Another click popped, and then a deep voice spoke. “Hello.”
“Cliff?”
“Eric? Is that you?”
“I couldn’t do it, Cliff.” His voice held an infinite weariness.
“I was afraid of that. I tried to tell you.”
“I got into the case, but I couldn’t get the rifle.”
“Eric, it’s okay.”
“I couldn’t get it out, Cliff.”
“Did you put everything back?”
“I didn’t get it.”
“I know, Eric,” the deep voice said patiently. “But did you leave things like they were, so they won’t know?”
“I—I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t get it.”
“Eric, go home. You sound terrible.”
“It was terrible, Cliff. So much pain—”
“Look,” Cliff said, “why don’t you come over here for a while. We’ll watch some television.”
“No. I’ll just walk.”
“Eric!” The voice grew sharp. “Stay there. I’ll be right over for you.”
A deep sigh sounded over the line, then finally Eric replied. “All right.”
“Stay at the front entrance.” He paused, then, “Eric, it’s not the end of everything. I told you we couldn’t beat the system.”
“Yeah, I know. I didn’t believe you.”
“Okay, stay put, and I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The speaker clicked, and the hum sounded again. Travis switched it off.
The Major looked at Shirley. “Tell Clayne to wait until they’re gone. I want to let Eric go with Dr. Cameron, see what they say. Tell Clayne to go in and check the case to make sure nothing is missing once Eric is clear. If it checks out, tell him to come back here.”
He stood up. “Nicole, you and Shirley continue to monitor Eric. If they don’t go to Cameron’s place, or there is anything out of the ordinary—anything—call me immediately. Otherwise, I want you to patch the bugging device in Cameron’s apartment into my office. Travis and I will listen to it there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Nicole—”
“Yes, sir?”
“A job well done, Nicole. Thanks to you, we caught him in time.”
“So what now?” she asked, suddenly feeling as weary as Eric.
He shook his head sadly. “We don’t have any choice. He’s an incredibly brave young man, but he’s too resourceful, too dangerous. We’re not ever going to feel safe with him running around uncontrolled.”
“But he’s already implanted.”
“Yes, and obviously Stage Two is not sufficient. We’ll let him and Dr. Cameron have their little talk, see what they plan next. Then we’ll pick them up and take them in for Stage Three.”
He sighed deeply. “Such a waste. Such a tragic waste.”
Nicole nodded, staring numbly at the monitoring screen as a point of light moved slowly across the streets of Shalev.
Chapter 17
When Cliff’s car drove up the circular driveway, Eric stood up, threw one last pebble in the Fountain of Peace that stood in front of the museum, and moved slowly to the curb, his head down.
Cliff leaned over and opened Eric’s door, then laid his hand on his shoulder as he got in. Eric let his head drop until it almost touched his chest. Nor did he raise it again when he spoke. “Clayne’s in the shrubbery directly off to our right.”
“Okay,” Cliff murmured.
“Let’s wait a moment or two before we leave,” Eric said in a low voice, “but he can’t hear us over the noise of the fountain.” He stifled a grin. “Give me some solicitous comfort to help me deal with my disastrous failure.”
Cliff leaned forward, his face earnest. “So you got them?”
“I got them!”
“You sounded so convincing on the phone, I was afraid you really had failed.”
Eric shook his head and pushed Cliff’s hand away from his shoulder, as though in anger, but his eyes were bright with excitement. “I wasn’t faking the shakiness in my voice.”
Straightening back into his own seat, Cliff started the car moving. “Do you think Clayne’ll follow us?”
“I don’t think so. He walked here across the quad from Central Control, but let’s take it slow and easy to your place just in case.”
They drove in silence until they were clear of Alliance Square. Eric glanced quickly out the back window, then unbuttoned his shirt and extracted the set of heavy bolt cutters he had stuffed in his belt.
“So there they are,” Cliff said.
