by Alex Bobl
Barney choked and burst out coughing. The coach reached out and tapped his back.
"I'm — agrh! — sorry," Barney twisted his arm and pointed his thumb at his shoulder blades. Max slapped him as hard as he could. "Much better now."
Barney cheered up and spoke louder,
"I'm sorry about that. For a second, I imagined Max's memories being transplanted into my head. And his and mine, into Maggie's."
"This is exactly what I mean," Frank said. "What if the idea behind the Vaccination is to prep the migrants for a war? The talks start. The President arrives. And then the shit hits the fan. A previously trained group acts first and the others join in."
"So you think," Max patted the rifle butt, "that they want to kill the President and blame it on the migrants?"
"Exactly. Now, Gautier has somehow heard about the Vaccination project. Alternatively, somebody leaked the information on purpose, in order to provoke our Steel Lady."
"We digress," Max said.
Frank paused, searching for the right words.
"This is what Kathleen came up with. By transplanting the required," he raised his finger, "I said, the required memories, you can give society a perfect professional force. Thousands of brain surgeons, architects, engineers and researchers..."
"And well-trained soldiers," Barney butted in. The coach nodded.
"And soldiers," Frank said. "It's plain irresistible, don't you think? Thousands of people gaining access to skills they didn't have before. Just like that," he snapped his fingers.
Barney screwed up his face.
"Provided they pay," the coach mumbled. Frank dismissed the remark and went on,
"And once these soldiers acquire certain combat skills — say, in an urban environment, — then they can confront the police. They can trigger rioting..."
"Wait a sec," in one practiced motion, the coach pushed the bolt into the breech, fitted the recoil spring and snapped the breech frame cover shut. Then he cocked the firing mechanism and inspected the rifle. "Do you really think that Claney's fighters are migrants?"
He aimed the barrel at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. The coach leaned the rifle against the window sill.
"Now that sounds closer to the truth," Barney deftly chopped the carrots and peeled the onions. "This way nothing leads back to him. He's got them to pull his chestnuts out of the fire."
"I think so, too," Frank went on. "It's not so easy to arrange for a normal citizen to disappear. Now migrants are different. No one gives a damn about them. There's an entire new generation grown up behind the camp's fence. Okay. Let's assume they did plan some organized rioting, but..."
It hurt him to speak of Kathleen impersonally, as if she was just a missing link to the past events. But he forced himself to go on,
"...but Kathleen could have found out about it. She must have tried to throw a monkey wrench in the works. Then Memoria had to cover up their tracks and changed their plans."
"At the moment, this is nothing but a theory," Barney pointed out. "As is the killing of the President and of their lab babies."
"Actually, they work very well together," said Max.
"Let's start with the Vaccination, then," squinting, Barney turned away from the table and wiped away his onion tears. "What's so special about it? Who does it threaten and how?"
"We've already worked out a thing or two about it," the coach said. "If what Frank's said is true, then after the press conference people will line up for the Vaccination from here to hell."
Barney and Frank nodded.
"This program threatens the migrants and their current situation. They feed New York. They provide electricity and drinking water. Their waste disposal sites work overtime. If you think about it, it's the same everywhere. Migrant camps all over the country are responsible for the cities' sustenance. Migrants are everywhere. They clear the debris, they work at construction sites, they clean the streets..."
"They don't have oil," Barney interrupted him.
"So what?" Max smirked. "The government is obliged to give it to them. If camps decide to stop supplying food, water and electricity, cities will starve and face epidemics."
"That's crisis," Frank said. "Administrative crisis."
"Created by Memoria's forcing everyone to have their memories erased. What we have now is a generation of brainwashed wooses, too used to their fake joy and prosperity and running to the nearest Memoria branch at the first sight of trouble."
"So you think that now they want to rectify the situation?" Barney lifted his hands in dismay. "That doesn't sum up. Too much too soon."
"What did you want?" Max stepped toward him. "That's a conspiracy for you. Why would they traumatize the population? Those with blue and green bracelet lights couldn't care less, anyway. And veterans like ourselves... we're getting old. We've lost our grip on the situation. We've lost our gut feeling," he glanced at his rifle.
"I'm not talking about it," Barney waved his knife in Max's direction. "What I want to know is who is supposed to start the war? Logically, it should be the migrants. Right?"
Frank nodded.
"Claney said that their leaders — of which there are quite a few — would be the first to try the Vaccination. Which means," Barney threw the knife onto the table, scooped up a handful of chopped carrots and showed it to Max, "They'll be offered one thing and given quite the opposite." He threw the carrots back and picked up the knife. "Then they'll have the upper hand. Hundreds of thousands, ready for war, flooding the streets. Drowning New York in blood."
"How do you suggest they do it?" the coach asked nonchalantly. "How are they supposed to keep those hundreds of thousands under control? This isn't a minor group of street fighters. They must have a clear objective. How can they program it in?"
"Easy!" Barney stuck the knife into the cutting board and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Think of the personality correction program they use in prisons. I don't think the Vaccination is going to be much different."
