The pilot began to jink back and forth to throw off their aim. His voice was tight with fear. "I hope you can swim 'cause that's the only chance you've got. I'm going over the bay. When I say 'jump,' you do it. I'll try and lead them away. A boat will pick you up."
Then they were out of the high-rise maze and out over the bay. Up ahead Corvan could see lights which represented a barge farm and a scattering of smaller boats. The chopper was low now, so low that the aircraft was almost skimming the waves. A blast of cold air slammed into the cabin as the pilot opened the door.
Corvan unbuckled his seat belt and looked over to see Kim do likewise. Two streams of red dots slashed overhead and disappeared into the darkness of the bay. Tracers! The bastards were using machine guns!
"Now!" the pilot yelled. "Jump now!"
Kim went first, Corvan right behind her. It was a short drop and the water was shockingly cold. As darkness closed around Corvan, he kicked for the surface. Kim! He had to find Kim. Could she swim? He didn't know.
As his head broke the surface Corvan realized that the electro-goggles were gone. A helicopter roared by fifty feet overhead, and the down draft from its rotors feathered the water as lines of orange-red tracer probed the darkness ahead.
Suddenly a red fireball lit the surface of the bay as the Underground's helicopter exploded and hurled pieces of metal in every direction. Corvan felt a shock wave and heard a loud boom. A distant part of his mind grieved for the pilot and wondered what his name was.
As the light from the explosion lit the surface of the water, Corvan saw Kim's head forty or fifty feet away. "Kim! Over here!"
She waved and swam in his direction. Thank God, at least she could swim. As they came together he wanted to hug her, but settled for a smile instead. "Come on! Let's put some distance between ourselves and the explosion!"
Together they swam away from the still burning wreckage and toward the waterfront. Behind them the police helicopter hovered over the pool of burning fuel and started a spiral search. A spot light speared downward to light up some wreckage.
Did they know someone had escaped? Or were they simply being careful? Corvan didn't know and wasn't sure that it made much difference.
Then he heard the throb of powerful diesels off to the right. It was a boat, a fairly large one from the sound of it, but whose? The pilot had indicated that someone would pick them up. Was it them or the police?
Unsure of what to do, they treaded water and tried to see whatever was headed their way. Strangely enough, it came right at them as if it knew exactly where they were. Then Corvan saw it, a white hull low in the water with a stripe of darker paint running down into the water. A Coast Guard launch!
Kim saw it too and they both swam in the opposite direction. It was hopeless. Within minutes the launch towered over them, two men wearing wet suits splashed into the water beside them, and they were herded toward a ladder. Corvan considered putting up a fight, but changed his mind when he saw that the divers were armed with spear guns. As they climbed up and over the boat's side, men grabbed them and pushed them into the wheelhouse.
Harsh white light bathed the patrol boat as the police helicopter arrived overhead. A man in a Coast Guard uniform stepped out into the light and looked upward. Raising a hand-held radio to his lips, he said something and waved. The chopper rocked back and forth and headed away.
"This way," a voice said, and someone pushed Corvan toward an open hatch. He stumbled on the coaming, took three steps into a well-lighted cabin, and caught himself on a table. Turning, he prepared to fight.
A pleasant-looking woman in her late fifties or early sixties held out a cup of hot soup and smiled. "My cooking isn't that bad. Welcome aboard."
As Corvan and Kim accepted cups of hot soup, warm blankets were placed around their shoulders, arid they found themselves seated in a comfortable galley.
Kim gestured around. "I take it you aren't with the Coast Guard."
A hundred wrinkles appeared when the woman laughed. "Heavens no! But we put on a pretty good act, don't we?"
Corvan smiled. "You sure do. How did you find us so quickly?"
"I can answer that," a voice replied as the man in the Coast Guard uniform stepped into the galley. His long, homely face had a serious cast, as if he'd examined the world and found very little to celebrate. "One of you is carrying a homing beacon."
