“They erased your identity and implanted a new one. I was written in as your wife so I could watch you, make sure the erasure took. Sorry, Quaid,” she said, her tone belying any regret. “Your whole life is just a dream.”
He slumped against the wall. The fact that it was starting to make sense didn’t make it any easier to take. Before it had been only a dream that bothered him; now his whole life had become a dream. “If I’m not Doug Quaid, who am I?”
She shrugged. “Beats me. I just work here.”
How callous could she be? Yet her attitude supported her statement. Her love for him had been the pretense; this was the reality.
Quaid pulled himself up from the floor to sit in a chair. He rubbed his forehead, trying to decide how to react. The realization that his memory-life was only a pretense did not restore his real life; that remained blank. He had no idea where to go or what to do. His foundations had been knocked out from under, and he was still falling. What kind of a landing would it be?
Lori suddenly became much friendlier. Her face softened, and her figure lost its indifference. She became more like the woman he had known.
“I’m gonna miss you, Quaid,” she said. “You were the best assignment I ever had. Really.”
“I’m honored,” he said, distrusting this. She had shown him convincingly enough how little she truly cared for him; what was she up to now?
He took her by the elbow and pulled her with him, the gun still at her head, as he looked out the window. He was alert for any false move on her part; she would not knock aside the gun the way he had knocked Harry’s gun. He didn’t even need to watch her directly; he could sense her motion. Where were the others? He was sure they were out there, somewhere. Though he could not remember any details, he knew the nature of these things: operatives did not work alone. They always had interlocking networks, the one covering the back of the other. He might have set them back momentarily by killing four, and by nullifying Lori, but that was no victory, only a foiling of two of their ploys.
“You sure you don’t wanna . . . ?” she asked. “For old time’s sake?” She reached out to him affectionately.
His gut twisted with the irony of her words. If what Lori was telling him was true—and he was beginning to believe it was—then he and his whole world were strangers. If he had no past, how could he have a present? Quaid wasn’t a man given to deep reflection; he was a man of action. When the Mars dream had surfaced, he’d gone to Rekall to do something about it, or tried to, at least. But what could he do about this? What action could he take to regain the life he had lost?
For now, at least, it was a moot point. He had to figure out a way to survive the goons before he could begin to search for the missing pieces of his identity.
Quaid’s jaw tightened. He might have been fooled once, but he wouldn’t fall for the same thing twice.
She withdrew her hand. “It’s not like we’re strangers, you know.”
He looked out a second window, more to focus his mind than his eyes. He knew the goons would not be visible out there. In fact, if they were there, they’d soon take him out with a snipescope. He had to act swiftly. But how?
“If you don’t trust me, you can tie me up,” Lori said, tugging at her décolletage to show more breast.
“I didn’t know you were so kinky.”
“It’s time you found out.”
What was she up to? He knew she wasn’t interested in sex with him. He turned back to her—and caught her looking at the video screen.
Uh-oh.
One square of the screen was a security monitor showing the lobby of the apartment building. Four agents were entering an elevator. The evident boss was enormous, solid, and looked vicious, like an attack dog trained by repeated beatings.
Quaid glared at Lori and pressed the gun to her head. “Clever girl,” he said through his teeth.
“You wouldn’t shoot me, Doug, would you?” she asked, maintaining her friendly and somewhat helpless pose. “Not after all we’ve been through.”
He hated to admit it, but she was moving him. He didn’t want to hurt her, though she had certainly tried to kill him. “You’re right, Lori. Some of it was fun.”
She smiled. “Yes, it was, Doug. If you want, we can—” He was not that much of a fool. He knew he had scant time. “Who are they?”
“Who?”
“Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”
She dropped the pretense. “The big one’s Richter. He’s as mean as they come. His partner is Helm, not much better. Look, Doug, I confess I tried to distract you. It’s my job. But I can help you avoid them, if—”
He lowered the gun and touched her breast. She smiled encouragingly, inhaling. Suddenly he raised the gun and clubbed her on the head, knocking her out.
“It’s been nice ‘knowing’ you,” he said, surprised by his own action. His other self had taken over again, doing what was required. Well, he hoped it knew what it was doing, because he certainly didn’t!
CHAPTER 10
Subway
Quaid raced down the corridor, past the other conapt doors, avoiding the elevator. He heard it rising, slowing; that was the goon-squad, for sure! If they saw him, he was dead. He had the gun, but they would have ten times his firepower. He ducked through an exit door barely before the elevator door opened.
He held his breath and flattened himself against the wall, listening. He heard them boil out and charge to his conapt: one, two, three, four. How he could count them with such certainty by the thudding of their feet he didn’t know; he must have had very special training, somewhere, sometime, back in the erased portion of his memory. Maybe it was like the man who tallied a herd of cows accurately at a single glance: he counted the legs and divided by four. No joke, in this case; he could hear only the footsteps, which outnumbered the men walking them.
Four—the same number he had seen on the monitor. That meant they had left no man below to intercept him. That was another tactical error on their part. But what could you expect of goons? They weren’t true professionals, just hirelings whose brains were dispensable.
