by C. J. Hill
Lobo was still wearing the look of triumph when the car smashed into him. He tumbled over its roof and flew into the air like a loose piece of litter. Then he dropped to the ground with a crack—the sound of armor hitting pavement.
Echo strode over to him. Lobo was alive but unmoving. He stared blankly upward, blinking.
Echo knelt down. “People without signals should be careful in the street.” He plunged the needle into Lobo’s neck. The sleeping drug slid in, immediately doing its work.
Lobo had been thrown out of the way of the rails, so Echo didn’t bother dragging him anywhere. He turned to Taylor. She stood not far away, the scalpel still gripped in her hand. “There are more coming,” she said.
He looked back toward the building. Four men were hurrying toward them. Four. How could he hold off four?
“I meant there,” Taylor said.
He turned and saw her pointing to a car that had stopped not far down the street. Men were getting out. And none of them looked friendly. Echo didn’t know why they hadn’t already started firing.
And then the answer drove up. An Enforcer on a rail-jumper. The Dakine were waiting for him to move on before they pulled out their laser boxes. Only the Enforcer didn’t move on. He drove right up to Taylor. “Get on,” he told her, then motioned to Echo. “You too.”
“Mendez,” Taylor breathed out, and was already on the bike before the man had finished speaking. She ignored the handles at the side of the bike, and wrapped her arms around Mendez’s waist. Echo joined her, just able to grip his handles before the bike jolted down the rails.
The Dakine got off a few shots in their direction, but none that hit them. The bike was too far away. “You believed me,” Taylor called to Mendez happily.
“When my rank went to number one,” he said, “I became a believer.”
The Dakine might have tried to pursue them. Echo couldn’t tell. He kept his eyes forward, watching the bike overtake cars as though they were standing still. Each time the bike jumped a car, Echo was lifted, weightless, into air. It was a feeling like flying—the feeling of freedom.
Chapter 35
When Sheridan woke up, Tariq was gone. The Tough One stood over her. “Get up,” he grumbled. “I don’t want to have to carry you to the medroom.”
She propped herself up on one elbow. Someone had changed her clothes while she was unconscious. Instead of the tan prison overalls, she wore crisp white ones. She hoped The Tough One hadn’t been the one to change her clothes. “Egyptian queens used to have their slaves carry them around,” she told him. “Funny how civilization hasn’t changed all that much.”
“Get up,” he said again, this time pointing the laser box for emphasis.
Slowly, she got to her feet.
Was this real life or another VR program? She had no way to tell.
The Tough One used his crystal to open the cell door. Keeping his laser box trained on her, he motioned for her to go out.
Sheridan took unhurried steps toward the door. “You’re bringing me somewhere to get a memory wash?”
He didn’t answer, just waved for her to go through the door.
“It’s a pity I’ll forget our heartfelt talks about your family.”
He grabbed her arm and yanked her through the door into the hallway. She had expected him to let her go after that, but he kept hold of her, squeezing her arm tightly. As he pulled her down the hallway, he leaned over to speak into her ear. His voice sounded as harsh as churning gravel. “My daughter is dead. Killed by Dakine scum. The scum you refuse to help the government fight.”
Even then, while he squeezed her arm, Sheridan felt a jolt of sympathy for him. She wanted to make him understand her refusal—Taylor’s refusal. “It’s not just the Dakine the government will kill. They’ll kill anyone they don’t like for any reason. Do you want that?”
“I don’t care about the rest,” The Tough One hissed. “I want the Dakine dead. All of them.”
“Then you’re in prison too,” she said. “One made of anger.”
She should have known better than to say anything. He twisted her arm until she cried out. She fell forward and he yanked her to her feet again, wrenching pain throughout her arm and shoulder. “You shouldn’t fight guards,” he said. “I have no choice but to subdue you.”
She’d grown stupid in prison, because she couldn’t stop herself from speaking. “Does my pity torture you? How ironic.”
