by David Ryker
“What about money?” he blurted. “You can’t access your trust fund without my say-so.”
She stopped and turned to face him. He grinned; no matter what else happened, he always had that particular carrot on a stick.
“I think $100 billion should do us for a while,” she said.
Dr. Copeland held out her arm and Chelsea removed her wristband, slipping it onto her own arm.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“The money actually went into an account in my name, not Copeland’s. You should be happy, Dad—there won’t be any tax questions about transferring money to your daughter. Rich people do it all the time.”
Oscar rounded on Copeland, furious. “What the hell did you do?” he spat. “What’s your game?”
He was looking her in the eye, but there was no recognition there. She simply stood and stared, motionless.
“What’s the matter with you?” He reached out and tapped her arm, and the doctor crumpled to the floor. He leapt back to avoid touching her.
“What happened?” he yelped. “I don’t understand!”
“I’ll bet,” said Schuster. “You might want to call your medics about that. I’m pretty sure she’s permanently comatose.”
With that, the four of them walked out of the office, leaving Oscar to stand in the middle of room, gaping at the woman on the floor and wondering what the hell had just happened.
“Is he back?” asked Gloom.
“Yeah.” Dev Schuster took a deep breath and let it out again.
“I was getting a little worried when I saw Copeland just drop like that,” said Chelsea. “I mean, good riddance to the bitch, but I just wasn’t sure what was going on.”
They had settled into a corner booth at a trendy restaurant between the Bloom Tower and Government House, and each had ordered enough food for three people. Their recent escapades had left all of them ravenous.
Ben took a swig of his beer and savored it for a moment. “I’m still not sure exactly what happened,” he said. “How did Sloane end up inside her in the first place?”
“He took over the AI that was controlling the simulation,” said Schuster. “He didn’t actually realize at the time that Copeland’s mind was linked to the AI via the hub. When he wiped the program, he inadvertently ended up wiping her mind, too.”
Chelsea raised her glass of shiraz. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.”
For the first time in what seemed like forever, she felt like herself again. She had no sympathy for the woman who had almost stolen her soul and replaced it with an artificial copy. And who had threatened the people she had come to think of as her true family. For that, Indira Copeland deserved everything she got.
“When Sloane released us all from the program, he ended up taking over her body via simple attenuation. It was even easier than usual because there was no mind there to resist him.” Schuster tapped his temple. “But now he’s back home, in my temporal lobe, or wherever the hell his apartment is up here.”
“And thanks to Sloane, we’re $100 billion dollars to the good,” said Gloom.
“Sloane pulled it off, but it was your idea,” said Chelsea. “You deserve as much of the credit.”
Gloom grinned. “Give me $50 bil and we’ll call it even.”
They talked a while more as they ate, until finally, satisfied and exhausted, they all leaned back in their seats and fell silent, lost in their thoughts. Ben was the first to finally speak again.
“This money is enough to take care of us,” he said. “But it’s not enough to really make a difference. We’ll have freedom, and enough to pay lawyers to get the others out of Alcatraz, but I don’t think it’s enough to stop all the schemes that Drake and Oscar have in motion.”
“And if we can’t stop those plans, we don’t have a hope of stopping Kergan,” said Gloom with more emotion than Chelsea was used to hearing from her. “Whether it’s the entire gestalt invasion or just him and Toomey, the future of our species still hangs in the balance.”
Chelsea sighed. “You’re right. And that’s why this money is only a start.”
“What do you mean?” asked Schuster.
“I’ve never really given money any thought before now,” she said. “We always had more than enough, so I never thought about it. I didn’t have the kind of relationship with it that most of my family did, where they always had this pathological desire for more, more, more.”
“It does seem like the Global Families all have that in common,” said Ben.
“But I don’t have the luxury anymore of ignoring the power that comes with that wealth. I was arrogant to think that I didn’t have a responsibility to take over my family fortune and do some good with it; I see that now. And I realize that it’s going to take power on a huge scale if we’re ever going to have a hope of bringing humanity together.”
Schuster nodded. “I agreed to work for Drake because it was the only way I could have the resources I need to build the technology we need to fight the Gestalt. I never wanted it used against other humans, but I figured there was no other way.”
“I think there is now,” said Chelsea. She raised her glass and the others followed suit. “To hope.”
They all touched glasses and drained them, reflecting quietly on their thoughts for a few moments. Then a thought suddenly popped into Chelsea’s head.
“I wonder what Quinn and the others are up to right now,” she said, and the thought of them filled her with a warmth that spread all through her. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about them until just now.”
“You’ve had your hands full,” said Gloom. “I think you can be forgiven.”
Schuster rubbed his chin. “I don’t know the specifics, but I’m betting whatever they’re up to doesn’t compare to what we’ve just been through.”
“Lazy buggers,” Chelsea giggled. The thought was enough to satisfy her, at least for now.
26
“NOOO!”
The scream tore at Quinn’s throat even as Bishop began to fire the Makarov. He was aiming high, over their heads, and Quinn took advantage of the cover fire to get into position and retrieve King. He pulled him down from the gangway and threw him behind a concrete pillar that stood next to the base of the ladder that had brought them down to the platform.
