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The Rebel

Page 16

by Gerald Brandt


  “Ailsa, could you come here please?” The entire lab went quiet. He rarely called anyone over to his desk.

  “What can I do for ye?” Her Scottish accent was quiet, but definitely there.

  “I need you to check these results. Make sure I didn’t miss anything.” He handed her a memory chip with the base data. “You’ll need to set up your own tests and run it through the simulator.”

  “I can do that.” She took the chip and went back to her desk.

  It would take her a few hours to complete. Bryson went to the corner of the lab that contained a small kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He wasn’t normally a coffee drinker, but the tea wasn’t working. He sat on one of the small couches and sipped the hot liquid. Bringing food or drinks back to his desk was against lab policies, and rules were important.

  He’d just drifted off when the lab door whooshed open and silence fell, bringing him back to full wakefulness.

  “Where is he?” Ms. Peters’ voice cut through the silence.

  No one answered, but he saw a single hand point in the direction of the kitchen. He stood and waited for her.

  She walked across the lab, the familiar sound of her heels clicking on the raised tile floor. “Tell me about last night.” The regular pair of soldiers followed her.

  “I made some changes and ran some tests.”

  “I know that. Tell me about the results. Are they valid?”

  He shrugged. “I’m having Ailsa redo my tests from the base data. If she can duplicate them, I can tell you if they are valid. Or not.” Her question proved one thing at least . . . the lab network was being monitored. That brought the virus to the front of his thoughts. If she could look into the lab network, then there was a potential path back out the virus could use. It would all depend on how well the path was firewalled, and how good the network virus scanners were. He imagined they would be very good. But from what he could understand of the virus, so was it.

  “How long will that take?”

  Bryson read the clock on the wall. “Maybe another forty-five minutes?” He must have done more than drift off.

  “Good.” Ms. Peters’ comm unit rang and she pulled it out of her jacket pocket. “Hello?”

  “Are you sure?” she asked, waiting for the reply. From her body language, he could tell something was wrong. “And they let her go?” More waiting. Her entire body had tensed up and she turned slightly away from him, her movements stiff and unnatural. “I sent out that memo yesterday afternoon. They should have known—”

  Bryson smirked. Even with her back turned, he could tell she was furious. She wasn’t used to being cut off.

  “I don’t care. Get her back and do it now.” She closed the link and faced Bryson. He stopped smiling. “You have an hour to get a report to me.”

  “That won’t give me—”

  “I don’t care. Start writing it now. Two versions if you have to, one for if that girl’s tests duplicate yours, and one if they don’t.”

  With that she turned and stormed out of the lab, her two goons following her.

  It bothered Bryson that she had called Ailsa that girl. Ailsa had a doctorate in quantum physics, just like him, and that alone should earn her more respect.

  LOS ANGELES LEVEL 7—WEDNESDAY, JULY 5, 2141 12:05 P.M.

  The back of the truck was almost empty. There were no soldiers with guns guarding the door, just empty seats and the same single strip of light in the middle of the roof. The only other occupant besides me was a man hacking up a lung. He kept talking to me and apologizing. I moved to the far corner.

  We were told SoCal was letting us go—they didn’t want us. I don’t think I’d ever been so relieved not to be wanted in my life. We didn’t get our clothes back; they’d been destroyed. We did get to keep the ones they gave us. I was already chafing from the bra that didn’t fit.

  The relief didn’t last long. The truck turned the wrong way when it left the down-ramp on Level 6. I remembered the route we’d taken to get up, and I was sure we had taken a different turn. Was it my memory that was wrong?

  The guy in the corner couldn’t stop coughing. He’d given up all pretense of covering his mouth. His face was haggard, with sunken eyes and pallid, yellowish skin. I’d seen this before. This was the severe withdrawal of a Sweat addict. I was told it was a hell of a high, but when you came down, things got really tough. Without warning, his hacking turned into choking, and whatever he’d managed to get down his throat during breakfast came back up. The truck braked and then accelerated. I lifted my feet away from the putrid stream that slid down the length of the floor.

  It didn’t take long before we hit another down-ramp. Level 5. We stopped almost right away and the back door opened. The soldier reeled away from the stench and held the door open at arm’s length. I jumped out without looking back, wondering why they dropped us off behind their checkpoints. I guess since we’d scanned clean, they weren’t too worried. That was good to know . . . they trusted their data. Maybe too much.

  They had dropped us off at McConnell Park. The place looked worse than it had a year ago. There was gray scum over the little water left in the pond. It looked thick enough to walk on. I couldn’t believe I’d used it to clean myself up last time I was here.

  The trees had lost most of their leaves, and the grass—if you could still call it that—churned more gray dust into the air with every step. I sat on a bench by the water and watched an old couple on the path across from it. There were no mothers with baby strollers, no people walking and enjoying what little nature this part of the city had to offer.