He shoved her against the wall hard. Her back and head hit it with a snap, then he pulled her forward again, nearly dragging her down the hallway. Stupid VR programs. Why did they have to be so accurate when it came to pain? The Tough One didn’t speak again. Neither did she. They went through three more metallic hallways and took an elevator down two floors. Another hallway. Then The Tough One led her into a room.
It was large and so brightly lit that she had to squint to let her eyes adjust. Bare white walls surrounded her. Everything looked sterile and blank, smelled that way too. Three Enforcers stood against the back wall. It seemed like a large number to guard one unarmed teenage girl.
Reilly was at the far end of the room talking to a woman dressed in a red pantsuit. Her hair was pulled away from her face and shoved into a long red cap. The cap reminded Sheridan of something the Seven Dwarves would wear . . . if they were taller, women, and really liked the color red.
A desk covered with unrecognizable equipment sat along one wall. A medical table stood directly behind Reilly and the woman. Hand and leg cuffs connected to the top of the table with thin ropes, and two metal clamps lay open at the head of the table—the place where her head would be strapped down. The side of the table had a computer screen with glowing buttons and charts. The sight of it made Sheridan’s stomach lurch. Even worse, a large, cave-like machine sat a few feet away from the table. She could tell by the rails on the floor that the table rolled into the machine.
Sheridan’s heart pounded against her rib cage. Her ears rang with sudden fear. It’s just another VR program, she told herself. One designed to freak you out. If they thought a fear of sharks would make her give them information, right now she would be floating on an inner tube in the middle of the Pacific Ocean covered in steak sauce.
The Tough One marched Sheridan over to Reilly. Reilly turned, smiled casually at Sheridan, and gestured to the woman in red. “This is Emile, the med who’ll oversee your memory wash.”
Emile was a thin woman, with pronounced features that might have been pretty when she was younger but looked sharp and birdlike now. The woman met Sheridan’s eyes and nodded as though they were being introduced at a cocktail party. More proof this wasn’t real. You wouldn’t look a person in the eyes before you shut down part of her brain.
“It’s a simple procedure,” Reilly went on, eager in his explanation. “We strap you onto the table, push this button”—he tapped his finger on a square light in the control panel—“and send you into the erasing chamber. I could do it myself—in fact, I will—but regulations insist a med is present. If your head isn’t in the right position when you enter the chamber, you could lose things besides your memory: your hearing or sight, your ability to recognize faces or identify patterns. So many things could accidentally be destroyed.” Reilly leaned toward her, his eyes gleaming with angry satisfaction. “We wouldn’t want any of your intelligence to be affected. You see, even after all the problems you’ve insisted on causing, we’re still looking out for you.” He straightened and glanced around the room. “Where is my coffee?”
The Tough One, and the row of Enforcers along the back wall, all stared blankly at Reilly, unanswering. Reilly grumbled something under his breath and unclipped his comlink. Before Reilly called anyone, the medroom door slid open and Tariq walked in carrying a mug.
That made five men here to guard her. Or, Sheridan thought with a flutter of hope, maybe Tariq had come to help her. He might have changed his mind about this. Could he do anything to fight off four other guards? She searched his face for som
e clue. He didn’t look at her, just strolled over to Reilly and handed him the mug. Steam curled from its top.
Reilly brought the cup to his lips, took a sip, and sighed happily. “Exactly the way I like it, with a hint of caramel and vanilla.” Keeping his gaze on Sheridan, Reilly motioned to Tariq. “I believe you’ve already met my personal assistant.”
It was only then that Tariq turned his attention to Sheridan. “Yes, we’ve . . .” He looked as though he was about to say something intimate, then settled for the word, “met.”
The amusement in Tariq’s voice made Sheridan’s cheeks flush in anger. She had known Tariq worked for Reilly—but his personal assistant? Was that true or just a new twist in the VR program? It could be true, and that thought alone made the memory of their kisses burn painfully on Sheridan’s lips. She hated the smiling, smug version of Tariq standing before her, hated him worse than Reilly. That was the thing about betrayal. It stung even when you saw it coming.