Bishop joined them there a few seconds later as Han and the other two recovered and started returning fire from the hatch of the train. Chunks of concrete flew from the pillar every time a round hit the edge, sending dust and debris flying.
“Lay flat,” Quinn told King. “Stay here.”
“One day we’ll take a train ride without a firefight,” King said with a wan smile.
“Maybe,” said Bishop. “But that day isn’t today.”
“I’ll draw their fire,” said Quinn. “You’re the sharpshooter. I need you to take them out.”
Bishop held up the Makarov. “This isn’t exactly a target pistol.”
“Then you know what to do,” said Quinn, looking him square in the eye. “No hesitation. Clear?”
“Oorah. You head right, I head left. Confuse ‘em.”
“Roger that.”
They crossed to the opposite sides of the pillar, Quinn rolling forward across the platform. One of their opponents tracked his move and fired, about a meter behind with every shot until Quinn emerged from the roll behind the pillar on the opposite side of the ladder. He heard a scream and a gurgle coming from Bishop’s side of the platform and prayed it wasn’t him.
“Shane is down!” his friend called out, and Quinn let out the breath he’d been holding.
“Fuck!” This time it was Gomez’s voice, and the familiar clacking of metal indicated that his Makarov, far from the most reliable of pistols, had jammed. That meant the only pistol in play was the one Bishop had stolen from Han.
Quinn looked to his right as Bishop rose from behind the opposite pillar and levelled his weapon at the hatch. It would be over soon.
Cl
ick. Clickclickclickclick.
Or not, Quinn sighed inwardly as he emerged from behind his own pillar. It would be hand-to-hand now, two on two. Han and Gomez had rushed out onto the platform and were headed straight for the spot where King was lying prone on the concrete. Quinn sprung forward and tackled Gomez, driving him down to the concrete, The fight was as brutal as it was short; a Marine turned security professional was no match against a Marine who’d been fighting for his life every day for the past two years, especially when he had just lost a comrade. Within seconds, Quinn had his arm wrapped around Gomez’s neck and was pressing down on his skull with all of his strength.
“It wasn’t… personal,” Gomez grunted, trying to fight the inevitable.
“This is,” Quinn growled, feeling and hearing the vertebrae snap under the unrelenting pressure. He breathed out as he dropped the man’s lifeless body to the floor.
Bishop was having less success with Han, but his reach still gave him the advantage. Quinn stood with his arms crossed over his chest, knowing what the outcome would eventually be.
“It really wasn’t personal,” she panted, ducking a right cross. “It was… all about money.”
“Isn’t it always?” said Quinn. “Money’s not going to stop what’s coming, Marcie.”
Bishop landed a haymaker against her left temple, sending her staggering into the pillar, where the other side of her head bounced off the concrete. She dropped to her knees, beaten, as Bishop stood over her.
She looked up at Quinn, blood pouring from the wound on her head and from her broken nose.
“Are they real, Quinn?” she rasped, exhausted. “The aliens?”
“More real than anything else,” Bishop panted. “More real than Morley Drake, or Agent Fucking Zero, or any of the people who stand to profit from another war. More real than all the credits in all the bank accounts in the world.”
“None of that matters,” Quinn said quietly. “The only way humanity is going to survive is if we all stop trying to kill each other and start taking care of each other. Loyalty is the only currency that’s going to matter soon, Marcie. And you’re flat broke in that department.”
He resisted the urge to swing his boot into the side of her head, which was good, because she passed out a second later anyway. He looked up to see King back on his feet and surveying the scene.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. His voice was shaky and his gaze bleary, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.
“We should get on the train,” said Bishop. “We don’t know how long that code is going to last.”
“Just one second.” Quinn shuffled over to the gangway and dropped to his ass next to the railing. He looked down into the blackness to his right, trying to see how far down it went.
“I’m sorry, Lee,” said King. “Your friend saved my life today, and in return he lost his own. I want you to know his sacrifice won’t be in vain.”
“Save it,” said Quinn. “Ulysses would have said a politician’s promise isn’t worth a pinch of possum shit.”
“It’s pinch o’ coon shit, yuh dumbass Jarhead motherfucker.”
Quinn’s heart gave a kick in his chest. The sound had come from the darkness to his left. He looked down to see a pair of eyes reflecting the light below him.
“Still had those fancy boots on,” he said. “Jes had to wait till I hit the bottom n’ then climb back up.”
Quinn ran a hand down his face. He didn’t know whether he wanted to cry or punch the man right in his stupid face. King simply stood and stared, dumfounded.
“Took me awhile. Heard all that shootin,’ though. Sounds like ah missed a helluva fight.”
“Just… shut up,” Quinn sighed.
Bishop reached down into the dark and hauled Ulysses back onto the platform. His suit was covered in gray dust from the space, and he was sporting a goose egg on the side of his head.
“Yeah, ah don’t recommend doin’ that,” he said, brushing down the front of his tunic and looking down into the darkness. “Y’know, not that y’ever would. Jes a word to the wise.”
