The Way Out
Page 11
[The sound of a drink pouring.]
They better not take this thing away from me. This girl could get me out of my shit job and into something... better. I miss Tom. I miss the kids.
[The sound of a door opening.]
Can I help you?
[A man’s voice: “Who are you talking to?”]
I’m not talking to anyone. I’m recording my log.
[The sound of heavy footsteps.]
[Man’s voice: “Please stop the recording, Dr. Novak. You have to come with me.”]
But who—
[The recording ends.]
DOCUMENT #: 1450557026-92
DESCRIPTION: From Dr. Reginald Samford’s Cell Phone (transcription of text messages)
CLASSIFIED: Y-TOP
Look, you can’t talk like that.
Not to the head of the DoD.
Not about something this
fucking serious. OK? I’m just
warning you now.
Are you out of your fucking
mind? You can’t be okay with
this! Dropping a virus on an
enemy population is one thing,
but these are innocent people!
Random fucking Americans!
Reg, I like you a lot. But don’t
talk like you’re innocent. You
create biological weapons for
the government. It was never
going to be up to you when and
how they get used. That’s your
fucking job. You chose it. You
don’t get to whine about it now.
You want to release my fucking
virus on the entire world!
And for what? So you can pass
legislation? This is insane!
Reg, take a step back here. You
have no idea how deep this goes.
You’re playing with fire, and I
can’t protect you. Not from this.
What the fuck is everyone so
scared of? What are these fucking
“anomalies” anyway?
STOP IT, REG.
What is Cassandra?! What are
doing with my fucking research?
TELL ME THE TRUTH!!
Reg, don’t contact me again.
I’m fucking serious. Do you
understand? You can’t contact
me. EVER.
You fucking coward! Tell me
what is going on!!!
[MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED:
You are blocked from contacting
this number.]
FUCK YOU!!!!
[MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED:
You are blocked from contacting
this number.]
The New York Times
Indianapolis DHS bombing victims identified
Biological weapons expert accused of terrorist ties among dead
The Department of Homeland Security confirms Dr. Reginald Samford was among the ten people killed in Sunday’s bombing at a DHS facility in Indianapolis.
Samford, a bioengineer at the University of Chicago, was in DHS custody following his arrest two weeks ago for alleged connections to the Invisible Sun terrorist organization.
His arrest was considered a severe embarrassment to the White House, which had invited him to serve as a special advisor to the president on biological weapons and terrorism.
DHS also confirmed the identities of the other nine victims, including five DHS agents, two civilian contractors, and Kristin Sasse, chief of staff to Senator Alan Maas.
No one has claimed responsibility for the bombing, which remains under investigation as of…
19
In the simulation, he had Morgan-as-Celina bent over his desk. His hands gripped her hair and pulled her head back to a position that was probably humanly impossible. And if not impossible, definitely painful.
“You’re hurting me,” moaned Morgan-as-Celina.
In the VR environment, several people stood watching him and egging him on—including Savannah. Bowen had programmed her to look on silently, her fingers lightly brushing her lips. He liked to think she was waiting for her turn. A few of the watchers taunted Celina while she moaned and squealed for Bowen.
The robot had come preprogrammed with a Spectator Mode, and at first, Bowen hadn’t understood the appeal. But it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that there was a strange pleasure in being watched while he did what he wanted to Celina, even if the watchers were merely pieces of code in the VR’s programming.
But now the voice of Reno, the electronic assistant for Bowen’s apartment suite, spoke through the overhead speakers.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” said the A.I. voice. “Priority call from Amy Simmons. Would you like for me to patch her through now?”
Bowen groaned and in anger dug his fingers into the robot’s skin. Dammit. With the bourbon in his system, it had taken him a while to really get going. But now he was so close.
“Sir?” said Reno.
“Shit,” he said, jerking Morgan-as-Celina’s head back even farther. The robot let out a satisfying scream, and in the virtual environment around him, several people mocked her.
“You like that, don’t you?” Bowen said to the robot, trying to keep from losing his focus—and his erection. “You like when I hurt you?”
“I don’t understand your answer, sir,” said Reno. “I am not capable of experiencing pain.”
“Dammit!” Bowen yelled. He backfisted the robot with his left hand, and it fell aside dutifully, acting as if this were just part of the fantasy. She fell to the floor and cried.
“Amy Simmons is on the line with a priority code,” said Reno. “Would you like for me to put her through?”
Bowen leaned over and gripped the edge of the real desk that served as the physical representation of the desk in his office.
“Hold on,” said Bowen. “Morgan, pause the simulation.”