The Tough One walked to the back of the room and stood beside the row of Enforcers. They all watched her, a still and silent group of grim reapers. Reilly swirled his coffee, then motioned to Tariq.
Tariq sauntered over to Sheridan and took hold of her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Not sorry enough to help me.” She knew Reilly overheard everything they said. She didn’t care.
“I tried to help you.” Tariq pulled her toward the table. “I tried so many times.”
She planted her feet and resisted, didn’t make those few steps easy for him. “Your help was never real. I always knew that.”
“Did you?” He yanked her forward, then pushed her into the table so hard, its edge bit into her hips. She knocked into one of the cuffs and it jangled as it slid across the table. She turned, trying to get away. Tariq grabbed hold of her arm to keep her in place. He picked up the closest cuff and snapped it onto her wrist. As soon as the cuff closed, the rope retracted into the table, pulling her hand until it was pinned down. She had to bend over to stay standing.
“I’m sorry you won’t remember our time together.” Tariq’s smile returned, arrogant and punishing. It had been a blow to his ego, she realized, that he couldn’t get her to cooperate. “I’ll always remember it, though. How sweet you were. How eager and trusting.”
He reached for her other hand. She moved it away. “That’s not a memory. That’s a fantasy. Apparently you’ve lost track of the difference.”
Tariq’s expression darkened and he drew back his hand to slap her. As he did, Reilly snapped his fingers. Tariq at once dropped his hand and stepped away so that Reilly could see her.
“He’s trained you well,” Sheridan told Tariq. “I couldn’t get my dog to obey that quickly.”
Tariq’s eyes narrowed. A muscle in his cheek twitched in annoyance.
The door to the room slid open again. Three more Enforcers walked in and took their place against the back wall. It seemed almost laughable to see them lined up like that. Had her resistance really merited three more guards?
Reilly took a sip of his coffee and slowly stepped toward Sheridan. He was close enough now that she could have hit him with her free hand. She supposed he didn’t worry about that with eight guards around.
“This is your last chance,” Reilly said. “Will you work with me or will you lose your memories? Your life, your sister—it will all be gone.”
“I know this is one of your VR programs,” Sheridan said. “You’re overlooking the details again.”
“Am I?” he said, with genuine surprise. “And what would those details be?”
“Your program is getting the faces wrong now.” She couldn’t have failed to notice, after all, that one of the Enforcers who had just come in was Echo. Their helmets didn’t completely obscure their faces, and she’d gotten good at seeing through the helmets’ glare. His face was rounder than it should have been, his nose a little too big.
She glanced at the row of Enforcers again. The one who looked like Echo gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, warning her not to speak.
Reilly glanced over his shoulder, scanning the row of Enforcers lined up and standing at attention.
The nice thing about knowing you were in a VR program, Sheridan decided, was that you didn’t have to overthink what you were doing. It was like playing a computer game in which you could shoot people without compunction. She didn’t think twice about leaning her weight against the table and kicking Reilly as hard as she could. Her foot connected below his waist with satisfying force. He gave a small groan, a sound like the lid being popped off a bottle, then crumpled and fell to his knees. The mug flew from his hands, spraying coffee on Tariq as it clanked to the floor.
Sheridan pulled at her wrist, tried to free herself from the cuff. It didn’t budge.
Tariq strode toward Sheridan, wiping at the coffee dribbling down his thigh. His mouth was a tight line of fury. She lifted her leg again, aiming. Tariq’s armor would absorb most of the impact, but if she kicked him in the knee, she might still manage to knock him down.
Before he reached her, the Enforcer who looked like Echo pulled a box from his belt, pointed it at Tariq, and fired. She heard a whiz, a small thunk, and then Tariq jerked backward like a sprinting dog who had reached the end of his leash. He fell to the ground, yelling, and was dragged away from Sheridan.
After that, all the Enforcers along the wall moved, erupting into action. Half of them turned their laser boxes on the Echo-like Enforcer. Nothing happened, though. No ripping sound that laser boxes made when they fired. Must be another VR program malfunction.
