by David Bruns
With a scream of pain, Graves let go, but he wasn’t finished yet. With Spike still in the glare of his headlamp, he launched his body headfirst down the hole. He hooked an arm over the kid’s thin neck, using him to break his fall and take him into the brick floor of the sewer.
Graves felt his face smash into slimy bricks and the rest of his body slammed down beside him. The fall knocked the wind out of him.
Spike stirred underneath him and Graves tightened his grip. “No, you don’t.”
Ignoring the waves of pain, Graves got to his knees and pulled Spike upright, forcing his body back against the ladder. His headlamp flickered, damaged in the fall.
Spike’s face was covered in sewer slime and one eye was already starting to swell. His eyes focused on Graves’s face. “Please,” he whispered. “Help me. They’ll kill me.”
Graves gripped the front of his shirt, keeping Spike pressed back against the ladder.
“Who? Who is—”
An explosion went off over his head and Graves felt the heat of a muzzle flash. He ducked automatically, then looked up.
Craft was framed in the open hole. In the flickering light of Graves’s headlamp, he had blood running out of his nose and he’d lost his helmet. His eyes were wild. “I saw a gun,” he shouted.
Graves looked back at the kid. He was still clutching Spike’s shirt front, but the kid’s body had gone slack under Graves’s fist. Still, he looked okay. Graves shook him gently and his head lolled to one side.
When he pulled him away from the ladder, the back of the boy’s head was gone.
Chapter 21
Anthony Taulke • Olympus Station
“Pop.”
The voice came from far away, like a distant shout across a field on a windy day.
“Pop,” said the voice again. Tony? Was that Tony’s voice?
“Can you hear me, Pop? Move your fingers if you can hear me.”
Fingers… Anthony considered that word for a long time. Funny-sounding word… Then, with a sound in his head like relays slamming shut, he realized what the word meant.
Fingers… the things on the end of his hand. Hand … another funny word.
“There!” said the voice that was assigned in his head to Tony. “He moved his fingers. See?”
“That’s a good sign,” said a new voice. A woman’s voice, clipped with authority. Anthony felt a new touch on his shoulder. “Mr. Taulke, my name is Dr. Langley. You’ve been in an accident. We’re letting you wake up naturally. Move your fingers if you understand me.”
It was easier to move his fingers this time and the word sounded normal in his head now.
An accident? His brain felt fuzzy, like it was packed full of cotton candy instead of synapses. The last thing he remembered was having a drink in a big room. The room was filled with people all dressed in fine clothes and talking … so much talking that he could hardly hear himself. But it was okay, it was a good memory. He felt happy in this memory … but why?
Anthony thought about this question for a long time and he may have even gone back to sleep. Time seemed elastic with his eyes closed.
He’d been happy in the big room with the big windows and all the well-dressed people. He remembered that much. They were all there to see him, he decided. The way the women flirted and the men gripped his hand. All of them wanted to be him—or at least be near him. He was the center of attention, that’s why he’d been so happy.
Mystery solved.
“Mr. Taulke?” The doctor’s voice again. She was speaking slowly, clearly, but it felt a little shouty, too. She was right next to him; no reason to shout, doc. “We’re removing your eye shade. Your eyes may be sensitive to light.”
The comforting blackness was replaced by a deep red glow through his closed eyelids. He winced.
A hand on his forehead. Long fingers, gentle touch. The doctor. “It’s okay, Mr. Taulke. Your eyes will adjust in a few seconds. Just be patient.”
The intensity of the light lessened and he tried to say thank you. His mouth was full of something.
“We’re taking out your breathing tube, Mr. Taulke. This might be uncomfortable for a second or two.”
Anthony felt a tearing sensation in his throat. He gagged, and then sweet, clean air rushed into his lungs. He coughed.
The bed rose up under his back, helping him sit up. Helping him breathe.
Anthony opened his eyes.
Tony was standing on his right. His son had a shadow of a bruise on the side of his face and a thin red line over his brow. The doctor said he’d been in an accident. Maybe Tony had been there too.
Doctor Langley was nothing like her voice. She was a diminutive woman of Japanese descent with a sensible bobbed cut to her electric-blue hair. When she took his hand, he recognized her touch.
“Squeeze my fingers as hard as you can, Mr. Taulke,” she said. Same voice.
Anthony did as he was told and she nodded. She took his other hand and repeated the process. She nodded at Tony. “Good. Very good.”
Tony gave Langley a tight smile. Anthony could tell he was worried. “Can you give us a minute, Doctor?”
Langley closed the door behind her.
Tony looked at the ceiling and sighed. “Thank God you’re okay, Pop. You had me worried.”
Anthony tried to speak but found his voice was not responding. He pointed at a cup of water and Tony held it for him as he sipped. He coughed.
“What happened?” he finally managed to say.
“You don’t remember the accident? The drone? At the UN?”
The UN, that rang a bell. United Nations. He thought about the party where all the people were there to see him. It had been more than drinks. He was there to tell them something, something important. A wave of frustration made his eyes water. The answer was right there, but just out of his mental grasp.