Corvan thought for a moment and reached for his sodden jacket, which had been wrung out and hung on a chair to dry. And there it was, safe and sound in a side pocket, the remote which Saxon had given him. He pulled it out and everyone laughed. Everyone but Corvan, that is, because he was busy comparing the Underground's power to that of the WPO, wondering which scared him more.
Three hours later they were back at the safe house. As they entered the living room, Corvan realized that he still didn't know where it as or what it looked like from the outside. Once again they'd driven inside a sealed van.
Saxon was waiting and waved them over toward a portable holo projector. Corvan started to say something, but the other man shook his head and pointed toward the holo.
A commercial faded away and an Asian American appeared, the blackness of the bay a backdrop behind her. In the distance helicopters could be seen, their searchlights crisscrossing the water. There was a key in the lower left-hand corner of the frame which read "Lia Law Live" and the reporter held a BAYSCAN microphone in her right hand. She spoke in clipped sentences:
"That's about it, folks. We'll wrap this BAYSCAN special report in just a moment. First, however, the police ask that you be on the lookout for two suspects, both accused of murder."
The reporter vanished as a shot of Bethany Bryn's apartment appeared. Only it was different now, nicely furnished and neat as a pin. A well-scrubbed and nicely dressed Bethany sat watching an old movie as the doorbell chimed—the doorbell which Corvan knew from personal experience didn't work. The reporter continued her narration as Bethany got up to answer it.
"Like many urbanites, Ms. Bryn had authorized her landlord to install a security cam in her apartment. Though this shot was not being actively monitored at the time, what you're about to see was recorded by the security system's computer and provided to BAYSCAN by the San Francisco Police Department. We warn you that what you're about to see is extremely violent and not appropriate for children."
At that moment Bethany backed into the shot from camera left, one hand to her mouth, the other held straight out. "Please! I'll give you whatever you want, don't hurt me."
Then Corvan appeared, a machine pistol in one hand, his eye cam gleaming evilly in the light. Strangely enough, there was no sign of his blonde hair or electro-goggles. His voice had a gravelly quality. "Want? We don't want anything. We're going to give you something!" And with that he opened fire, the slugs literally ripping Bethany apart, pieces of her flying in every direction until the entire room was splattered with blood.
And then, when the machine pistol clicked empty, Kim stepped into the shot, looked down at Bethany's body, and laughed. Corvan noticed there was something strange about Kim, a certain lack of definition, as if she were only partly there. On top of that her facial tattoo had disappeared, she was wearing a totally different outfit, and her hair still hung down to her shoulders.
Then the picture changed and Lia Laro was back. She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry you had to see that, folks. Some of you may recognize the man as Rex Corvan, a well-known reop, sometimes referred to as the Man Cam. Police are at a loss to explain why Corvan has suddenly turned to murder, but say that he has recently associated with 'known nationalists' and may be opposed to a single world government.
"The woman's name is Kim Kio, a television engineer, and thought to be Corvan's lover."
Kim made a face as if that were the worst lie of all.
Now the shot changed again and Corvan saw a burning building. Fire fighters were struggling up ladders, and frightened people were pouring out onto the street. After allowing the natural sound to
establish the scene, Laro resumed her narration.
"After killing Bethany Bryn, a promising young actress, police say the fugitives escaped in a helicopter. During the subsequent chase they fired a missile at an unarmed traffic patrol chopper, missed, and killed three people in this high-rise condominium."
Corvan shook his head in dismay. The WPO had not only wiggled out from under; they'd turned the entire incident around!
The fire dissolved to a tight shot of Laro. Her forehead was furrowed with concern. "Shortly thereafter their helicopter was downed over the bay. And while Corvan and Kio may have perished with their chopper, authorities say they have recovered only one body so far, and it belongs to an unidentified male. Possibly their pilot. It is possible that Corvan and Kio escaped. If you see either one of these people, don't try to stop them. Call the police. These fugitives are presumed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Until next time, this is Lia Laro for BAYSCAN news."