Good enough. He got moving again, having paused only a few seconds, and resumed breathing. He bounded down the stairs, taking several at a time, down around the endlessly twisting squared-off spiral that went to the street level. It was easier to climb a stair two or three steps at a time than it was to descend it the same way, but he evidently had training for this too. He virtually sailed down, four, five, six at a time, bounding like a ballet dancer, touching the rail for guidance. He did have the technique for it, and this was good, because he had a long way to go.
One reason he had taken time to question Lori when he knew the goons were on the way up was that he knew how long it would take them to arrive. Even the fastest elevator could not cover two hundred stories in an instant. The elevator was fast, a virtual rocket, but limited by the acceleration normal residents could handle, even when set on “Priority.” So there had been time.
But now he had to cover those two hundred levels himself, fast. Thanks to his technique, he was traveling at top running speed. Straight down, it would have been a two-thousand-foot fall; as it was, it was just about a mile of stairs. Could he cover a mile in five minutes? He’d better, because it would take the goons maybe one minute to ascertain that he had fled, maybe two more to catch a swift DOWN elevator, and three more to make it to the ground floor. Six minutes max—less if they got a break on the elevator schedule. He would have no more than a minute’s head start on them, with luck, and maybe none with no luck. So he bounded down at a seemingly suicidal rate. It would be suicidal not to!
Once he got to the first level, he knew he could cut through the building and scramble down the slanted roof that sheltered the sunken delivery port. That would shave more time off his route to the subway. So this was it for him: his escape not from fire or some other routine emergency, but from assassination. Five floors, ten, fifteen—he lost count, and it didn’t m
atter, because all that counted was the first.
One minute! he thought. Give me one minute’s head start, and they’ll never find me! Which meant six minutes for them. Would they be stupid enough to dawdle longer at the conapt? Pray that they were!
Richter led the way into the conapt. His face contorted with rage when he saw Lori lying unconscious on the floor. He hadn’t wanted her to take this assignment, important as it was for her—their—advancement in the Agency. He had warned Lori that the man called Quaid was dangerous, but she had simply teased him for being overprotective. Well, she wasn’t teasing now. He knelt beside her, gently trying to bring her around.
“Lori,” he called softly. “Lori!” Her eyes fluttered open and she groaned as she touched the bruise at her temple. “You all right?”
She nodded gingerly. “Sorry,” she said weakly. “I guess I blew it.”
“What’s he remember?”
“Nothing, so far.”
Helm had produced a small tracking device and touched a button, activating it. He held it up and turned around in a searching pattern. Suddenly a red dot started to blink as it swept past the window. He kept it pointing in that direction and pushed another button.
Now the tracker’s little screen came to life, displaying a three-dimensional plan of the building from the point of view of this spot. It was as if it were a model made of transparent glass. Down near the bottom, the blinking red dot was moving in a crazy spiral, like a poisoned fly. He was going down the stairwell, and making damn good time.
Suddenly, the dot left the building altogether. Richter crossed to the window, with Helm close behind. They spotted Quaid running down an inclined rooftop toward the Commons. “Shit!” Richter exclaimed. “The subway! Go! Go!”
Helm and the other two agents bolted for the door, but Richter remained behind. Silently, he pulled Lori to her feet and into his arms. It had been too long since he’d held her and only God knew when they’d get the next opportunity.
“Pack your stuff and get out,” he said, pulling away from the embrace.
“What if they bring him back?” Lori asked as he headed for the door.
Richter paused in the doorway. He turned, and Lori was frightened by the look in his eyes. “They won’t,” he said. He turned abruptly and was gone.
Quaid breathed a silent sigh of relief as he made it safely to the subway station. He had had his one-minute start, maybe more. What had the fools been doing up there, making time with Lori? If so, he owed her a vote of thanks, ironically, though he was sure it wouldn’t have been voluntary on her part. He was sorry he had had to knock her out, but it had been the only way to keep her from sounding the alarm before the goons even got there. He hadn’t loved her, though he had liked her, and wouldn’t have hurt her for the world—before this business broke. She had seemed too good to be true, and now he knew that she was too good to be true. She was just on an assignment. Six weeks—no wonder his eight-year memory of her hadn’t changed! It was actually a six-week experience.
He had thought his life dull. It sure wasn’t dull now! But at the moment he would gladly have traded to have it back. At least he would be safe, instead of fleeing for his life, with no notion where he was going or who he was. If he had it to do over, he’d stay the hell away from Rekall, keeping his eyes and ears open and quietly investigating his situation, until he knew enough to act without bringing the goons down on his head.
People were staring at him. Quaid slowed down, glancing occasionally over his shoulder. It was better to be lost in the crowd, if the goons weren’t right on his tail. How close were they? He had hoped for a minute’s start and gotten it, but he knew they wouldn’t just let him go. He had to catch a train to nowhere and lose them completely.
Naturally the minutes passed before the train came. He waited beyond the security area, not wanting to commit himself before he had to. Three, four minutes—how long could this hold? He was a sitting duck here! He had gotten a break by escaping the building, but the luck was turning the other way now.