Tony patted his arm. “It’s okay, Pop. Take it easy. You’ve had a big shock, but you’re going to be okay. The doc says your concussion is healing well.”
Anthony pulled up the sleeve of his hospital gown. His skin was mottled with fading bruises. He pulled down his collar and found the same thing on his chest. Under the covers, his legs were also blotched with sickly yellow and green.
Tony watched him with a rueful smile. “You were basically one giant bruise when they brought you here.”
Anthony cocked his head. “Where is here? Where am I?”
“Olympus Station.”
The name sounded familiar to Anthony. Tony must have noticed his confusion.
“The station at the end of the Taulke Space Elevator, remember?”
Anthony nodded. That sounded right.
“How long?” he rasped out.
Tony shifted his feet. “Two weeks. The accident was two weeks ago. We’ve got you here and Adriana and Elise and Viktor. It’s the safest place for all of us now.”
“Safe from what?” Anthony asked. If it was an accident, why did he need to be safe?
Tony’s eyes searched his face. “You really don’t remember, do you?” He seemed to loosen up then and perched one buttock on the edge of Anthony’s bed. “Someone tried to assassinate you, Pop. A radical Neo splinter group. The FBI tracked them down.” He leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “I put Graves on it. I figured he’s as neutral as they come—in case it was an inside job.”
Inside job. The term rattled around in Anthony’s empty memory. Why would someone on his council want to kill him?
“Show me,” he said. “Show me what happened.”
Tony shook his head. “That’s not a good idea, Pop. It’s best if you let the memories come back on their own.”
Anthony gripped his son’s arm. “Show me.”
Tony looked at the door. “Your retinal implant is deactivated so your brain can heal, so I’ll put it on a tablet for you.” He slid a slim piece of rectangular glass into Anthony’s hands. “If it’s too much for you, we can take it away, okay?”
Anthony nodded. The scr
een showed a drone shot of a high-ceilinged ballroom, facing a stage. Behind the stage was all glass looking out on a city—New York City, he remembered. The UN was in New York City. Below him in the darkened room were the tops of people’s heads, swaying and bobbing as they jockeyed for a sight line or whispered to each other.
A handsome man was at the podium on the stage, smiling and talking with expansive hand gestures as he pointed at a holograph floating above the crowd. The words Taulke Renewal Initiative glowed and then disappeared. The drone moved higher, making the moving heads feel like a darkened sea below him. The people were standing and clapping at something the man said—
The man at the podium was him, Anthony realized with a start. He was speaking and they were clapping for him. A warm sense of fulfillment rose in his chest. These people liked him—no, these people loved him. Anthony cried tears of joy.
Tony stopped the vid. “You okay? It gets pretty bad from here on out. We can do it later, if you want.”
Anthony shook his head. “Now.”
Tony shrugged, still watching his father’s face closely. “You don’t remember any of this? Really?”
Anthony shook his head.
“Whatever.” Tony handed him the tablet.
The vid started again. Anthony saw a flash of light from behind the man on the podium—him—beyond the glass. Tony was on the stage with him, and he saw his son twist in his seat. A look of horror shot across his features, he seized the dark-haired woman—her name was Adriana, Anthony knew that somehow—next to him and rolled off the stage.
A ripple of movement went through the crowd and Anthony at the podium started to turn. The glass exploded behind him as a drone crashed into the ballroom. Just before he was about to get run over by the speeding drone, a man reached up and dragged him down.
The drone smashed into the audience. Anthony saw bodies and parts of bodies spewing everywhere. He felt sick, and drops of water splashed onto the screen. He wiped at his face to find tears running down his cheeks.
Tony snatched the tablet away. “Okay, that’s enough, Pop.”
“Wait,” Anthony croaked. “The man. Who was the man?”
Tony moved through the vid and froze on the image of the man reaching up and dragging him out of the way of the drone.
“This guy?” Tony asked. “That’s General Graves.”
Graves. Anthony locked the name in his head. Graves, the man who had saved his life.
“How many?”
“How many what?” Tony replied. He looked away immediately. Anthony didn’t say anything. Tony knew what he meant.
“A lot. Hundreds,” Tony said finally.
Anthony leaned back, deflated, feeling the tears starting afresh.
All those people dead and yet he was alive. He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to retreat back into darkness. He was safe there … why had they woken him up anyway?
Tony’s hand rested on his arm. “Don’t worry, Pop. The Neos did this, we know it, and we’ll hit back ten times harder. You just concentrate on getting better. The council will take care of this.”
Anthony let sleep wrap around him. His thoughts were clearer now, the ideas coming quicker and with more urgency.
All he ever wanted to do was help people—these people needed his help—and in return, they tried to kill him.
Hit back ten times harder, Tony had said. Counterpunch. His weary brain took that idea in and then rejected it. There had to be a better way.
Anthony drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 22
William Graves • Fort Hood, Texas
The call came in to Graves’s quarters at 2 a.m., Texas time, the light from the data glasses on his bedside table flashing him awake. He considered ignoring it. If it was really important, they would send someone to wake him.