“Those are the babies. Used by Navy frogmen to cut through submarine netting, shore defenses—you name it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, I had some minimal pain going in and while I was waiting, but I forced myself to think of other things. But once I started on the case, it was pretty bad. When I had the back off and made the switch, I could feel myself going. I fought it desperately, keeping my back to them while I got these under my shirt. But suddenly I lost control. The last thing I remember as I blacked out was saying to myself, ‘Fall on your stomach! Fall on your stomach!’ I could picture me lying there on my back in front of that hidden camera with this conspicuous bulge under my shirt.”
“Are you sure they didn’t see you take them?”
“No, I’m not positive, but nearly so. But if they had seen me take them, I think Clayne would’ve confronted me as I came out. Remember the magician’s trick—make them look where you want them to? I pulled the M-1 rifle partly out so they could see it once I turned around.”
“I hate to sound like the worried mother, but how much chance is there they’ll spot the phony cutters?”
Eric shrugged. “I’ve never carved anything with so much care before in my life. And I think the job I did with the modeling paints was pretty fair too. If this set and the phony cutters were side by side, you’d spot the difference in a minute, but they aren’t. I was very careful to place the phony cutters in the exact position as these were in.”
“Good.”
And then suddenly Eric’s excitement boiled over. “We’re going to pull it off, Cliff!” he shouted exuberantly.
Cliff nodded. “I think you’re right, but we’ve got a hairy hour yet to go.”
“Yes, I know.” And with that they both fell silent for the rest of the way.
Eric stopped outside the apartment door, glanced quickly up and down the hallway, then turned to Cliff. “Dr. Cameron?”
“Yes.” His voice was dull, his eyes disinterested, his shoulders slightly stooped.
“From this point on, you will obey only written commands. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“You will take only written commands until you are told to wake up. At that time you will be totally awake. You will not remember what you have done. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
Eric took a deep breath, pushing aside the pain that was back again now, his heart pounding. If they were waiting for them inside—He breathed a great sigh as he opened the door and saw that the apartment was empty. Cliff had been in such a high state of excitement when they reached the carport behind his apartment building that it had taken Eric nearly five minutes longer than they had planned to settle him down enough to go under. Eric was keenly aware that even though they had “failed,” the Major and Travis couldn’t let this go. Now time was everything.
He shut and locked the door, stepped quickly to the coffee table, and picked up the note pad Cliff had left there. Cliff had printed out all of the commands in large block letters.
Eric turned around and shoved the first one under Cliffs nose. Cliff began to speak loudly, reading as he was told. “Eric, sit down. I’ll turn on the television. I’ll get some dinner. You sit here and relax.”
Eric winced. Cliff had spoken slowly, loudly, and in a monotone, like a first grader painfully sounding out each word. If Cliff’s apartment had been bugged, as they suspected, Eric�
��s only hope was that they would assume Cliff was speaking to him like a child because of his condition.
In three quick steps, Eric moved to the television set and turned it on, letting the sound blare out through the apartment. Then, taking Cliff by the hand, he led him into the kitchen, opened a cupboard door, took out a pan, and banged it on the stove. He took the cutters out of his shirt and set them on the table where Cliff had laid out the surgical gloves, scalpel, suturing thread and needles, and syringes. His mind leaped ahead as he saw the things Cliff had pilfered from the hospital, and suddenly he was on his knees, gasping as ribbons of pain sliced through him like fire. Cliff watched him, curious but unmoved.
“Oh baby!” he whispered as it gradually subsided. “One more of those mistakes, and you’ll have the Major and his boys running here on the double. Think of the valley. Think of Becky. Think of anything!”
Breathing heavily, he picked up the nearest syringe and handed it to Cliff, then tore off the top page of the note pad and showed him the second message. YOU WILL GIVE ME THIS SHOT AT THE POINT WHERE MY FINGER IS TOUCHING. Eric lowered his head, touching the back of his neck.
Dutifully Cliff lifted his arms. Eric felt a sharp sting as the local anesthetic was injected under the skin. The pain in his chest and abdomen surged upward again, and he clutched at the chair as he tore off that sheet and held up the next command.
I AM GOING TO GIVE YOU A SHOT IN THE BACK OF YOUR NECK. YOU WILL NOT FEEL ANY PAIN.
Cliff offered not so much as a shrug. And he had no reaction at all when Eric stuck him with the needle.