It didn’t matter. If Reilly wanted to learn something from her, he could learn she wouldn’t give up. She would always fight him, even when she knew it wasn’t real.
Sheridan didn’t have time to watch the Enforcers or to see what happened. She needed to get free from the table. A dozen buttons lay on the side panel. One of them must release the cuff, but another would send the table into the erasing chamber. Which one was it? In her panic, she couldn’t remember which button Reilly had pointed to. Some had symbols, others showed letters or numbers. Sheridan didn’t understand any of it.
Reilly staggered to his feet, his eyes blazing with rage. He didn’t straighten all the way. “You’ll regret that,” he rasped out.
Sheridan’s gaze bounced between him and the controls on the table. None of the symbols resembled a cuff being released. “Isn’t this what you want?” she asked. “Isn’t this part of your plan to break me? You must want me to fight, or you wouldn’t keep putting me in these programs.”
“I will break you,” he said. “I’ll break every bone in your body.”
Sheridan hadn’t noticed the club hanging from Reilly’s belt before. Now he reached for it, yanked it loose. As he did, he turned and saw the Enforcers fighting behind him.
He stared for a moment in confusion. “What are you doing?” he called to them. “What’s going on?”
Emile lay on the ground, an unconscious red heap of jutting limbs. The Enforcers had abandoned their useless laser boxes and were fighting with other weapons, grunting and shouting as they did. Some swung long, thin chain saws. They spit sparks as they whirred around, buzzing hungrily. Other Enforcers used canisters that shot out black ooze. Patches of it were splattered on the Enforcers, the walls, and the floor, making the whole room look like it had been dabbed with shadows. Apparently the ooze stuck things together. The Tough One was cemented to the wall like a black butterfly pinned in someone’s collection. Another guard fell onto a patch on the ground and couldn’t get up. He kicked uselessly at the floor.
Sheridan returned her attention to the table. She pressed the button with the most likely-looking symbol.
Instead of her cuff releasing, the bands at the top of the bed snapped shut. No good. She pressed another. The bed lowered a couple of inches.
Reilly pulled his comlink from his belt. He checked its screen, then shook the device in aggravation. “What’s happened? Som
eone go for backup!”
The Enforcers were too busy fighting each other to comply. In the surges of swinging chain saws and moving bodies, Sheridan couldn’t tell which Enforcer was Tariq and which was Echo. It was all thrusts, dodges, kicks, and grunts—a violent dance set to the music of the buzzing saws.
“Computer malfunction?” Sheridan asked Reilly. “I just hate those.” She pushed another button. That one seemed to do nothing at all.
An Enforcer called out, “Brothers!” It was such an unexpected yell that it drew Sheridan’s attention back to the fight. Were there brothers here? No, even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew the call had been a plea, or perhaps a reminder. There were unspoken words behind that word, ones that bound people together.
Black ooze covered one Enforcer’s helmet, blocking his sight. He held a chain saw but could only wave it wildly in front of him. Another Enforcer came toward him, chain saw lifted to slash him.
“Left thrust now!” a third Enforcer yelled. The blinded man lunged forward, striking to the left. His blow hit his opponent’s shoulder and made a sharp grinding sound.
The third Enforcer drove his chain saw at the man he fought, making him back up so quickly that he tripped over one of the downed Enforcers. Before the man even hit the ground, the third Enforcer was on his way to help his blinded friend.
Sheridan pushed another button. Again, nothing. The Tough One was screaming out threats, even though he was still stuck to the wall. Over by the door, two Enforcers—Echo and Tariq; she recognized them now—circled each other, both holding sparking chain saws like fencers in a duel. Tariq swung his chain saw at Echo. Echo blocked the blow with his own.
Sheridan pushed another button on the side of the table. This one rotated the bed a couple of inches. Reilly looked over and saw what she was doing. He flung his comlink to the ground so hard, it bounced before skidding under the desk. “No!” he yelled, and marched toward her, the club gripped in his hand. His eyes had gone glassy, feverish with hatred.