"Well," the coach glanced at Frank and his eyes glistened behind the glasses. "Probably not. But how can you force thousands of migrants to assault the rest of the population and the President himself? The personality correction program is not that easy. The initial session takes Memoria workers several hours. Then their patients need several repeat sessions so that the encoding affects their conscious mind, as well. The technology in itself is too expensive. Then you need several teams of expert mnemotechs. Using it is justified in a limited amount of very specific unique cases. Serial killers, repeat offenders and sexual predators are few and far between, and as for the rest, then obligatory Memoria visits have obliterated all other crimes. Yesterday's murder was the first in New York in five years."
"What do you imply?" Barney asked warily.
Frank realized that there were some hidden reefs they hadn't considered.
The coach placed the rifle onto the window sill and opened the laptop. His fingers flitted over the keyboard.
"There are thirty Memoria branches in New York," he said without taking his eyes off the screen. "Curiously, five of them opened last week. Five more will be opened tomorrow."
"Same in DC," Frank said. "Lots of new branches there."
"Yeah," the coach nodded. "But in New York, they also have two large centers. One serves the police department and deals, mind you, with personality correction. It's also their job to make sure that the citizens abide by the obligatory law on memory clean-ups. The other one is a research center. I'd love to have a look at it. Unfortunately, time is the issue."
"This center is probably nothing but a smoke screen," Barney placed the frying pan onto the stove and turned to Frank. "You don't hide your secrets in places like this. You shove them where the sun doesn't shine: like, behind the polar circle or on the Moon."
"Possible," Max agreed. "So this is what we have. To organize simultaneous personality correction sessions for a thousand migrants — let's assume that every Memoria branch in New York
will be doing just that, including their research centers... let's see... a person per hour... ten per hour in research centers... that'll be..." he turned his laptop to show them his calculations. "Sixteen and a half hours to perform primary personality correction for a thousand people. One thousand, mind you. And we're talking hundreds of thousands in New York alone. Millions, if you count the whole country. How much time will that take?"
The question was pretty rhetorical. Frank didn't know what to say to it. Barney stared out of the window and moved his lips doing his own calculations.
The coach removed his glasses and once again rubbed his tired eyes.
"So Frank, your idea is interesting. It could be a powerful move. Unfortunately, it's also pretty pointless. They just won't have the time."
"But what if Kathleen came up with a new technology? What if now it takes much less time?" Frank didn't want to give up. "Therefore the name, Vaccination."
"Why not," Barney pulled the knife out of the cutting board and stabbed the air. "They pump them full with chemicals, and-"
The coach shook his head.
"No way. They could, in theory. But injecting them all at once... Imagine that, Barney: a hundred thousand asses and a hundred thousand needles. You don't seem to understand. According to Frank's idea, you need to convince thousands of people to act simultaneously. They have to obey. And that's impossible. In theory, yes. But in practice... such rioting would be curbed before it even started. The police will shoot the instigators and isolate the rest. Plus they'll accuse Memoria of conspiracy against the authorities." He shook his head. "There's something else here. But what? Memoria must have a reason to open all those new branches. They were preparing for the Vaccination all right. But we don't yet know what it's all about." The coach took the rifle, loaded the magazine and put a round up the spout.
Frank looked at Barney. He hadn't expected his support. Before, it looked as if all Barney could do was growl and find fault with him. Maggie definitely had something to do with it. Admittedly, Frank had come to like her. She was different. Not the same kind of different as Kathleen had been, but still. He felt at ease around her. Both girls seemed to have the same effect on him. Maggie didn't look a bit like Kathleen, but the two seemed to share the same character traits. Maggie, too, was decisive and fearless. She had hurried to help him before she knew enough to make a weighed decision.
"Right," Barney scratched his elbow. "Max, what if you move to my room for a bit? That's the best place to handle firearms. Hurry up before some Peeping Tom with a telescope catches you out through the window with that rifle."
The coach lowered his laptop onto the window sill and jumped off. He scooped up the weapons and left the kitchen.
"He's done us, man." The cutting board in hand, Barney rose from the table. He threw the chopped vegetables onto the heated skillet and looked into the pan. An appetizing smell of cooking floated in the kitchen. Frank swallowed. He reached for the notes and stacked them up neatly on the window sill.
"I have to admit I like this scenario," behind Frank's back, Barney was stirring the sizzling carrots and onions. "To smoke the President and raze New York to the ground, then blame the migrants! Sick motherfuckers they are, really. Claney will kill two birds with one stone: he'll get rid of the camp and three hundred thousand pains in the ass with it, and he'll be in the White House before his people finish the migrant cleansing."
He stepped toward Frank. "But that doesn't mean," Frank felt droplets of the man's spit on his face, "that you can ogle Maggie once she's back. She's not your girlfriend! Understood?"
Frank just blinked, cornered between the table and the window. He had his work cut out for him, staying on friendly terms with Maggie's father. He'd ask Maggie a few inconspicuous questions about his past. There had to be a clue to his being so protective of her.
Chapter Eleven. Underdogs Bite
After lunch, Frank and Max went to Barney's room for a nap. They awoke to his shouting and cursing at someone. When, still half-asleep, the two made it back into the kitchen, they found Barney in front of the TV screen. He was shaking with rage.