Bishop leaned close to him. “Seriously, I’d shut up if I were you.”
Ulysses nodded and did as he was told, following Bishop into train car. King, meanwhile, stared at them all for several long moments before finally shaking his head.
“You people are crazy,” he chuckled softly. “And thank God for all of you.”
Quinn motioned for King to follow, then walked over to the platform and hefted Han’s unconscious body onto his shoulder. He carried her to a maintenance closet and dropped her inside, closing the door behind her. She wasn’t locked in, but she’d be safe from the vacuum when the train activated. From there, her fate was up to her.
By the time he entered the train, Bishop had begun the launch procedure. They all sat on the plush seats in the car as the hatch sealed behind them and the train rose up onto an invisible rail of magnetic beams and the vents drew the air out of the terminal. A few moments later the tunnel began to flash by the windows at some two thousand kilometers per hour, though they felt as if they were standing still.
Quinn leaned back in his seat, feeling the tension begin to flow out of him. He hadn’t realized until just that moment how utterly exhausted he was, not just in his body but in his soul. He thought about what he’d said to Gomez and Han, about how people had to change. He knew he was ready; what humanity had been doing up to this point wasn’t working. It was time for change, and the first stage was going to be personal.
From now on, the Jarheads were going on the offensive, and consequences be damned. Napoleon Quinn was done doing the bidding of others, and he was damn sure done with taking punishment. He was a leader, and that’s what he was going to do. No more running. No more constantly playing defense. From now on, he was taking the fight to his enemies, and they goddamn well better be prepared. He might very well lose, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to go out swinging, on his terms.
“Lee,” King said quietly, pulling him from his thoughts. “I have to ask you—”
“No offense, Frank, but I really need some sleep. Can we talk about it when we get to Astana?”
“Uh—”
“Ah’m jes gonna say this n’ then shut up,” Ulysses offered. “Mah man Maggott is gonna be super pissed when he finds out about all the action he missed.”
Quinn chuckled softly, letting the weight of sleep drag his eyelids down, down, down. Beside him, he could already hear Bishop drawing in long, deep breaths through his nose.
“It’s just that—” King began hesitantly. “Obviously I’m very grateful, and I know there’s plenty of time for me to catch up. But back there, on the platform…”
“What about it?”
“You, ah, you mentioned an alien invasion, and, well…”
Quinn let out a heavy sigh. It looked like he wasn’t going to be getting to sleep any time soon.
27
SAN FRANCISCO, THREE DAYS LATER
“I still cannae believe I missed it all,” Maggott moaned. “It’s a fookin’ crime.”
“I keep tellin’ yuh, hoss, it was no big deal.” Ulysses slapped him on his huge bicep. “Yuh woulda tipped the scales to the point where it weren’t no fun anyway.”
Quinn chuckled. He was doing a lot of that these days, now that they were free and all together again. Zero was keeping Drake off their backs, and the tribune seemed busy enough with his own problems not to be worrying about the fact that Dev Schuster wasn’t showing up for work with the White Coat Brigade yet. They were staying in their old house on the bay, courtesy of Tiffany Tranh, and they’d had time enough to rest, catch up on each other’s adventures, and begin to plot their next move.
It was a strange feeling, having breathing room. Quinn thought he could get used to it quite easily. Bishop and Ellie were canoodling like teenagers, and Peg Maggott was seated on the big man’s lap, looking almost like a child due to the difference in their sizes. Schuster and Gloom seemed to have gro
wn closer in his absence, judging by how they were interacting, and he himself had had some time to really talk to Chelsea and understand what she’d been through.
Now, sitting here looking out at the perfect San Francisco sunshine, he was content just to sit and sip his beer.
“Mind if I take a seat?” Frank King asked.
Quinn motioned to the chair next to his. “Not at all,” he said. “Just change your face first.”
King’s features morphed into the ones Quinn had come to know as Zero’s, and the cyborg flashed him a grin.
“Just testing,” he said. “I have to keep you on your toes or you’ll go soft.”
“Don’t act like we’re buddies,” Quinn said evenly. “I still don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”
“You’re one tough nut, you know that? I get you out of prison, deliver the only guy capable of saving the government right into your lap—”
Quinn snarled. “Fuck. You.”
“All right, all right.” Zero raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll give you that. Still, I’ve gone a long way to proving that we’re on the same side, haven’t I? Neither of us wants another war, we both want Morley Drake’s head on a pike and we agree that something has to be done to prepare for those aliens you keep talking about. Getting you all out of prison and bringing King back to the U.S. was a major step in that direction.”
“Yeah, except what do you do when Drake starts asking why we aren’t back in New Alcatraz?”
“I’ve got some ideas about that. Don’t worry, Quinn, you won’t be going back to prison as long as I’m around.”
Quinn snorted. “Says the guy who was responsible for sending us there in the first place. And the second place.”
“I get it, we have issues to overcome,” said Zero. “But nothing insurmountable.”
Chelsea appeared next to Quinn and knelt down beside him. “Can I talk to you?”