly planning to kill the man in question, would certainly see the interview as an obstacle to that—or at least to doing it cleanly. As for telling Brian his reasons, Felix decided to hold off. No sense in telling him of things that he only suspected just yet. Felix considered that, had he known him a little longer, he might perhaps have said something, but for now. . . Besides, he didn't know how well Brian would be able to conceal that suspicion from Diomedes, and getting the man to let the reporter in would be hard enough without any other leaks in discretion.
It occurred to Felix that he was hiding things from the reporter: the very man he was asking to trust him. It was hypocritical, but likely necessary in order for the situation to work out for the best. He watched Brian consider his words and wondered how necessary it really was. Felix thought he reasonably understood the workings of the freelancer's mind to the point where Felix would be able to help the situation to work out for the best, but even so. . . Really, he was dealing with the freelancer's suspicion and lack of trust with a lack of trust of his own. He considered the philosophical dilemma in that, and wondered if he was strong enough to do it the hard way.
"So what about the other one?" the reporter probed. "You called him Flynn?"
"You mean should you worry about him?"
"Well, that, among other things. What can you tell me?"
"I don't know him quite as well, but he's nowhere near the. . . ," Felix paused to search for a word, "individual Diomedes is." Not if I can help it, anyway. "He's definitely looking forward to it, but I'm not sure if he's got the—"
"Brains?" Brian asked. He seemed to regret it as Felix cocked his head.
"I was going to say 'heart.' Or the lack of it, rather."
Brian shrugged. "It's just that he didn't seem to be saying much, just blindly following you two."
"Mr. Savagewood," Felix observed, "you seem to hear a lot, but I'm not sure how much of it you listen to."
After a moment of confusion, Brian nodded and tapped his ears. "Oh, yeah. They're implants. I can tune into one conversation and tune the others out to a pretty reasonable degree."
Felix blinked at him. The man had both completely missed and proven his point at the same time. He decided not to belabor the point for the time being. "I thought so, considering what you overheard in the bar. And seeing how you spotted our floater from a distance in the dark, I'm guessing your ears aren't the only artificial senses you've got. I'd say it's a good bet your head is one big sensor?"
"Damn right. The best money can buy," Brian said. "The eyes are Opticell 2600s, with a few special features."
Felix gave an appreciative chuckle. "Sounds expensive. They must pay you well."
"Well, yeah, they're expensive." Brian glanced away with a shrug and shifted in his seat. "But that's pretty much all I'm getting. I'm not about to go hacking limbs off for metal."
"Not ever?" Felix asked. He sensed an interesting conversation.
"Well, okay, I've thought about it. But who hasn't, right?"
"There is an odd lure to it for a lot of people." Though they were initially resisted upon their introduction, cybernetic limbs had eventually made their way into fashion like an expensive technological tattoo.
"And lemmings have an odd lure to jump off cliffs, but does that mean they should?"
"Lemmings aren't suicidal, they're just hungry and stupid. In their rush to find food they occasionally stumble off a cliff and the ones following are too dumb to pay attention until it's too late."
"Hungry and stupid, hmm? Still sort of fits then, doesn't it?"
Felix shrugged. "Just making a correction. Another habit of mine."
"My point is that it's a little too risky, even if you've got the money to do it right."
"Psychologically speaking, you mean," Felix stated. "Incidences of mental collapse from one limb replacement are pretty uncommon, from what I understand."
"Maybe, but the risk is still there, isn't it? And it's not exactly something they can predict."
"In some cases they can," Felix said, "if the patient has had a previous history of mental instability."
"But they're not the only cases. I've heard of all sorts of cases of perfectly normal people whacking out in all sorts of ways."
"Oh, no, they're not the only cases; I was just pointing out the current knowledge." All sorts of ways. The reporter was right. Sometimes it manifested itself in a sudden flare of uncontainable violence. People just snapped. But sometimes it was less obvious, surfacing in varieties of paranoid delusions or schizophrenia.
"And even if they can predict it in some cases," Brian went on, "they're still not sure why it happens."
"There are some theories. Though most of the concepts that support them are barely theories themselves."
"The only thing I've heard was something about the EM radiation messing with the brain, but that's not very well accepted, is it?"
"Not exactly," said Felix. "There are so many other similar devices—cybernetic and non-cybernetic—that if there was an effect it shouldn't just be in those who have them attached. Though I believe there is a small group of those who think the proximity and constant presence in the body may provide enough additional exposure to push things beyond some sort of critical point."
"And what do you think?"
"I think they might have the right cause—constant proximity and attachment, that is—but not the reason for the effect."
"What do you mean?" Brian asked. At least he seemed more relaxed.
"There are some schools of thinking, whose origins I believe lie in Eastern philosophy, that say the mind doesn't reside completely in the brain, that it's also resident in the rest of the body."
Brian smirked. "What, so if you cut off your arm you lose a bit of your mind?"
"You're thinking too physically. You've heard of amputees waking up and scratching limbs that weren't there? Same thing. The energy, chi, soul, spirit, whatever you want to call it is still there."
"So the new replacement messes that up somehow."