  I missed my mountains and blue sky with a ferocity that was completely unexpected. My soul yearned for the hard, warm rock pressing against my skin with Ian beside me. Talking about the little things that barely mattered then, and now mattered so much. Tears coursed down my cheeks and I bent over, my arms wrapped around my knees, and rocked, holding in the pain and the memories.

  How I wanted to lock the memories away with the others. How I wanted to forget everything. His soft, gentle touches. The taste of his lips. The blood in the back seat of the car.

  But not this time. Not for Ian. I would remember all of it, let it shape me into a mother who told stories to her son. Stories of how great his dad had been, how strong, how loving. We couldn’t be a family, but he would still know his dad.

  I wiped my nose with the rough sleeve of my shirt and rubbed my face free of the tears. I had a son to fight for, and the next step of that fight was getting home.

  I walked from the park past the statues of men on horses. They were always men, never women. I guess women were never important enough to get a statue.

  The restaurant Mikey had dragged me through when we’d been trying to lose Quincy was gone, its windows boarded up and the sign cracked and missing pieces so I could see the light fixtures behind it. Keeping a restaurant open when food was scarce was a stupid idea. I hoped the owners had gotten out before they lost everything. It had happened so fast, I doubted it.

  Walking to the transfer elevator would take me about a half hour, and that would get me down to Level 3. If it was open. For all I knew, they closed all access to the elevators when they installed the new checkpoints.

  From there, it would take most of the day to walk to Level 2 Chinatown. At least it was daytime. The streets had gotten worse at night; desperate people often did desperate things. The proliferation of drugs had expanded, everything from everyday Sweat to whatever could get people high.

  I guess it was easier than facing the new reality for some.

  SOCAL SAT CITY 2—WEDNESDAY, JULY 5, 2141 8:30 A.M.

  Janice woke up from one of the best sleeps she’d had in a long time. The bed was firm, but comfortable, and the sheets were clean. It was a far cry from the alley outside of Chinatown. The first thing she had done when they put her in the room was double-check
the door. They had locked her in from the outside, and this lock was a good one. The second thing she did was strip down and take a shower. They had cleaned her up in the hospital a bit, but not as well as fresh hot running water and soap would. She’d stood under the flowing bliss until her skin wrinkled, using more water in thirty minutes than she had seen in months.

  Life in the Sat Cities wasn’t too bad. She could get used to it.

  She had dried off and padded to the double bed, wriggling under the cool sheets until they were up to her neck. Sleep took over before she’d realized.

  The clock on the bedside table showed 8:30 in the morning. The table in the corner held a thermos and fresh fruits and vegetables. Someone had been in the room as she’d slept. Janice knew it should have bothered her, but it really didn’t. In fact, they were treating her pretty good. Today she would find out what SoCal planned to do with her. The way she saw it, they would give her three options: start working for them, put her back in the hell that was San Angeles, or kill her.

  Killing her seemed to be a distant third. There was no way they would waste water and food on someone they were planning on getting rid of. She didn’t want to be dumped back into San Angeles with the rest of the garbage. Out of all three, the first option was the best scenario she could think of. She’d be employed again, and maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to get above Level 5 and get to follow through on her retirement plan. Things were looking good.

  Her outlook changed when her door opened. She’d gotten dressed in her old dirty clothes and eaten breakfast when the two soldiers walked right in. Both had holstered stun guns and batons. One stood by the door while the other grabbed her and walked her out of the room. They didn’t say anything.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  They didn’t even look like they heard her.

  “I want to see John Smith.”

  She tried to pull her arm away, and the other soldier grabbed her as well. They closed the door and marched her down the hall. What was going on? Her fingers tightened into fists with her arms locked to her sides.

  The hall was as empty as last night. It looked like an apartment complex, but each door had an external lock, just like hers, and the exit at the end was guarded.

  John met her past the door.

  “Let her go,” he said. When the soldiers hesitated he turned to them. “Let her go. Now.”

  They did as they were told.

  “Now, Miss Robertson, come with me.”

  Janice didn’t hesitate. Anything was better than being hauled around by the soldiers like a common criminal. “Where are we going? Back to see Ms. Peters?”

  John smiled. “No. If you ever see her again, you will either be in serious trouble or exceptionally high on the corporate ladder. I don’t think you would like to be either of those.”

  Little did he know. Her goal in life was to get comfortable enough that she would never have to do anybody else’s dirty work for them. No more contracts, no more guns. Just some peace and quiet under the Level 6 roof. She had never liked the open sky. If she needed to go full corporate to do that, so be it.

  “So where—”

  “All in good time.” He walked faster, forcing her to pick up her pace until they reached an elevator.

  They got off on a floor that looked like every office building she had ever been in. Sconces reflected light off a ceiling painted white or light gray, and the floor was tiled with something easy to clean. Every few feet, a closed and unlabeled door led off into parts unknown. She counted the doors they passed until John stopped in front of one that was like all the others. Number thirty-four.

