by P. R. Adams
15 June, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.
* * *
Rimes relaxed in the fenced-off seating outside the Firmly Grounded coffee shop, doing his best not to wince when he drank the sludge the barista had sold him. Worse than the coffee’s almost fetid smell was the stench of body odor rolling out of the shop’s propped-open front door. Just beyond that door, Banh and Dunne wildly waved their hands and shouted, apparently arguing over something life-defining. It was quiet enough that he could hear their voices clearly. Like the other customers seated inside, they sported scruffy beards and tattered clothes. They reminded him of the homeless day laborers that frequented cities. Or at least had.
Before the device had rendered everyone that way.
In the chair to his left, Credence watched the coffee shop, as if she found pleasure in its simple design. In the early evening darkness, Rimes could almost understand why. The cyan, chemical lighting that edged the glass surface gave the building an almost alien, frosty beauty. Whether because of the dream or simply through desensitization to its aesthetic, the foot traffic merely shambled past.
He impatiently checked the time on his earpiece display.
Credence shifted in her chair. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.” Rimes brought up a connection to Meyers. “Lonny, how much longer?”
“Five minutes.” Meyers was hunched in the crawler’s back seat, staring intently at a screen of code modules. He seemed equally morose. “Ladell would have cracked this hours ago.”
“We don’t have Barlowe. We have you.”
Meyers frowned. “I’m doing what I can.”
Credence pretended not to hear the back-and-forth. “Couldn’t you get her to snap out of the dream?”
“No.”
“You could take one of these up with you and try again.” Meyers tapped the SunCorps security headgear resting on his crown. “I don’t know why we hadn’t thought of this on our own. Ladell and I could’ve whipped something like this up with some research. We had the data available on the Drake.”
“We were distracted trying to get it ready for flight.”
“You should put one on,” Meyers said. “Just to be safe. It cleared my mind. It’s so obvious once you think about it. How else would you have an effective security force? They have to be immune to the effects, right?”
“Yeah.” Rimes pursed his lips. “I don’t need one yet, not this far out from it. When it comes time and it senses my intent, I’ll need it.”
Meyers snorted. “Must be nice.”
Rimes shrugged. “Everything has a price.”
“You act like you think it’s aware.” Credence shivered. “You think it knows what we’re thinking?”
“Symbiotic. Parasitic. Whatever it is, it has to have some sort of feedback loop. It’s feeding on your dreams and desires, but it’s also reacting to them, modifying them. Everyone’s different.” Rimes straightened in his seat. “Lonny, they’re leaving early.”
“Okay. Sending now.”
Rimes stood as Banh and Dunne passed the table and stepped onto the sidewalk. After a long exhale, Rimes fell in behind them, the thin strip of two headbands gripped in his right hand. There were only a few pedestrians out now. The nearest tube entry was a good kilometer away, so mostly locals populated the area.
Halfway across the street Banh stopped in his tracks. Dunne did the same a moment later. Rimes picked up the pace and angled toward Banh, who turned as Rimes approached, lips working slowly in the flickering glow of a failing streetlamp. Banh recognized him. Rimes handed him one of the headbands.
“Welcome back, Tuan. Put that on and head for the crawler.” Rimes turned in time to see Dunne staggering away. He stepped up behind Dunne and slipped the headset on his head.
Dunne spun around, eyes wild, fist drawn back. “What’s that, mate?”
Rimes threw up his hands. “It’s me, Corporal.”
Dunne blinked. “Colonel Rimes?” He rubbed at his beard and blushed. “Been asleep at the wheel…”
“We all were. Let’s get out of here.”
It took nearly an hour to make their way through the areas of the city that weren’t monitored. Rimes dropped Banh and Dunne off a half kilometer from the repair station with clear directions, then accelerated back into the city, gambling the fragmented SunCorps’ security wouldn’t spot the crawler as it traversed from one district to another. He parked on a side street halfway between Gwambe’s and Trang’s apartments, fingers squeezing the steering wheel. Credence fidgeted with the zipper and straps on the coveralls Rimes had taken from O’Hara Towers for her, but she couldn’t seem to find a good fit.