Felix shrugged. "The idea's got some merit. I'm sure whatever it is, it's a mix of influences. You have to admit, it does give one a certain unnatural feeling to be able to hear the way we do with nothing more than a thought."
"Well, I don't know what the hell causes it. I just don't want to mess around with it. I wouldn't be surprised to find out you're right, though."
"I wouldn't be surprised to find out I was wrong, either. People thought the earth was flat once, too." Felix grinned.
"Whatever. It's not something to screw around with is my point."
"And yet you still have yours."
"That's different! With what I've got—well, the risk, it's not nearly as big."
"It's still a risk," Felix countered.
Brian crossed his arms, seeming slightly agitated. "There's a difference between crossing the street and physically hurling yourself in front of a truck, wouldn't you say?"
Felix held up his hands. "Sorry, I didn't mean to seem like I was judging you. Unless I miss my guess I've certainly taken at least a little more of those risks than you, myself. My point is that you obviously felt it was justified based on the benefits. By that same token, others obviously did as well. I'm not saying whether it's right or wrong. Just one of the pitfalls of the modern world, same as it's always been."
"I still say you have to be crazy to mess around with that stuff to the point some do."
"Well, if they're already crazy then it's not exactly a risk now, is it?" Felix shot the man a grin. To his slight relief, the reporter chuckled. Felix decided to take the moment to nudge the subject to one side. He glanced out the window for any sign of Diomedes and Flynn, and asked, "So would you be a fan of CPMC, then?"
The reporter made his own search out the window, mirroring Felix. "You mean Big Brother?" he asked with a glance up at the alley wall.
"That'd be a no, then."
"Well, it's sort of a deal with the devil, isn't it? I mean they serve their purpose when someone goes berserk, but at what cost?" Brian's tone took on that of someone reciting a prepared speech. "Constantly monitoring anyone who even gets a minor implant, tracking their behavior, following their movements. They scrutinize every deviant activity no matter how minor—"
Felix cut him off. "Taking a little license with exaggeration aren't you? Cybernetic Psychoses Monitoring and Control. It's in the name but they haven't got the resources to—" He stopped mid-sentence as he heard a sound outside the floater.
Outside the tinted windows, Flynn pulled himself up out of the manhole.
"They're back," Felix said. It sounded more like a warning than he had intended. "Remember, let me do the talking," he warned again. (Why break a trend?) "And try not to piss him off."
Brian settled a bit in his seat. Felix inched forward, waiting for the fun to begin. A few moments later the door opened between them and Diomedes. His eyes locked onto the red-haired newcomer from the start. Neither said a word, but Brian quickly folded under the freelancer's dead stare and looked to Felix. Diomedes's eyes followed an instant later.
"Who's this?" The curiosity came from Flynn, who stood in the door just behind Diomedes.
Felix looked at the younger man. "This is Brian Savagewood. And to answer the next question I know you're wondering," Felix turned to Diomedes, unable keep from flashing a grin, "yes, that is his natural hair."
They appeared quickly, though their speed surprised only some. In reality, they had been given instructions to be prepared to go at a moment's notice. As the one who had given those instructions upon arriving with them at Alpha Station, Marette Clarion's reaction to their rapid response was one only of satisfaction that her instructions had not been ignored in the days since.
She met the team at the operations center of the mining camp just under one hour after she called for them, which was shortly after the mining foreman, a rather worrisome man by Clarion's estimates, had reported
the "door." She hadn't needed the foreman's opinion, but ESA didn't want her to move without it. For the moment, what ESA said was what she would do.
Foreman Andora was, for the most part, cooperative and even welcoming of Marette's authority and presence as the ESA overseer. Marette had even noticed more than a little apprehension when she had left the foreman alone with his crew in order to report back to ESA and call in the team. It wasn't until she had given the man instructions to widen the chamber near the door that the apprehension seemed to fade. The tunnel did not really need to be widened—not yet, anyway—but it kept then all occupied. It was not until Marette returned with the team and their equipment and told the mining crew to evacuate the tunnel that Parker Andora began to get curious and demanded an explanation.
Truly, it had been more of a request than a demand, which made it easier for Marette to deflect him with a reminder of on just whose authority Saratoga was allowed to be here.
"If you have any issues with that," she had stated, "talk to your superiors, have them talk to ESA, and then ESA will talk to me. In the meanwhile just let me handle things as I am required to and you will be fine."
Andora had sheepishly replied that he thought he was understandably curious about exactly what was going on, but left things at that, and took his crew back to the surface without another word.
Marette waited until they had moved out of sight and gave the order for her team to unpack the container that they had brought with them into the tunnel from the shuttle. The boulder-sized cargo container split into three parts, the first two of which were light enough to be carried unassisted by her team. The final was the largest of the three and massive enough to need to be unloaded from the transport belt by team members in exo-chassis borrowed from the mining crew.
Marette watched as they carried the components of the portable airlock over to the door where it would be assembled. The two smaller cargo containers were moved near the door as well, their contents set to rest until the airlock was ready.
A Shadow in the Flames (The New Aeneid Cycle) Page 9