by Terry Brooks
Ash turns back to Cay, who looks at him in disbelief. He reads her thoughts from her expression. What are you doing? He motions for her to go to Jenny and run for the front door. Without hesitating, Cay does so. The huge reception chamber is filled with ash and debris, alive with the echoes of weapons being discharged. It is a madhouse. Ash looks right and left, sees an opening, and rushes to reach Holly and Penny. As Penny provides firing cover, Ash levers Holly to her feet—an immense effort—and they limp for the front doors. Cay is there, crouched down with Jenny, but the doors are locked. In response, Holly shrugs off Ash, brings up the Gronklin, and blows them open.
Amid constant firing and the shock of charges that fail to score direct hits but do result in glancing blows and sharp daggers of pain, the five stumble back out into the night.
All of the entry lights remain off, and they are momentarily shrouded in darkness. Cay takes them left toward the handicapped elevators to one side. They are screened by smoke and night, but all save Cay have been wounded. They reach the elevator unchallenged, and to their surprise, it responds when Ash punches the button for street level.
Behind them, but still inside the building, figures rush here and there in an effort to find a way outside to stop the intruders. The group can see evidence of hesitation and confusion through the broad windows. The doors through which they escaped are now partially blocked. No one comes outside.
The elevator arrives. The five fugitives enter and it begins to descend. Cay triggers the garage door opener that brought them inside and then fiddles with a second device. A remote? The word leaves Ash’s lips and goes into the com unit, and Cay gives him a nod. They can’t get to the Onyx, so the Onyx must get to them.
Suddenly Jenny falters. Ash moves quickly, propping her up. He did not see her struck by any of the weapons fired at them, so he is confused at first. Then he sees the loose end of the tubing that ties into one of the ports at the back of her neck, blood leaking in a steady stream. He ties it off as tightly as he can and hopes he isn’t killing her.
The elevator stops at street level, and they stumble outside just as the Onyx swings into view. A knot of Watchmen has finally managed to push its way through the blocked doors and is rushing down the stairs to intercept them. Holly stands up and begins firing, Penny-Bird beside her. The other three limp toward the vehicle. Because it is waiting in darkness, it is virtually invisible to their attackers, who must wonder where they think they are going.
Holly’s counterattack scatters the Watchmen, and for long moments, the exchange of fire does no damage to either side. But then Holly abandons her efforts, grabs Penny’s arm, and pushes her in the direction of the Onyx. Another few discharges from the Gronklin, and she follows.
They are almost there when Holly is struck in the back by a massive laser charge that throws her to the pavement. Penny hovers over her, trying to pull her to her feet, failing. For the second time that night, Ash goes to her rescue. Leaving the Sparz behind, he flings himself through the passenger door and charges over. With something approaching superhuman effort, he drags Holly back to her feet, and the three of them hobble and lurch toward the safety of the vehicle. Cay is giving them cover fire with the Sparz, standing just outside the driver’s door, leaning over the hood.
For a second, Ash is certain they are all dead. Laser charges explode all around him. The cacophony of weapon fire is deafening, and in the distance he can hear the sound of sirens. They seem to be coming from every direction. By now the lasers are targeting the nearly invisible Onyx as well as its occupants, but so far its armor is proving resistant to any real damage.
Ash’s thoughts are scattered and vague, his concentration focused on reaching safety. He is struck several times while hauling Holly, glancing blows once more and none fatal. Even so, the accumulation of hits is beginning to tell. The end feels inevitable. Time has run out.
But then somehow they are all back inside the Onyx and Cay is wheeling the vehicle into in a U-turn and taking them back into the near darkness of side streets and byways, leaving ORACLE behind.
The ride back to the safe house is filled with silences punctuated by grunts and hisses of pain. Injuries are examined and assessed. Holly will need medical care, and Jenny has to be looked at in order to have her blood washer repaired. Cay decides to delay any effort to reach the safe house, and instead they drive both to the medical center where Holly was taken before. Penny-Bird provides directions, her young face grim, her eyes frightened. Holly is strong, but this is the second time in a week she has been badly hurt. Even her enhanced constitution can’t survive everything.