“I don’t like doing this, but we’re up against the time. Even an organization as broken as SunCorps has to wonder about a crawler zipping around at this time of night.”
“I’ll be fine,” Credence said. “We have closed communications channels, and they almost certainly won’t recognize me in this get-up. I barely recognize me, Jack. It’s less than fifteen minutes from here. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it was too risky.”
“I know.” Rimes squeezed the wheel until the cinnamon skin of his knuckles turned white. “Lonny, keep your eyes and ears open. We’re heading to our targets.”
“On it.”
Rimes exited the crawler and walked as fast as he could without risking notice. A few seconds later he heard Credence exit the crawler and begin walking in the opposite direction. Trang’s apartment was five kilometers east, buried in the heart of what had once been a dangerous section of the city. Rimes stuck to the shadows and back streets, eyes always watching for cameras and vans.
At the front entrance to Trang’s apartment building Rimes paused, watching the building and the street.
“I’m here,” he whispered into his earpiece.
“Almost there.” Credence sounded winded but otherwise fine. “One thing I’ll say for this device, it lets a girl get out to places she never would—”
“Jenny?” Rimes turned to where he imagined Credence was.
“One of those vans. I don’t think it’s—”
A throaty rumble drowned out Credence’s voice. What might have been a scream sounded across the channel, only to be smothered by the rumbling engine’s roar. Rimes ran for the front of Trang’s apartment.
“Send it now, Lonny! Send it now! Get over to Gwambe’s place.”
Rimes took the steps with long, careless leaps that covered two, even three at a time. He reached the front door with a head of steam. The handle gave easily, and he stumbled into the hallway. Mercifully, Trang was on the fourth floor. Rimes ran for the stairwell.
“Message sent.” A car door slamming nearly drowned out Meyers’s voice. “I’m on my way to Gwambe’s. No response from Jenny. Her earpiece hasn’t moved.”
Rimes bolted up the stairs, a pistol in his right hand, the rail in his left. He burst into the fourth floor hallway and squatted just as the high piercing sound of the strange security guns filled the hall. The guns punched holes in the door and wall behind Rimes. He made out three of the security goons, two on the left, one on the right, each crouched low and covered by shadow.
Flinging himself forward from his crouch, Rimes fired wildly, sending three rounds toward the gunman on his right. By sheer luck one of the rounds connected, and the gunman dropped his weapon. The other two fired, tracking Rimes’s movement. Their guns blew holes in the floor and wall millimeters behind Rimes.
Focusing now on accuracy, Rimes fired a quick series of shots at center mass on the closest gunman. The gunman crumpled, and his gun clattered to the ground. Rimes had expected screams from the building occupants, but the entire floor was quiet. He brought his weapon around on the final gunman and realized too late the gunman was already sighted in.
Someone dashed around the corner and dove into the gunman, spoiling his shot.
Trang!
Rimes ran forward, scooping up the guns and headgear from the fallen forms. The first man was still moving,
gasping in pain and clutching his bloody shoulder. Rimes put a bullet into the gunman’s head.
A few meters away, Trang had wrestled away the other gunman’s weapon and kicked the man against the wall. Trang aimed and fired, blowing a hole in the gunman’s gut. The gunman collapsed in a quivering heap.
Rimes stepped closer. “Huy?”
“Colonel?”
Rimes tossed Trang one of the headbands. “Put this on. I’ll explain as we go.”
They ran down the stairs and out the back of the building. Rimes spied the black van and headed for it. Trang struggled to keep up.
As expected the van was sealed. Rimes shot out the driver’s side door handle with one of the energy guns. The guns had a wicked kick and couldn’t match a conventional pistol’s rate of fire, but they were ideal for armor. He climbed into the driver’s seat and keyed the engine; it growled to life. Rimes opened the passenger door for Trang. He was still fighting the seat harness when Rimes accelerated onto the street.