Then he heard the train. He was going to make it! He headed for the entry passage.
He realized that he’d better get rid of the gun; it could be traced, and might have a marker in it they could orient on. Certainly it couldn’t pass through the security area, so he couldn’t get on a train with it.
He glanced back one more time—and saw Richter and company run into the station. Damn! Another thirty seconds and he’d have been clear!
His plan changed instantly. He stayed in line, but kept the gun. What did an alarm matter when the killers had spotted him? He stepped past the panels.
He glanced at the little monitor screen facing the customers in line. He was a walking skeleton, and the gun in his bony hand was glowing bright red! The alarms wailed and red lights flashed. Guards sprang forward to intercept him. There was nothing careless about this security section!
He couldn’t run yet, because of the people ahead of him in the narrow channel. He had thought they would clear out when the alarm went off, but they were confused and standing still. Meanwhile the guards were rounding the screen, their own guns glowing red.
Could he go the other way? On the monitor his skeleton stopped and turned, echoing his indecision. He saw Richter and Helm coming. That was worse!
There was no way out, forward or backward. He turned to the side, jumped the guide rail, and charged the X-ray panel itself. On the monitor his skeleton loomed suddenly larger; then he crashed through his own skeletal image, shattering the screen. There was screaming from the ladies in the station.
That got him out—but not to the train. He had not escaped the goons.Where next?
His hidden other self took over. He sprinted forward, dodged around a crowd of gaping commuters, and vaulted down a staircase. It would take him to the trains traveling at right angles to the ones here, on the next level down. But he still didn’t know where he was going. He could catch a train, sure—but to where?
Richter and his goons arrived at the head of the staircase. He consulted the tracking device. The flashing red dot that was the quarry appeared on the screen, moving steadily downward. Richter panned the device, checking the surroundings. Near the bottom of the staircase were several up escalators.
The quarry would take one of those, trying to sneak back to the street level and lose himself. He wouldn’t want to take a train, because he had nowhere to go. So instead of chasing after him and being just too late, they could surround him. Then he’d really have nowhere to go. It was a messy job; it was awkward as hell trying to take a man out in a public place. But soon it would be done and they would disappear.
He signaled for everyone but Helm to continue on the same level. “Go, go, go,” he bellowed, and to Helm: “You, come with me.” They dashed down the stairs after Quaid.
Quaid reached the bottom of the stairs and looked warily around. No goons. He ran forward, saw an escalator flowing up, and headed for it. Still no goons. But he didn’t trust this. At any moment they would come charging around a corner, guns blazing. Determined to take him out—because he dreamed of Mars? No, because he wasn’t who he thought he was.
None of this seemed to make much sense. He needed time to work it out, to explore every last corner of his fragmented memory and pull out anything that was there. Maybe he’d discover he was a criminal who—but no, they wouldn’t have given a criminal a nice conapt, a decent job, and a woman like Lori. Unless they were keeping him on ice until the time came to testify at a big trial. Yes, that just might make sense. They didn’t want him remembering prematurely, because he might go back to his pals instead of testifying against them.That would explain why Lori, who as it turned out hadn’t cared for him at all, had been so actively friendly. It had been her job to keep his mind occupied. Or his pecker. Same thing, they had figured. They might have been right, but for his Mars dream-girl.
He was on the escalator now, riding the stairs up. He glanced behind, seeing nothing but routine citizens. Whe
re were the goons? They should be here by now!
He glanced forward—and there they were! Four agents arriving at the top landing, looking below. He tried to shrink down, hiding amidst the commuters, but he was too big to manage it. His only hope was that they wouldn’t see him before he got close enough to—
They were peering down, checking the whole region. THEY SAW HIM!
There was no pause, no call for surrender. They simply started shooting.
Quaid feinted to the side. An unlucky commuter caught a door-piercing bullet in the head. He fell backward into Quaid. His face was gone.
There was screaming as the others realized what was happening. All the commuters crouched on the stairs, trying to get out of the line of fire. That left Quaid exposed, the only one standing.
He couldn’t duck down like the rest; they’d riddle him in seconds, now that they had him spotted. Indeed, his other self had no intention of allowing it. He was already in motion, mounting the escalator, using the faceless body as a shield. His gun was in his hands, firing up at his enemies. One, two, three, four—and the four goons went down in order, each holed by a single bullet.
Quaid didn’t know who his other self was, but he was beginning to like him. That man was a survivor!
He was safe now, for the moment. He could get out of the subway station and—
A bullet zinged by his ear. From behind! He twisted to look back. There were Richter and Helm running up to the escalator, firing as they went. Now they were on it, climbing over the prostrate commuters, still firing. If they had paused to take proper aim, Quaid would have been dead before he knew they were there.
Quaid heaved up the corpse he had been using as a shield, turned, and hurled it down at the two agents, bowling them over. Then he charged the rest of the way up the stairs. He reached the landing and ran down the hall.
Total Recall Page 7