They arrive at the center. The old house is dark, its lights confined to the porch area. It is very late, and everyone is in bed. But Cay runs to the front door and bangs on it until someone appears. Minutes later, stretchers and bearers appear, and Holly and Jenny are carted away.
Before that happens, Cay reaches into Jenny’s clothing and removes the thumb drive and tucks it into her pocket. “Not taking any chances on losing this after what it took to get it,” she says to Ash.
She tries to reach Woodrow, but there is no answer. She exchanges a look with Ash, but neither says what they are both thinking.
Leaving Penny-Bird at the medical center with Holly and Jenny, the two climb back into the Onyx and drive to the safe house. They need to be sure Woodrow is all right. There is no need to do anything more about the thumb drive. Tomorrow is soon enough to examine it and send it to where it will do the most damage to BioGen and Cyrus.
On reaching the safe house, they find the front door broken down and the interior destroyed. Everything has been torn apart and every room has been searched. There is no sign of Woodrow or any of his computers. They spend long minutes hunting for some indication of what has happened to the bot boy but find nothing. Further efforts to reach Woodrow by vidview fail.
“He said he had an escape plan if he was found,” Ash offers quietly. But he is not sure he believes it. Especially when Cay does not respond.
They have no choice now but to bide their time and wait to hear from him. It does not feel safe to remain where they are, so they decide to go to Cay’s cottage and rest up until morning.
The drive seems to take forever. By the time Cay pulls the Onyx through the gates of the mansion, they are exhausted. The darkness feels safer now, more comfortable and less threatening. They park the Onyx, climb out, and walk to the door. Looking over at Cay, Ash risks a smile. She flashes one in response, a rare gesture and a reassurance that this business might finally be over.
She punches in the entry code, and they walk through the darkened entryway.
Instantly, lights flash on everywhere.
Cyrus Collins sits in a chair facing them, holding a small silver handgun.
“Hello, nephew,” he says.
Then he shoots Cay.
- 29 -
It happens so quickly that Ash has no time to react. He barely registers his uncle’s presence before Cay collapses beside him. Too late he steps toward Cyrus, not even sure what he intends to do.
By then, his uncle’s weapon is pointed at him. “Don’t be foolish. I’ll shoot you, if I have to.”
He is big and imposing, almost twice Ash’s size. He radiates power and confidence. He probably doesn’t even need a weapon, should Ash choose to ignore him.
The boy looks down at Cay, frantic with worry. “Why did you do that?”
His uncle shrugs. “Maybe because she’s a loose end that needs tying up. Maybe because it makes things easier if she’s out of the way. What difference does it make? You’d better worry about yourself.”
Ash gestures helplessly. “At least let me see how she is.”
His uncle shakes his head. “I don’t think so. You stay where you are. You shouldn’t have run out on me at ORACLE. So much of what’s happened could have been avoided if you’d just stayed put. All you had to do was stick around and listen to what I had to say. Running away was a big mistake.”
&n
bsp; “A mistake? You killed my father!”
“Is that what you think? That I killed your father? Your father killed himself!” The granite features tighten. “I was there when it happened. He brought me up to the roof to tell me something. Maybe even to throw me off, I don’t know. But he lost his footing and fell. You can think whatever you want, but that’s what happened. Your father’s death was his own fault.”
Ash is shaking with rage. “You’re the one who should be dead!”
“We see things a bit differently, nephew. Your father was a dreamer. He couldn’t function in the real world. He refused to understand that he could save people who were trying their level best to destroy themselves. He wouldn’t listen to me. That doesn’t make me the bad guy in all this. That doesn’t make me the monster you think I am.”
Ash glances down again at Cay. She lies motionless, sprawled out like a rag doll. There is no sign of life. He can’t stand seeing her like this. His hands ball into fists. “I’ve had enough! You do what you have to!”