  “Go on in,” he said. “I have some other errands to run. If all goes well, I’ll see you again.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  He opened the door and placed a hand between her shoulders, pushing her in. The door shut automatically behind her.

  The room was small, set up for a single interview. Behind the scrawny man with a shirt that billowed around him was a mirror, no doubt two-way. She’d been in enough interrogation rooms to recognize one. Her best guess was that John was behind it, watching everything. Maybe even Ms. Peters. The man sat behind a small table permanently attached to the floor. She took the only other chair without being asked, anxiety rising through her. She tried not to show it, but her leg bounced despite her attempts to stop it.

  The interview was short. The man knew more about her than she knew about herself, everything from where and when she was born up to the day she had started working for Jeremy. He read it off like a litany of offenses, something to be atoned for at all costs. He ended it with an offer. Work for SoCal.

  She grabbed at it like it was life preserver. It probably was. It was also far too easy.

  “Good,” he said, standing up and reaching out to shake her hand. “Normally we have a training stage, but with your time at Meridian and ACE, we’ll bypass that. Instead, you’ll be working with a more seasoned person. Your job will be to find and monitor Kris Merrill and the insurgents. Nothing more. Your partner will be in charge. Consider this your only chance. If you screw it up . . .”

  “So you’re sending me down to Level 2?” It was a stupid question to ask.

  He picked the pad off the table. “You may go.”

  “Where?”

  It seemed as though the question puzzled him. “Out the door, of course. I have work to do.”

  She shrugged and left the room the same way she’d walked in. He followed her out, the door closing behind him, and walked down the hall, away from the elevator. Should she follow him? Was that what he wanted? She was saved the decision by John coming out of the door beside her interview room.

  “Good. Let’s go. I’ll introduce you to your partner and send you on your way.”

  LOS ANGELES LEVEL 2—WEDNESDAY, JULY 5, 2141 9:35 P.M.

  I walked through the bright flickering neon of Chinatown. What once felt like home now felt like a stranger’s place you had visited once before. Everything you expected was there, but it was somehow different and foreign. It took me a while before I figured out exactly what it was. Sure, there were more homeless people on the street, and it was quieter than I ever remembered it being. But what was really different was the smell. Gone were the wonderful odors of cooking and the fragrances from the open markets. The smells I had always associated with home, the reason I had moved back here as soon as I could.

  The quietness of the street was disconcerting. There was no hustling of people shopping, living, laughing. The place was a ghost town despite the lights and the homeless. I was a stranger where once I had belonged.

  The after-dinner lineups were gone, and the food tables had been moved off the road. The Ambients had already dimmed for the day, further slowing the long walk from Level 5. At least the elevator had been open, though no one was allowed on when the doors opened on Level 3.

  I continued through Chinatown to the home base of the Los Angeles insurgents.

  Security had been beefed up since I had last been here. Shadows of people on the rooftops slid outside my vision, and inside the main entrance were two extra guards, and the gate to the parking garage was closed. Something had changed. Was it because of Janice finding me at the greenhouses, or had something else happened? I was stopped at the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The woman’s question surprised me and I took a half step back. I knew I should have recognized her, but her name refused to bubble to the surface. I wanted my bed. It had been a long day of walking.

  “You were caught in a draft. How did you get out?”

  I still didn’t respond, too exhausted to care.

  “Kris, it’s me, Selma. We met at dinner.”

  “Right, Selma.” The memories of the last time I’d met her flooded through me and my face got hot. “I just want to go to my room and sleep.�


  “I can’t let you in.” Her voice was apologetic. She turned to the other guard. “Go get Pat Nelson.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, just go find her.” The second guard took off. “You need to wait here. I can’t let you in. I’m sorry, I . . .” She pulled me over to a wall. “Here. Sit and rest. I’m sure Pat will be here right away.”

  I put my back to the wall and slid to the floor. What the hell was going on? Why was I being treated like the enemy? It felt like an hour had passed before Pat and Kai came running into the lobby.

  “Kris? Oh my god, Kris.” Pat pulled me to my feet, and they grabbed me in a three-way hug. “We thought you were caught in the draft. We tried to get you, but the trucks went through to Level 5 before we could do anything.”

  I untangled myself from their grasp. “I was. They let me go. I walked down from Level 5.”

  “They let you go?” asked Kai. “Why?”

  I just shrugged.

  “They had to have given you a reason.”

  Pat had already guessed why, but she was staying quiet. It was because I was pregnant. Did she really expect me to say that in front of Kai and everyone? Fuck that. “I’m underage.”

  They both looked at me as though I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially Pat. “You won’t be in a month or so. They really let you go because of that?”

  “Not just because of that.” I knew it was time to let them know the truth, just not here. I started walking to the stairs.

  “Hey! I can’t let you go up there,” Selma said. She moved to step in front of me.

  I must have seemed ready to take a swing at her. She took a step back and apologized.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just doing what I was told.”

 

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