In his VR goggles, the environment of his office, Celina’s naked body, and the crowd of spectators all evaporated in a blur of pixels. Bowen slid the goggles off and dropped them on the desk.
“I’ll ask Dr. Simmons to hold,” said Reno.
The Morgan robot lay on the floor, the head turned up toward him. The lights under its translucent skin blinked red.
“Would you like for me to return to my charging base?” it said.
“No, hold on,” Bowen panted, his heart still racing. “I’m not done with you yet.”
“Yes, sir,” said the robot in a voice that was meant to be sultry.
“Reno,” said Bowen. “Put Simmons on. Voice only.”
“Putting her on now,” said Reno.
“Richard?” said Simmons’s voice over the speaker. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” said Bowen, refilling his glass and trying to hide the annoyance in his voice.
Simmons paused.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”
He hadn’t hidden his annoyance well enough.
But Simmons pressed on. “Look, we’ve got an interesting situation. A courier just showed up with a message from Homeland Security. They paid a visit to a wife and husband in Georgia who had a child naturally, and he’s definitely another Anomaly.”
“Did they get him?” said Bowen. He sat down in his armchair and propped his feet on the coffee table.
“Not yet,” said Simmons. “But he’s... he’s very strong. He knocked out over a dozen agents. The courier said the mother and son are on the run, but they’ll have them soon. But the thing right now is that the father was shot in the shoulder during the raid, and they’re bringing him here. DHR and DHS want them together for now.”
Bowen took a swig of the bourbon and looked down at his penis, which was barely hanging on to an erection.
“Why bother with bringing the parents here?” said Bowen. “Just get rid of them on some trumped-up charge
and bring in the kid.”
“You know I don’t know the answer to that,” said Simmons. “DHR and DHS do their thing. We do our thing. I’ve already sent for Mwangi. She should be on her way. I’ll put her on surgery for the father and start prepping a room for the kid when he gets here. I just wanted you to know to expect new guests soon. The courier said it wouldn’t be long.”
“Fair enough,” said Bowen.
“Get some rest,” said Simmons. “We probably have another busy day tomorrow.”
Bowen sighed and took another drink.
“Now we’re never going to get rid of Jones-McMartin or General Mustache.”
“That’s probably true,” said Simmons. The speaker beeped to indicate that the call had ended.
Another Anomaly plus his mother and injured father. At first, Bowen had been annoyed about having to babysit the parents. But their presence might present some interesting possibilities.
Still, he filed the thought away for tomorrow. Right now, he had something else to finish. He downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, glanced down at his softening erection, and then looked at the sex robot, which still lay on the floor, waiting patiently.
But suddenly, he felt... dissatisfied. For a second he wished Simmons had shown up in person instead of calling. He wondered what she would have done if he had answered the door in his current condition. Wasn’t that odd? Nothing about Simmons was attractive to him, and yet just now he found himself imagining inviting her inside and letting her watch him while he finished his session with Morgan.
But even that thought only made his dick twitch a little. No, he needed something else. Someone else.
“Morgan, return to your charging station and change Skins,” he said. “I want you to be Theresa now.”
20
She had been reading and listening to audio files on the computer for about an hour when the knock on the door came. Not a loud knock. Just three light taps. Polite. Meant to avoid waking anyone else in the building. In other words, it wasn't Merida.
Jessica closed the screen, put the computer inside the messenger bag, and slid the bag underneath her couch.
“Would you like for me to ask who is at the door?” said Jeremy. The AI was on his lowest volume setting, but he was probably still loud enough to be heard in the quiet hall outside.
“No,” Jessica whispered. “Mute yourself, and show me the security feed from the door cam.”
The hologram projector on the coffee table lit up in blue and showed two men at the door. Both wore slacks, button-down shirts, and coats. One of them held up a badge. She couldn’t tell if it was police or some other agency, though. His shoulders were broad and his chest thick. He looked like the kind of man who could really ruin someone's day. The other one, taller and completely bald, stood behind him, watching the hallway.
Jessica held her breath. Did she answer the door? Ignore it? They were cops, after all. Maybe they were here to ask questions about the bombing and riot. But she knew better than that. Why the hell would cops show up this late to talk about Artemis?
She bent down slowly and slid the bag out from under the couch. Was that it? Did they know what Havana had given her? Had the whole show been a set-up? But for what?
She walked to her bedroom, pulled the laptop out of the bag, and slid it between her mattress and box springs.
Another knock, still quiet. Three taps.
She stared at the messenger bag in her hands. The bag had nothing on it to identify where it came from, but if the cops had seen security video of the exchange—
Well, in that case, hiding it isn’t going to do any good, she thought.
