Carmen slipped on her shoe. “We’re part of a rebellion,” she said.
Orton said, “A rebellion? Oh, I like that. I like that very much!”
“Rebellion? Against what?” Coe asked.
Carmen stood. “Against all of this.”
“All of what?”
“Corporatization. Companies. Genetics. Synthetics. Flying cars—”
“Flying cars?”
Orton said, “We want to give the power back to the world governments, re-arm the military, reintroduce bacterias and viruses—”
“What? Why? That’s mad!”
“It’s time to cull the herd, Mr. Coe,” Carmen said.
“This is the part where Carmen is cruelly honest,” Orton said, excitedly.
“Surely, you have noticed the transient population endlessly moving through our streets? What causes a a planet to become so miserably overpopulated with—let’s face it—undesirables?”
“Excellent description!” Orton said.
“That’s right, Mr. Coe,” Carmen said. “A lack of war and pestilence, and illness. We want to bring it all back, make this planet livable again.”
“That’s anarchy...chaos.”
She smiled.
Orton said, “And that’s what we represent, Mr. Coe: chaos. We are agents of Chaos.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“Everything,” Carmen said, smiling.
“What do you want from me?” Coe asked.
Orton said, “We want you to do just as Quantum’s counsel has asked. We want you to assassinate Arturio Golden.”
“For starters,” Carmen said, and then she and Orton kissed.
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Carmen suddenly had a gun. It appeared to be the same style and caliber as the Quantum lawyers. “Just in case,” she said, as she led him from the secure room.
“Who were those guys?” he asked.
“Mr. Orton and his colleagues? They’re R&D.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Research and Development. They’re engineers.”
They walked back down the same hallway. She held the gun out in front of her.
“Your rebellion is being led by engineers?” he asked.
She shushed him. “They’re quite capable men,” she said, and they turned a corner.
They caught a brief glimpse of a squad of Quantum stormtroopers entering a stairwell.
“They’re all Freemasons, you know,” she said.
“The security squad?”
She turned back at him and made a face. “The engineers, silly.”
One of the guards glimpsed over his shoulder and spied them.
“Shit,” she said. She fired at the guard and struck him on his armored breast plate. Another guard returned fire, hitting the wall near Coe’s head. Carmen grabbed Coe by his shirt and pulled him back behind her.
Coe bent forward to retrieve his gun from his ankle holster, but Carmen stopped him. “There’s no time.” She reached into her pocket and removed a whistle as more gunfire erupted.
It was evident more guards were firing on them.
“Here,” she said, giving him the whistle. “Go back to my elevator and blow this.”
“And go where?”
“Forty-six.”
“Okay. Forty—six? But there’s only forty-five floors.”
She peeked around the corner and squeezed off a shot. Coe heard a cry followed by a flurry of rapid gunfire. She leaned in and kissed him hard on the mouth. Then she pushed him away and cried, “Go!”
He ran toward the elevator amidst an all out explosion of gunshots. He glimpsed back to see Carmen down, her limbs flailing.
He put the whistle in his mouth and blew. No sound came out; however, the doors slid open, anyway. To his astonishment, inside sat Carmen perched atop her stool, her shoe dangling from her toes.
“What floor, Mr. Coe?” She was dressed in a black raincoat and wearing a black fedora.
Behind him, the guards were advancing.
I-I...” He was dumbfounded. She appeared to be the exact same woman he just watched die.
“Get in!” she cried.
He did, as a bullet whizzed into the car, narrowly missing them both. Carmen quickly closed the doors.
“What floor?”
“Forty-six,” he said, not believing what he was seeing.
She grinned. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, Mr. Coe.”
“But I just saw you—”
“Saw me what, Mr. Coe?”
“Die,” he said, softly.
She gently touched his cheek. “Are you feeling okay, Mr. Coe? Maybe this business with the guns has got you feverish...”
He scanned her from head-to-toe. There was no mistake. It was Carmen—the same Carmen who moments ago was cut down in a hail of bullets.
“About Mr. Orton,” he said. “Agents of chaos...the rebellion...”
“It won’t be televised,” she said, grinning. “But you will have a front row seat.”
She stopped the elevator. She knelt down and opened the tiny door beneath the control panel. She removed a neatly folded similar black rain coat and fedora. “You’ll need to put this on.”