Trang looked on the verge of nausea. “Sorry, Colonel.”
“You’re doing fine. Lonny? What have you got?”
There was no response for several seconds.
“Her earpiece,” Meyers said. “No sign of her, no sign of the van.”
“Gwambe?”
“I’m heading up now,” Meyers said, his voice bouncing with each step. “Twelfth floor; I’m on the fifth.”
"We’re heading for Dengler’s place, then Ladell’s.” Rimes looked over at Trang, saw confusion and fear. “You’ve been caught in their dream, Huy. Do you remember the Drake? Jennifer Credence? The genies?”
“I do. Like yesterday. Or twenty years ago. I’m sorry, Colonel. This is hard for me to grasp.” He rubbed at his bearded face and little potbelly, disgusted. “I could use a shower.”
“It may not be enough.” Rimes stared into the distance, watching the winking street lamps and darkened shops with a heart grown heavy from too much betrayal.
41
16 June, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.
* * *
Rimes paced the building impatiently, breathing in the scents of synthetic oil, cleaning fluids, and fuel—the markers of the maintenance bay. Even in the dim light, colors were vibrant, vivid. Blood was a coppery taste in his saliva.
It was the stims. They were fresh to him again, invigorating. He buzzed with energy, vibrated with each heartbeat.
The team slept in the corners, shaking off the last vestiges of the device’s poisonous influence. He watched them for a moment, wondering if they were up to the task after so long without self-control, so long under alien control.
They needed answers, and they needed them soon. If Credence was still alive, she would break under torture. Rimes stopped at the front door to watch the first hints of sunrise. He marveled that the attack hadn’t already come.
Could they simply be content to pull her back into that warped fantasy of theirs? Does she offer something they need?
He knew better, and he cursed himself for the weakness of hope. She was dead or would be soon. He returned his focus to the sunrise, and his thoughts turned to Kleigshoen’s words.
Movement drew him back to the moment. It was Meyers, the first to stir. He stretched and put himself through a series of calisthenics before stumbling off to the bathroom. A short while later he returned showered, shaved, and bright-eyed. He took a moment to check on the others, then joined Rimes at the front door.
“Hard to believe.” Meyers squinted as the sun’s golden rays touched the city. “Harder to want to believe.”
“Are you okay?”
Meyers rubbed at his naked brow. “The band? Yeah. I’ll put it on again. This is me, though. Just me. I don’t need it for the moment. Shouldn’t you be wearing one?”
“Yeah. There’s a certain amount of emotion that seems to protect against its effects. For a while. It can sneak up on you, though.”
“I won’t keep it off for long. When I woke up this morning I thought that Kara would…”
Rimes lowered his head. He knew the pain, the nerves that a real dream could enflame after the device’s illusions had worn them raw. “I’m sorry, Lonny. Kara was a genuinely special person.”
Meyers scratched at his freshly shaved cheek. “So what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you and Ladell could tear into some of that gear we stole from the vans, see if there’s anything that could help us.”
“That’s a start. Might want to put something more behind it.” Meyers wandered over to the systems sprawled across the middle of the bay and settled onto his butt.
If someone could crack the security it would be Meyers and Barlowe. Rimes hoped they could tease some vital information from it. They needed every advantage possible if they hoped to succeed.
Throughout the morning, the cycle of waking and realization that the waking was real repeated itself, first with Trang, then Gwambe, and finally with Dengler, Barlowe, Banh, and Dunne. Each sat up, took stock of himself, and then headed off to shave and wash away the memories and the grime.
All the while Rimes watched the sun trace its course across the sky.
Shortly after noon Barlowe stepped into the entry area. He was the only one who hadn’t shaved completely, instead leaving behind a finely trimmed beard and mustache. He just watched Rimes standing in the sun’s glare for a moment, probably unaware Rimes was watching him.
Finally, Barlowe coughed and shuffled. “Jack?”
Rimes closed his eyes. The voices were there again now, a quiet, persistent murmur, a whispering chorus promising, promising. “You found something.”