He closed his eyes again. The light on the temple of the data glasses stopped, then started again a few seconds later. Whoever it was, they were calling back.
Graves fumbled for the glasses, blinking as the screen popped up before his eyes. He scanned to accept the message.
A trim young woman wearing an Air Force uniform looked relieved when he answered. “General Graves, please stand by for the president.”
The screen went blank for another second, then Teller’s face popped into view. “General, sorry about the late hour.”
Despite the apology, Teller was still dressed as if he hadn’t been to bed yet. He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and looked freshly shaved. Any injuries he’d sustained in the UN attack were either healed or hidden by cosmetics. The man had been extraordinarily lucky. The UN secretary-general who’d been sitting next to him was dead.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Graves said. He knew he did not look anywhere near as well turned out and he felt at a disadvantage for it.
“I have a meeting with Anthony Taulke at the UN headquarters at nine sharp tomorrow morning.”
Graves sat up straighter. “He’s okay? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Apparently he’s fine, according to his son. He wants to see where the attack took place for himself. Hear about these Neo nutjobs that tried to take him out.”
“Is that a good idea, Mr. President? The people who did it were all killed in the FBI raid. We don’t really know why they did it or what they were trying to achieve. And why the UN building? The place is still a crime scene.”
Teller sighed. “All good questions, Graves, and you can put them to the man himself when you see him. He asked for you—by name—to be there.”
“Sir, I—”
“Stow it, General. You will be at the UN building tomorrow at nine with Corazon Santos.”
“What does Cora have to do with this, sir?”
Teller frowned for a split second at Graves’s use of the familiar name. “Don’t know. He’s insisted you and she be there to meet him.” The president made no attempt to hide his disdain for the meeting. “He’s the boss, General. Yours and mine—at least that’s how it is now. Are we clear about meeting logistics, General? Any issues I should know about beforehand?”
Graves shook his head. “I’ve given all my updates to H, sir. I’m happy to answer any specific questions you might have—”
“That’ll be all, then, General. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
Graves’s screen went blank again. He snatched the glasses off his face and threw them on the bedside table. He didn’t need this kind of aggravation. He was a fifty-year-old—fifty-one, he remembered—one-star general who was never going to get a second star. He was resented by his peers because he’d been promoted over them and now all but ostracized by the very guy who’d promoted him in the first place.
He clenched his eyes shut. If his career was a dead end, his personal life was a wasteland. He was alone, living in a converted office next to his real office, with no opportunity to meet women, no real friends to speak of, and no family still living.
He faced the facts: he was a committed workaholic in the dead-end job of trying to save the citizens of a planet that didn’t really want to be saved. If there was a definition of insanity online, his picture should be next to it.
Graves looked at his watch and did some quick mental math. If he went back to sleep right now, he could get another two hours. He slammed his head back into his pillow and closed his eyes.
Who was he trying to fool? He was way too worked up now to think of sleeping. With a sigh of exasperation, Graves threw off the covers and used the intercom to call down to the duty sergeant to send up a pot of coffee. He showered quickly and dressed, studying his reflection as he combed his hair.
He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. He supposed he could date if he wanted to, but he just never made it a priority beyond a few casual flings. He paused. There was always Olga Rodchenkov. When she’d come to see him during the California wildfire recovery effort—he made a grimace when he realized he marked all the events in his life by disasters—there’d been a spark there. He
’d felt it and was pretty sure she had too.
The smile faded from his face as he recalled what she had been there to see him about and his hand went to the Saint Christopher medal. A cadre of like-minded officers, she’d said. People, citizens of the world, who want to make a difference. She’d tried to recruit him to join some crazy military coup. Granted, after the events of the last few weeks, it sounded less crazy … but still, she was talking about betraying his country. She was talking about treason.
A knock on the door with the promised coffee ended this train of thought. Nope, Olga was off the board, which left the field exactly empty of all possible retirement companionship options. He snorted frustration and then locked that feeling away, just like he did every morning.
Time to go to work.
Graves was known as an early riser, but 3 a.m. was early even by his standards. The sergeant at the main desk had let the duty officer know the CO was up and on the prowl. Graves had to hide a smile as he returned the salute of the freshly turned-out young second lieutenant.
“Anything to report, Lieutenant?” Graves asked.
“All quiet, sir.”
“Very well. Have my car ready to leave for New York at six sharp. I’m going for a walk.”
Even this early in the morning, the heat settled on him like a warm blanket. A pair of security soldiers started to follow him, but Graves waved them off. He liked military bases in the very early morning. Quiet, but ready to burst with energy. In another hour, there would be PT squads getting in their exercise for the day before the sun came up. Then the smells of the chow hall would take over the base. After breakfast, as the sun was breaking over the horizon, the real work day would begin. Land vehicles and aircars crisscrossing the base, transports taking off and landing at the airfield, the sounds of live fire training from the gun range.
But now, it was just a pregnant silence waiting for another day to begin. He approached the perimeter of the refugee camp, surprising the army guards stationed outside. The men snapped to attention and saluted.