“Why?”
“It’s raining.”
He unfolded the coat and slipped into it. He put on the hat, as well. Both fit perfectly.
“Forty-six,” she said.
The doors opened to the outside. They were in an alleyway. “This is Forty-six?” he asked.
He stepped out into the rain. The elevator had seemingly opened from a brick wall.
Carmen cleared her throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He turned back to her. She was holding the attache case with the special assassin’s gun inside.
He took it from her. “How did you—”
“Get your gun?” She smiled. “Someone has to remember these things for you.”
She leaned in, kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Remember, I’m on your side,” she said, softly.
He felt a pin-prick in his arm. He immediately pulled back. He sensed someone behind him.
“It’s for your own safety...” she said.
And then the world turned dark.
Eleven.
—And the test scores continue to plummet. At one time, kids in this country were at least ‘somewhat’ comparable to the Asians and Indians...now Third-World countries and even Martian kids are out-performing them in these so-called ‘aptitude’ tests.
-You sound skeptical, Caller.
—I wanna know what’s on those tests. I wanna know why kids on Mars are scoring in the upper percentiles while our kids aren’t even in the game.
—Dr. Greenblatt, perhaps you can answer the caller’s question? For those of you just tuning in, our guest today is Dr. Cynthia Greenblatt, an Associate Professor of Dysgenics at
Stanford, and author of the new book, Why Little Bobby is Distracted by Shiny Objects or How Dumb Begets Dumberer...
—Thank you for having me, Hal. I’m a fan of your show...
Coe awakened. He was in a strange bed, in a strange room. The walls were bare, white. The room had one door and one window. The window was open. A pair of plain, brown curtains fluttered and danced in the breeze. Coe could hear the patter of constant rain.
“Back among the living, I see.”
Coe turned toward the voice. It was Carmen. She sat in an armless chair, her legs crossed, her shoe—as usual—dangled from her toes.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in a nondescript room, in a nondescript building that looks out onto an ordinary city street,” she said, matter-of-factly.
His mouth was dry. Without being prompted, Carmen leaned toward him and offered him a glass of water.
He hesitated before accepting it.
“It’s a perfectly fine glass of water,” she said.
He sipped it. It did not taste out of the ordinary. It was cold. He finished it before speaking again.
“You drugged me,” he said, “after I trusted you.”
“I feel terrible about that,” she said. “But—”
“There really was no other way,” Locksley said, emerging from the door.
Behind him, Shackleton followed. He said, “We feared if you saw us again, you might not come cooperatively.”
“And so much depends on your full and complete cooperation, Mr. Coe,” Locksley said.
“You’re working with them?” Coe said to her. “What about your rebellion?”
“The rebellion has many layers,” she said.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Coe said. “You two are counsel for Quantum. You protect the company’s interests. She,” he said pointing to Carmen. “Or someone who looks just like her, was just in an all-out gun battle with Quantum security—and, she’s part of a movement to bring down the entire system.”
“Hence,” she said, smiling. “The many layers. But you, Mr. Coe, are my primary concern. I’m here to ensure your rights are protected.”
“Somehow I’ m not sure I believe you.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss her,” Locksley said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Shackleton did the same. “She speaks the truth.”
“We’ve entered into a somewhat delicate arrangement with Carmen’s faction,” Locksley said.
“You’ve entered into an agreement with a party bent on Quantum’s destruction?”
“We’re joined in a mutually beneficial intent: the assassination of Arturio Golden.”
“Who,” Locksley said, tugging back his sleeve to check his watch, “will soon be exiting onto the rooftop of the building on which this window opens upon. Is that proper grammar?” he asked Shackleton.
“Close enough. He gets the message.”
“Golden’s in the building across the street?” Coe asked.
“It’s the apt of his mistress, Bambi Norcross,” Carmen said.
“Delightful name,” Locksley said.
“If you’re going to have a mistress,” Shackleton said with a smirk.
“This is where you want me to do it?” Coe asked.
Locksley said, “He will emerge from the elevator, walk seventeen feet across the rooftop to the hoverpad, and enter the very new, very expensive, hovercar parked atop it.”