Without waiting for his uncle’s response, he kneels down beside Cay, feeling for a pulse. When he finds one, he exhales sharply in relief. Then he checks her over. There is no evidence of a wound. His uncle used a stun gun. She is merely unconscious.
Ash looks up. “There was no reason for you to do that.”
Cyrus Collins shakes his head. “Why should you care? You do know what she is, don’t you? She’s a manufactured product! She isn’t even real! She’s a damn toy!”
Ash remains on his knees, anger and unexpected shame washing through him. He can’t help it. The words sting. “She isn’t a toy!” he shouts.
His uncle shakes his head. “That’s exactly what she is. Anyway, forget her. Listen to me. Your father gave you something. Or told you something. Or arranged for you to find something. Something, nephew, which has to do with his work at BioGen and belongs to me. You went after it tonight at ORACLE. Maybe you even found it. I want you to tell me what it is.”
“I’m not telling you anything!” Ash spits at him.
His uncle studies him a moment. “Aren’t you the brave little lad?” He steps forward, seizes Ash by the front of his blackout sheath, and thrusts him backward onto the sofa, the gun pointed at his midsection. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Got it all figured out. Everything that’s happened, all the bad stuff, it’s my fault. That’s what you’ve decided.”
Ash says nothing, his mouth a tight line.
Cyrus steps close again, looming over him. Then he cuffs him—none too gently—on the side of his head. “What if you’re wrong? You can’t stand the idea, can you? But what if you are?” He cuffs him again, harder this time. “Won’t talk to me about it? Maybe I should be the one doing the talking. Maybe I should tell you a few things that will change your mind.”
Ash forces himself to ignore the pain of the blows. “Nothing you say is going to make any difference.”
His uncle cocks an eyebrow. “Let’s find out. All you have to do is sit there and listen for a few minutes. Just listen, nephew. You can do that much, can’t you?”
Ash ignores the impulse to say something less agreeable. Stall, just stall. The words echo in his mind, hot and fierce. He gives his uncle a curt nod.
Cyrus remains standing as he speaks, his hands loose at his sides, his weapon tucked back in his belt. He is completely at ease.
“Everybody says we’re better off now than we used to be. I think that’s bullshit. As head of ORACLE, I see more of what’s happening out there than most, and it’s not good. Things are falling apart. The U.T. was supposed to be a solution to the fragmenting of the old US, but I don’t see where it’s worked out that way. There are secession movements afoot almost everywhere—clearly evident in the Dixie Confederacy, but there are rumblings in the Northeast and the Northwest too. Riots, looting, burning, and killing—disruptions of the old order. Madness in pursuit of obscure principles and imaginary improvements. This country is on the verge of splitting up again, just like it did two hundred years ago when it was the United States. We survived it the first time, reconfigured but still united. I’m not sure we can survive it happening again.”
Ash has no idea where this is going, but it doesn’t matter. His uncle wants to talk? So let him talk.
“Here’s the takeaway from all this.” His uncle is into it now, his face flushed and his voice impassioned. “An inherent dissatisfaction provides the root cause of this unrest. It’s just not in our genetic makeup for us to be any other way. If there isn’t something identifiably wrong, we manufacture it. History shows this has always been true. Angry about how your life is going? Find someone to blame. Think our problems are the fault of people of another race or religion? Shoot one or two. Don’t think we’re getting a fair shake from the government? Bring it down, any way you can. If all that dissatisfaction could be eliminated or at least better managed, it would reduce the acts of disobedience and aggression to almost nothing. The problem is, how do you make this happen? How do you persuade an entire population to forego destructive behavior and simply accept the world the way it is?”
He is looking away now, immersed in his story. It is a recitation he has given more than once before, Ash thinks, perhaps to his brother but certainly to himself.
His uncle moves a few steps closer to the couch where Ash sits, and looks down at him.