“There were recordings. Deleted, but recoverable.” Barlowe sounded excited but in a controlled way, as if he didn’t want to sound too eager. “Most of it was useless. There were a few that sounded encouraging, though. I mean really encouraging.”
“Tell me about them.” Rimes wiped perspiration from his face. Tension tightened the muscles of his back and shoulders. He had to choke back the slightest hint of hope.
“They’re meeting. Pre-meeting, actually. This MetaConceptual deal, it’s going through. SunCorps has accepted an offer to join the others.”
“That sounds…” He shook his head. SunCorps was running its own scheme, but that wasn’t relevant to the mission. “Where?”
“The southwest side.” Barlowe glowed with pride. “College Park, out by the spaceport.”
Rimes walked past Barlowe, past the office that still smelled like death to him and into the maintenance shop. Meyers looked up from the equipment sprawled across the floor. He tapped the display with the message playing.
“This is it,” Meyers said. “We’ve got them.”
“Play it for me.” Rimes glanced past the equipment at the hauler resting in the farthest maintenance bay. It stood ready, a bundle of potential energy waiting to be loosed to wreak its special havoc.
Barlowe settled in next to Meyers as the video restarted. A woman Rimes had never seen before talked to four other groups on a conference channel. Rimes didn’t recognize any of the people, but each seemed to represent the appropriate organizations. They talked about concessions and voting shares, working groups, discoveries, appeals, golden parachutes, reorganization, streamlining, efficiencies, and legal findings. It was less than fifteen minutes, but it conveyed a great deal. When it was done Barlowe and Meyers looked at Rimes expectantly.
Rimes shook his head. “A trap.”
“A trap?” Meyers stood. “They just happened to hope you’d capture their vans and harvest this data? Jack, come on. They were sloppy. These guys always are. It’s how they operate. You know that. It can’t be a trap.”
“It is.” Rimes pointed at the frozen image of the four metacorporate allies. “Not for us, for them. The MetaConceptual group is heading into negotiations without anything to offer SunCorps. They don’t seem to understand the implications of what SunCorps is doing. Who’s the woman?”
Barlowe brought up an image
that looked fairly similar. “Closest I can come is SunCorps COO Crystal Roquette. Number two to CEO Chad Waverley.”
Meyers squinted at the image. “It’s a proxy. A good one.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rimes said. “The meeting’s not our target. Can you track the origin of the SunCorps signal? That’s where we need to be.” That’s where she is.
“Sure.” Meyers said.
Rimes paced as Meyers and Barlowe connected into the system. Fluorescent greens and blues, blocks of text and wire-framed imagery washed over their faces as they teased out data: tracking grid identifiers, relays, switching centers, routers, transmission sources. They moved through the data frenetically, handing off tasks to one another with nothing more than snippets of information. Whenever Meyers strayed, Barlowe patiently corrected course. Rimes noted that Barlowe had become truly comfortable with Meyers, something he’d never managed with any of the Commandos he’d worked with previously. Likewise, Meyers had developed an intellectual respect for Barlowe that he simply couldn’t manage with most, even Rimes.
They were both brilliant and exceptionally skilled, but even before his conviction for the X-17 theft, Barlowe would never have interested the metacorporations. He refused to pursue the requisite degrees and conform to even the relatively open Commando culture. Similarly, Meyers’s affiliation with the military had been enough of a black mark to kill his metacorporate aspirations. Rimes doubted Meyers would have passed the most liberal psychological screening, regardless of his military service. There was too much independence, too much loyalty and honor at his core. From what Rimes had seen over the years, despite all the fanfare and bluster about seeking out the best, the metacorporations were actually more interested in sycophants and apparatchiks than they were in quirky genius. Without even meaning to, Barlowe and Meyers had arrived at their ideal destination with the IB and the ERF. Rimes took comfort in that.
Barlowe threw up a hand excitedly. “Kennesaw! North side, just northwest of Marietta. The Barkley Complex. Checking for security profiles now.”