Saxon pressed a button and the holo faded to black. He looked from Kim to Corvan. "The video matrix generator."
Corvan realized that he'd been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh. "Yes. The video matrix generator."
14
In keeping with his rank, Dietrich was the last one to enter the conference room and take his seat. The room was long and narrow, with a wall-sized holo-com screen at one end and ceiling-to-floor glass at the other. It revealed a dramatic cityscape and forced people to squint when they looked at Dietrich.
The computerized table was long and black, its touch-sensitive surface flickering with barely seen images, ready to perform any of a thousand different tasks.
The table could seat thirty, and twenty-seven of the leather-upholstered chairs were filled, squeaking slightly whenever people moved. Most had been up all night and looked extremely tired. They looked at Dietrich and waited for him to speak. Eight were employees of the WPO's security arm, two were members of the FBI, one represented the National Security Council, two were from the Secret Service, five carried DEA badges, three worked for the San Francisco Police Department, one was Nicolai Slovo, and the last was Dietrich himself. He cleared his throat.
"As you know, we have a problem on our hands, and that's why I called this meeting. Last night, in spite of numerous opportunities to catch them, you allowed two fugitives to slip through your hands."
None of the men and women present missed the switch from "we" to "you." They shifted in their seats. Shit flows downhill and an avalanche was on the way.
Dietrich steepled his fingers as he looked the length of the table. "To say that I'm unhappy would be an extreme understatement. The fact is, you allowed some nationalistic fanatics to kill an innocent woman and escape untouched. I say 'escaped' because there's been no sign of their bodies."
Dietrich looked at Rita Farnsworth, San Francisco Chief of Police, and saw her eyes drop toward the table. "And," Dietrich added conversationally, "it now appears that Corvan and Kio may be connected with the attempted assassination of President Hawkins."
Dietrich found this somewhat hard to believe, but that's what Carla Subido had instructed him to say, so that's what he said. When he'd talked with her an hour earlier, he'd expected to get his ass chewed at the very least, and if Subido was really mad, well, that didn't bear thinking about. But she'd been laid back, almost cheerful, as if her mind was on other things.
Dietrich hoped so, because in spite of what he'd just said, it was he who'd screwed up. After Kio's phone call to Seattle and the crosstown chase, Dietrich had expected the fugitives to turn up at Corvan's apartment and had concentrated most of his forces at that location.
Now Dietrich realized that he'd systematically underestimated Corvan. With or without help from the Exodus Society, the reop had detected the stakeout at his apartment and gone to see Bethany Bryn.
What happened after that got really weird. There hadn't been time to do an autopsy, but the coroner said Bethany Bryn had died of a single high-velocity slug through the spine, a finding which would make sense if a sniper had nailed her from across the street. And the sniper, some guy called HoJo, was supposed to do just that if and when Corvan showed up. The medical evidence suggested that he had, but Dietrich couldn't be sure, since the sniper had since disappeared. The question of whether HoJo's disappearance was forced or voluntary was still under investigation.
In the meantime Corvan was killing Bryn in prime time while Kio watched. Someone was hard at work with the video matrix generator. The VMG was outside Dietrich's area of responsibility, but he marveled at how well it worked. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the footage was real.
Dietrich looked the length of the table and wondered how many of the people present knew about the video matrix generator. All? None? Given the WPO's passion for security, there was no way to be sure.
And who were they anyway? He hadn't even heard of them until a few days before. Dietrich had always assumed that he and people like Carla Subido were special, a handful of loyal operatives that Numalo had sprinkled throughout the WPO, a small and elite group. Now he realized that he was just one of thousands. Every day more and more of them popped out of the woodwork.
Dietrich didn't know all the answers, but like any well-trained soldier he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and the time was now. Suddenly he realized the silence had stretched long and thin. They were waiting for him to speak.