“Brantlin’s work was in the field of biogenetics and gene manipulation. Recent experiments centered on ways to repair people who were so badly damaged physically there was no putting them back together. But he was looking for ways to better manage behavioral aberrations as well. He was looking at altering emotional and psychological conditions. Not his field, of course, but that sort of thing never stopped my brother. In the course of these experiments, he discovered a drug that could suppress violent and disruptive urges. He saw it as a management tool for the mental illnesses that plague so many. Psychotic behaviors and emotional imbalances. Alcoholism and drug addiction. Genetic flaws that ordinary forms of treatment would never be able to eradicate entirely and sometimes not even manage.”
Ash listens in spite of his distaste for his uncle, becoming interested. For the moment, he has stopped searching for a way to escape.
“All well and good, as far as it went. But your father’s thinking was too limited. I saw a better, more far-reaching use to his discovery. What if this drug were given to the entire population of the U.T.? Not just a select few but everyone. Dosage would be determined by the user; just take it until you were mellowed out. Remove the danger of overdose at the source of manufacture by testing and observation of different groups, the way we with do with all our drugs. Trial and error. Eventually, behavioral patterns throughout the whole of the U.T. would level off until everyone’s aggressive tendencies were muted. A sort of broad-based attitude adjustment.”
His uncle pauses. “The problem, of course, is how to persuade people that this is not only good but also necessary. For most, it would be seen as the exact opposite. But I understood the value of the idea’s implementation. People everywhere would become calmer and less aggressive, their attitudes steadier and their dissatisfactions muted.”
Ash tries to keep his jaw from dropping. His uncle is serious. He wants to drug the entire U.T. population in an effort to achieve some sort of utopian harmony.
But if Cyrus Collins senses his disapproval, he doesn’t show it. “So how do you get people who don’t agree with you to change their minds? How do you go about arranging for this mass infusion without creating a panic? Simple. You don’t ask them. You don’t wait on them to agree. You just go ahead and give them what they need, just like you would any medication. You do what’s best for them because that’s what good government does. The only problem is one of implementation. How do you make sure they take this medicine? Again, simple. You put it in something almost everyone already uses on a daily basis, something so much a part of their existing diet they don’t think twice about consuming it. Somet
hing they’ve already learned to regulate. You put it in a substance they all crave—one they all enjoy.”
“Sparx.” Ash says it aloud before he can stop himself.
His uncle gives him a thumbs-up. “Sparx. Everybody’s favorite mood enhancer. A staple all over the world, but particularly in the U.T. They sell themselves. Hell, they don’t even have to do that! You can get them for free in stores and businesses and in every nightclub and pleasure house all over the U.T. People love them. Adding the formula wouldn’t change their perception of what they were consuming. No change in the flavor or the look would be needed. Users would still feel good about themselves; they would just feel a little more at peace and less inclined toward aggressive behavior. Their enthusiasm for the product would help sell it to those who don’t use it.”
“You can explain it any way you want,” Ash snaps, “but you’re still manipulating people!”
“We manipulate people all the time, Ashton. Grow up.” Cyrus Collins pauses, considering. “Think about the bots and synths we’ve created. They’ve become an integral part of our culture. We engineer them to be compliant. We structure them to serve us in a productive way. Why should we not expect humans to respond in the same way? Why should we not see to it that they do? Engineering genetics the way we do with composite materials—how much difference is there in manipulating humans? If the result is a responsible and satisfied society, aren’t we justified?”
Ash is beside himself. My father died for this nonsense? T.J. and the Shoe died for this? His uncle is off his rocker. He only just manages to stop himself from letting the words escape his lips. Instead, he says, “My father didn’t agree with you about any of this, did he?”
“Your father.” His uncle says it as if he puts a bad taste in his mouth. “He thought people should be different. He thought it was wrong to try to make people conform. He thought genetics should be manipulated only to help those clearly suffering physical, emotional, or psychological damage. Otherwise, it was best to let nature determine behavior. He thought genetic control was dangerous and drugs should never be administered wholesale. Apparently, he forgot about penicillin. He forgot about inoculations. Your father was a dreamer of the worst sort. He was impractical. And obstructive!”