She could just give the laptop over to them if they asked for it. What did it prove anyway? Anyone with half a brain would assume the files were fake. Hell, if not for Havana’s little detour into the bowels of Artemis Advanced Reproduction Center, Jessica would be laughing her ass off at this obviously preposterous—if elaborate—attempt to draw her into yet another Genovirus-1 conspiracy theory. And Merida would probably be there at her side, laughing right along with her: Look, they even created text messages! How very 2020s!
The only people who’d believe any of it were the crazies who already believed all of it, even without proof. Was that her new audience? Did she really want to blow up her entire career preaching to a choir of nutjobs and conspiracy theorists?
But she knew she’d never give up the laptop. The truth did matter. She’d figure out a way to prove it; she just needed time. This could—no, would—be the story that made her career.
She started toward her closet, but stopped and glanced at the window, which looked down on a grassy downtown park. It would be deserted just now, and when the cops left, they would go out the other side of the building. Probably. And on the outside window ledge there were three decorative concrete cubes with scrollwork carved into the sides. Just the right size to hold the bag by the strap.
Three more knocks, a little slower this time, a little more insistent, followed by the doorbell.
She pulled the laptop from under her mattress, slid it into the bag, and opened the bedroom window. Cool night air wafted over her, blowing the curtains away from the windowsill. She leaned out the window and hung the bag by the shoulder strap over one of the decorative concrete cubes. In the middle of the night, nobody would notice it. Especially not at this height.
As she pulled the window sash down and locked it, she heard a clicking noise from the front door.
“Jeremy,” she said. “Unmute. What’s happening at the front door?”
“Someone is trying to override the front door passcode,” said the A.I. voice. “Should I contact emergency services?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Dialing.” And then... nothing.
“Jeremy,” said Jessica. “Call 911.”
Nothing.
“Jeremy? Unmute.”
The A.I. still didn’t respond. There were more clicks at the front door, and then the mechanical whirring of the deadbolt unlocking. More clicking. She opened the window sash again and leaned out to look down. Eleven stories below, asphalt, cars, and bushes looked very small. She’d never been afraid of heights, but this...
Another whirring at the door. It was unlocked. Without thinking any more, she opened the window sash, climbed onto the ledge, and quietly slid the sash closed behind her.
21
Val led Braden through the woods toward the east to avoid roads. Braden never complained, though sometimes she had to pull him along. She needed a rest as much as he did, but there was no stopping now. Probably would never be any stopping again.
The moon wasn’t full, but it provided enough light that they could just barely make out the shapes of trees and avoid running into trunks. But several times they ran right into tangles of bushes and fallen branches. After about thirty minutes of huffing it, Val had cuts and scrapes all over her arms.
By the time they had gone a few miles, she heard the noise of Dragonflies in the distance, their propulsion engines screaming as they rushed toward their house. The place that had been her only refuge in the world. Soon she’d hear the whine of their lift engines and see spotlights shining down into the woods. She pictured Dragonflies hovering over their heads. Men carrying flashlights and guns running through the woods in wide search patterns. Snarling dogs chasing her son up trees. Drones buzzing around the two of them and firing sedative darts.
They’d never stop hunting her or Braden now.
Where are we going? Braden thought.
Val started to reply verbally, but she realized Braden was communicating telepathically because he was out of breath.
We need to get to the creek, she thought. That might throw them off our trail. And I think I know a place to hide.
They use infrared, right? And satellites?
Val couldn’t hide her frustration. Just keep running. We can’t think about that right now. Just. Keep. Running.
“This way,” she murmured.
She and Kim had once walked this creek together a long time ago. It had been the day she asked him to remove her implant. Even though he hated SRP as much as she did, he had tried to talk her out of it.
“I don’t think you understand how much this will change our lives,” he had said. It was the only thing she could remember him saying that had made her angry.
“You don’t think I know?” she had said. “You don’t think that I’ve thought this through?”
The reflection of the half-moon shone on the rippling creek in front of them. Splashes from Braden’s feet peppered it with droplets. Like tiny asteroids striking the moon’s surface.
“Why are you thinking about a sad memory of him?” said Braden.
She sighed. Even after all these years, sometimes she forgot.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She stopped and knelt down on a rock in the middle of the creek, putting her arms around him and holding him close to her.
“He’s going to be okay,” she said. “Don’t talk about him like he’s just a memory.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I know you’ll find a way to get him back after they fix him.”
In a panic, she stopped herself from thinking what occurred to her just then.
“I just don’t know why you’d think of a bad memory right now,” he said.