"So," Dietrich said, hoping his voice sounded somewhat ominous, "Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff, and a member of the WPO's North American Executive Council, has something to say. Mr. Slovo, perhaps you would do us the honor."
Nicolai Slovo was seated at the opposite end of the table next to the door. He nodded, aimed a remote at a wall holo, and pushed a button. Color swirled and Carla Subido appeared.
She wore a white linen suit, her usual gold jewelry, and a rather stern expression. Dietrich felt a lump form in the pit of his stomach. This was a different Subido from the one he'd dealt with an hour before. He knew the signs: she was going to dump on someone. Her eyes ran the length of the table and stopped on him.
"Good morning. After last night's display of monumental incompetence, I'm sure that each one of you has a great deal to accomplish today, so I won't keep you any longer than necessary. There was a time when it was considered obligatory for the captain to go down with his sinking ship. These days I'm happy to say that we're more humane, offering second and even third chances to people who make mistakes. But failure cannot be tolerated indefinitely. Some sort of limits must be set and maintained."
Blood rushed to Dietrich's face and he felt his belly muscles tighten. She'd set him up, allowed him to think he could wiggle off the hook, and now his time was up. Dietrich's eyes darted this way and that, searching for a way out. Now the gleam in Slovo's eye—and his position by the door—took on a special significance. The German knew that he was trapped.
"With that in mind," Carla continued, "Mr. Dietrich will resume his duties as a captain in the WPO's military arm, where he will be assigned to a special security group. I trust he will be more successful there than he's been here.''
Everyone turned from the screen to Dietrich. He rose. Was the reprieve real? Or just another aspect of his punishment? He swallowed hard. "Thank you. With your permission I will leave and attend to my new duties." It would have sounded good, almost suave, except that Dietrich's voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.
The wall-sized Subido nodded. "You may leave."
There was absolute silence as Dietrich walked the length of the table. With each step he expected to hear Subido's voice, or feel a bullet hit him between the shoulder blades, but nothing happened.
Finally he was there, only inches away from Nicolai Slovo, painfully aware of the bulge under the other man's jacket. Dietrich had seen Slovo on the police range. He knew the other man could pull and fire his weapon in half the time it would take him, and felt the sweat trickling down his back.
Then the door sl
id open. Dietrich stepped through, and much to his own amazement discovered that he was still alive.
15
Three days passed, during which millions of people watched Corvan kill Bethany Bryn morning, noon, and night. But even blood and gore gets boring after a while so the media added "depth" to its stories by asking relatives, friends, and people on the street what they thought. They thought murder was bad. They hoped the murderers would be caught and punished. And Louis Platero, the receptionist at News Network 56 in Seattle, added that "Kim was a weird little chick who lived in the basement and never came up for air. No wonder she freaked out."
Meanwhile police and military personnel all over the world were looking for the two fugitives, their efforts coordinated by the WPO and closely followed by an army of journalists.
And, to Corvan's shock, News Network 56 wasted no time in condemning its ex-employees. After all, their guilt was an established fact captured for all time on video disk.
Concerned that their earlier Man Cam promos might backfire and drive advertisers away, the suits sought to put some distance between the organization and the fugitives as quickly as possible, and did so by offering a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to their arrest and conviction. They even sponsored a "News Network 56 Bounty Hunter" and provided hourly updates on his progress. Their ratings soared.
As the network's ratings rose, Corvan's spirits fell, until he did little more man sit slumped in his chair, watching report after report, sinking ever deeper into depression.
Kim didn't want to feel sorry for him. After all, she had problems of her own, but found she couldn't help herself. His entire world was coming apart. Instead of righting this terrible wrong, his fellow journalists were making it worse. Thanks to the VMG the big lie was working, the good guys were in trouble, and the bad guys, the real bad guys, were busy taking over the world.
Matrix Man Page 15