But Eric was not impervious, and he had to drop onto one of the kitchen chairs, gasping for breath, his face a sheen of cold sweat. He had thought the preliminaries would be easy. What if he blacked out as he was supposed to cut the band? Cliff would go right ahead and yank out the implantation, and that would be it.
Eric shook his head impatiently. Adding worry to guilt would certainly not ease the pain. “It is not wrong,” he muttered fer vently. “Implantation is wrong. It’s good to take it out. What you are doing is not wrong!”
It helped a little, and he stood up again, feeling the time factor squeezing in on them. And all the time, Cliff stood beside him, watching him with a curious detachment while the television blared some inane musical variety show.
Eric took a deep breath, tapped the back of his neck, and grunted in satisfaction when he felt nothing. “Okay, I’m ready if you are,” he said to himself, and shoved the next note in front of the dull eyes. DR. CAMERON. THE OFFICIALS OF SHALEV HAVE DETERMINED THAT ERIC LLOYD’S IMPLANTATION IS TO BE REMOVED. PLEASE MAKE THE INCISION AND PREPARE TO REMOVE THE PLASTIC CHIP. DO NOT—WE REPEAT, DO NOT—REMOVE THE CHIP UNTIL YOU ARE INSTRUCTED TO DO SO.
Climbing quickly up on the table, Eric lay face down, grateful that he no longer had to stand, for his legs were trembling violently. Cliff put on the surgical gloves with maddening slowness, then moved slightly and leaned over his head. The scalpel flashed briefly, and then, a moment later, Cliff stepped back, and Eric saw the bright red of his fingers. He snatched up the note pad and tore off the next page.
DR. CAMERON. PREPARE TO TAKE OUT THE IMPLANTATION. YOU MUST YANK IT OUT SWIFTLY WHEN ERIC SAYS THE WORD THREE. DO NOT TAKE IT OUT UNTIL YOU HEAR HIM SAY THE WORD THREE.
Cliff nodded and stepped forward again.
As Eric picked up the bolt cutters, the ribbons of pain became rivers of molten lava coursing through his body. He jerked once in agony, almost knocking Cliffs hands away. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he inserted the band of the wrist computer into the jaws of the bolt cutter, ignoring the sudden warning buzz. Yellow flashes of light edged in around his vision, and he felt himself slipping away, blackness rushing toward him.
“One!” It was a hoarse gasp. “Two!”
He rose up and slammed down his full weight on the handles of the bolt cutters. “Three!” he shouted.
He heard a sharp snap and a brief, odd sensation at the back of his neck, but those impressions were instantly swept away with the sudden, total cessation of the pain, which left him gasping in amazement and relief. With one great sob of release, Eric collapsed back on the table, drawing breaths of air like a threshing machine gobbling up harvest wheat.
Finally he looked up. “We did it, Cliff!” he whispered exultantly. Cliff watched him steadily, holding the bloody black plastic chip in his fingers.
Eric tore off the next sheet on the pad and held it up. STITCH UP THE INCISION AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED, LIE FACE DOWN ON THE TABLE.
Cliff nodded, unconcerned, stepped forward, and picked up the needle and some suturing thread.
“We did it!” Eric whispered again, hardly able to fathom the total absence of pain. It provided a pleasure more exquisite than anything he had ever known. He slapped the table with his fist, careful not to move his head. “We did it!” he said again in a joyous whisper of triumph.
Nicole gave a sideward glance at the monitoring screen, stared for a long moment at the blinking white light and the small sentence across the bottom of the screen, TRACKING ERIC KARL LLOYD, #445512, then leaned back and closed her eyes. The aspirin she had taken immediately after Travis and the Major had left had not yet taken hold, and she massaged her temples with her fingertips, ignoring the questioning look Shirley Ferguson shot in her direction.
She felt angry—angry at herself for letting her emotions override her good sense, angry at Clifford Cameron for not stopping Eric’s foolhardy recklessness, and most of all, angry at Eric. She had tried to warn him. Travis had tried to warn him. Clayne had put it to him straight again and again. But by tomorrow at this time, he would have a Stage Three implantation in the back of his neck. And it would be his own stupid fault.