Shackleton said, “We’ve measured it out. You will have exactly 9.7 seconds to find him in the scope, center the cross hairs on his head or over his heart—your choice—and squeeze off a shot. If you miss, you will have exactly 1.3 seconds to fire again, before he senses he’s been shot at and runs for the hovercar.”
“And what if I fail? What if I miss?”
Both Shackleton and Locksley smiled. “Don’t miss, Mr. Coe,” they said. “Remember: we will have a gun pointed at you, as well.”
“One of you?”
Locksley laughed. “Oh, no. Like we’ve said before. We don’t get involved in the nasty stuff.”
“We’re lawyers,” Shackleton said.
“Then who?”
“Me,” Carmen said, flatly.
Twelve.
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“You’ll shoot me if I don’t follow through with this?”
Coe was sitting in the chair, facing the window, sniper rifle assembled and resting in his sweating palms. Carmen stood beside him, .45 in hand, lightly pressed to his temple.
“That’s the idea,” she said.
Locksley and Shackleton had left, presumably to return to their lawyering.
“I liked you.”
“Aw,” she said. “I like you, too.
“So much for being on my side,” he said. “For looking out for my interests.”
With her free hand, she gently brushed his hair from his forehead. “I know you can’t see it now, but I’m here to make certain you do everything you need to do to ensure your survival.”
He stared out onto the rooftop of the building across the street. He scanned the windows and wondered which one might be Arturio Golden’s mistress’s apt. Were they making love? Will he step out of the elevator relaxed, with love in his heart, and the scent of Bambi Norcross on his flesh?
“I’m not a killer,” he said.
“Assassin,” she corrected.
“It doesn’t change a thing.”
“If you could travel back in time and assassinate—kill—Hitler, wouldn’t you do it, to save millions of innocent lives?” she asked.
“You’re comparing Arturio Golden to an evil despot?”
She sighed and lightly touched his cheek. “You really are that—”
“Naive?”
“Innocent,” she said.
Just then, the elevator doors opened. Coe tensed. A man in a dark suit stepped out. He was wearing sunglasses.
“That’s him,” Carmen said, and pressed the gun slightly harder against Coe’s head.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes!” she said. “Get the rifle up. Hurry!”
Coe did. Locksley or Shackleton—or both—had explained the rifle employed some sort of MEMS-gyroscope that helped the shooter to more easily find his target in the site. And Coe did. He centered the cross hairs on the side of Golden’s head. In fact, it seemed as though it was too easy, as if the gun had done all of the work.
His finge
r grew taut around the trigger. He could hear Carmen’s breathing. “Now,” she said, breathlessly.
Coe moved the gun slightly and squeezed the trigger, missing by a few yards. The silencer on the gun made the report minimal.
“Again!” she said. “Hurry!”
Golden neared the hoverpad. Coe set the site on him again. But, just as he had intentionally missed the first time, he knew he could not go through with murder—even if it meant his almost certain end.
He fired the shot above Golden’s head.
“You missed on purpose!” Carmen cried.
The shot was still close enough for Golden to sense something was not right. He hurried into the hovercar.
“Do it,” Coe said to Carmen. “I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of all this.”
Coe watched as the hovercar lifted into the air and began to fly away. Carmen kept the .45 pressed to his head.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Coe,” she said. “You’ve just disappointed a lot of people...”
The hovercar suddenly exploded in mid flight. A fireball erupted, followed by black smoke, and then pieces of debris rained down onto the rooftop.
“But,” Carmen said. “I’m not one of them.”
“What?”
She removed the gun from his head. “In approximately ten seconds, Locksley and Shackleton—or men sent by them—are about to bust through the door to kill us. I want you to leap out the window.”
“Out the window?”
“There will be a hovercar waiting just a few stories below.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Who killed Golden?”
“There’s many players in the game.” She kissed him on the mouth. “We are so very proud of you,” she said. “So very proud. Now go.”
The door burst open. As she anticipated, two men with guns rushed into the room.
“Jump!” she cried, and fired at the men.
She hit one, but the other shot her point blank in the face.
Coe leapt blindly from the window.
Thirteen.
Alice Seeley. Age Nine. Abducted from the Chadwick Fashion Mall on November 12, 20—. Foul play suspected. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Alice Seeley, you are urged to contact Chadwick Police Department. All information will be kept confidential...
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