Frank recognized the gray-headed man on the screen. He'd popped into the interrogation room at the police station to speak to Inspector Freeman. The running caption showed his name and job title: Captain Bud Jessup, the head of New York police department. His face gloomy, Jessup was finishing an official announcement.
"The entire police force will ensure peace and security as the city prepares for the Presidential visit. Stay assured we won't let you down."
"What's all this swearing about?" Max yawned and stretched. "Did he say something about Frank?"
"He did," Barney put the sound down. "The Feds have taken over Shelby's case."
""So what's there to go mad about?"
"Can't you see? Some shitbags start a carnage, they kill their own cops, and they have to surrender the case!" Barney choked with fury. "If I were... if I... why have none of the victims spoken out?"
"Normal. Eyewitnesses have had their memories erased. Memoria cleans up after itself-"
The lock on the front door clicked. They turned around. Maggie stood in the hallway. Max finished the sentence,
"They let us know who we're up against."
"You're okay, teddy?" red-faced, Barney hurried to meet her.
"I'm fine," the girl offered her cheek to kiss. Barney helped her out of her coat. "Uncle Max, I've found out everything you asked me to. And then some! I'm sure you won't be cross with me, will you? I've skipped lunch working on it..."
Maggie walked into the kitchen straightening her perfectly straight business suit.
"I've got some stew on the go," Barney hurried to add behind her back. His glare pinned Frank and Max to the ground: food first, business next.
"Sit down and eat," Max pulled up a chair for her and pressed her shoulders down with his hands. "We could use some chow, too."
"We could indeed," said Barney. "Then we'll talk."
After they'd eaten, she told them everything that had happened in Memoria that day. The HQ were preparing for the President's visit. The security had additional personnel posted at all the entrances, equipped with screening machines for all the visitors, including reporters and their cameras. Basically, they were to search for concealed explosives and firearms. Most Memoria workers got a day off, except for the secretarial and legal departments, and mnemotech teams.
"You'd like to gain access to the building tomorrow, wouldn't you?" she asked Max.
"If I possibly could," he answered. "Preferably, before the press conference starts."
"I think I can arrange it. But I can only take one person," Maggie looked at Frank.
"Him? Why on earth-" Barney switched his gaze between his daughter and Frank.
"There's a guy at our legal department who looks a bit like him. He's on sick leave. So I had a copy of his pass card made by one of our secretaries."
"Max," Barney turned to the coach. "Say something. No, don't. Maggie isn't going there tomorrow. Not with him, anyway. Forget it. If anyone has to go, it's me and nobody else."
He fell silent at Max's glare. Silence hung in the kitchen. The sounds of footsteps and voices on the street filled the air through the half-opened window.
"Oh, well," the coach smiled. "Now that's a thought."
"You can't be serious!" Maggie shook her head.
"Absolutely."
"But," she looked first at him, then at her father.
"You'll go there, all three of you," Max said.
Now it was their turn to stare at him in surprise. Barney's face clouded like a Manhattan sky before a storm.
"And how do you suggest we do it?"
Max took the laptop from the window sill, did a quick search for a file and turned the screen toward them.
"You think there's a likeness there?" he smiled to Barney. "I think there is."
"Don't even think! I-" Barney's finger very nearly poked a hole in the screen. "We have nothing
in common!.. Just look — Maggie, and you, man, you tell him!"
"With a bit of makeup, provided you shave your mustache off..." the coach said.
Barney froze, open-mouthed.
"He's the spitting image of Binelli, eh?" the coach winked to Maggie.
She cocked her head to one side, studying the screen.
"You know what, Uncle Max? I think you're right."
"Sure," Frank added.
"Never!" Barney jumped off his stool. "Never, ever, not in a million years!"
"Sit down!" Max shut the laptop close.
Maggie moved closer to Frank, away from the two men who were now yelling at each other. Barney wheezed, his reddened eyes glaring down at the coach. His lips and mustache moved as he swore under his breath.
"Sit down," Max repeated. When Barney lowered his bulk onto the stool, the coach went on, "Their manager is the same height and body type as you are. We can use this fact to our advantage. And please, don't let me raise my voice at you when your daughter's around."
Barney rested his elbows on the table and turned away to face the window. He clutched one hand with the other and buried his chin in a powerful fist.
"The mustache will grow back," the coach said. "Unlike your head. Now that's something you might lose if we don't get hold of the hard disk data."
Barney grabbed the device off the desk, as if about to throw it out of the window. Then he put it back.
"Can we go on now?" Max stared at his friend as if nothing had happened.
"If you wish," he mumbled.
"Fine."
"Questions," Frank said. "Apparently," he glanced at Maggie, "I have a pass into the building. But what am I supposed to do about the electronic bracelet?"
""That's the least of your problems," Barney grumbled.
"Fine. So tomorrow," Frank looked at Barney, "there'll be two Binellis at Memoria. But gaining entry into the building is only half the job. We still need to either read the disk or copy it onto something. After that, we need to leave the building. How are we supposed to do that?"