A soft knock came at the door behind her, and Nicole and Shirley both turned as Clayne Robertson entered, gave them a quick wave, and moved over to stand behind Nicole and stare at the monitoring screen. “They’re still at Cameron’s place?” he asked.
“Yes. The doctor is cooking them some dinner. Eric’s in the living room.” She made a face at the noise coming from the speaker. “That’s the television you hear.”
Clayne shook his head as he leaned forward and peered at the placement of the blinking light on the simple floor plan of Clifford Cameron’s apartment. “He’s not in the living room,” he corrected. “That’s the kitchen.”
Nicole turned to look at him. “Are you sure? I got the impression Dr. Cameron left him on the couch.”
Clayne shook his head, and his finger touched the screen. “I’ve been in there two or three times. That’s the kitchen. This is the living room here. He’s probably gone in to be with Cliff.”
“No,” Shirley said. “He hasn’t moved out of that room since Cliff—Dr. Cameron—told him to sit down.”
Clayne shrugged, not really caring one way or the other. “Sorry, but he’s in the kitchen. Any word from the Major yet?”
Nicole shook her head. “He’s going to have them picked up tonight, and then he’ll put them both on Stage Three.” Before Clayne could respond, she returned to the other question. “Are you sure that’s the kitchen?” She didn’t like the fact that she had so clearly pictured him in the living room, only to find him in the kitchen.
“Yes, I am. Can you bring both Eric and Cliff on the screen at the same time? Bet you a malt they’re in the same room.”
Nicole punched the keys, and a second light came on the screen so close to the first as to almost form one point of brightness. The line of print beneath the two blinking lights expanded to read: TRACKING ERIC KARL LLOYD, #445512 AND CLIFFORD CLARK CAMERON, #446823.
“See,” Clayne said, pleased with himself, “they aren’t moving, and they’re right next to each other. I’d guess they’re eating dinner together. Eric can’t be too emotionally crushed if he’s eating already.”
“I could have sworn—” Nicole didn’t get to finish her sentence, because suddenly the monitoring al
arm clanged wildly. The two points of light disappeared and bright red letters flowed across the screen. WARNING! WARNING! WRIST COMPUTER, #445512, ERIC KARL LLOYD HAS BEEN SEVERED. TERMINAL VOLTAGE SEQUENCE NOW INITIATED.
“What!” Nicole exclaimed, unable to believe her eyes.
Then just as suddenly as it had begun, the alarm shut off, and a dull buzz took over. ERIC KARL LLOYD, #445512, HAS NOW BEEN TERMINATED. SUBJECT CAN NO LONGER BE MONITORED.
Nicole’s hand flew to her mouth. “No!” she whispered.
“Terminated!” Clayne cried. “How can he be terminated?”
Shirley snatched up the phone on her console and punched two buttons. “Get the Major!” she shouted. “Eric Lloyd has been terminated.”
Nicole shot one stricken look at Clayne, then spun back around to gape at the screen again.
“What is it?” Clayne roared.
“He must have cut his band,” she whispered hoarsely. “That triggers the automatic termination voltage sequence in the computers.”
“Cut it?” Clayne cried again, shaking her gently, trying to pull her out of her shock. “How could he cut a wrist computer band? That’s impossible.”
“They did, Clayne! Look at the screen. He’s dead. Eric’s dead!”
“Something’s wrong. Maybe a computer error.”
“No,” Shirley answered firmly, “in that sequence there are three back-up systems. Only one thing can bring this up on the screen. They have somehow cut his band.”
Suddenly the buzzing stopped, the flashing red letters faded away, and a single point of light reappeared. Across the bottom came the white explanation. TRACKING CLIFFORD CLARK CAMERON, #446823.
“That’s Cameron. He’s still there, standing in the same place as before.” Then suddenly his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He must have cut Eric’s band.”
He spun around and started for the door. “Tell the Major I’m headed for Cameron’s apartment. I want to see what’s going on over there.”
As the door shut behind him, the two women stared at the screen for several long seconds before Shirley finally said, “He was so depressed. Maybe he did it deliberately.”
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 39
