And now he was standing in our bedroom.
"And I take it this is Daryl." He smiled again. Daryl was trembling. "Might I suggest we all go down to the dining room? We have some important matters to discuss."
In the dining room McPherson pulled a chair to the end of the table and motioned for me and Daryl to sit on either side. Once we were seated he turned to Daryl and said, "I have to commend you. Very few people have ever managed to penetrate our firewall. You were only the ninth."
"I don't know what you're talking about", Daryl stammered. "I was working on a piece of software for my client all day today. You can check my computer."
"Ah, Daryl. I never said when your breach occurred, did I?" Daryl turned ashen. "OK, let's make a little bargain, shall we? You don't lie to me again, and I won't ask Brent to kill Amy. Deal?" He smiled the entire time. Daryl just closed his eyes and hung his head. "I asked you a question, Daryl. Do we have a deal?" Daryl slowly nodded without looking up.
"Excellent. For the record, your denial would have been futile anyway. You see, we have a very unique firewall. We actually allow hackers like yourself to break through. Oh, we don't make it easy. But we do allow the gifted, like yourself, to achieve their goal. Then we track everywhere you go in our system, everything you look at, every keystroke you make. It backtracks to your computer and lets us know where you are. Oh, and by the way, had I taken you up on your offer and checked your computer, a couple of keystrokes and your computer would have spilled its guts, so to speak. Our firewall installs a piece of quantumware that keeps you from erasing anything. It will look to you like you've eliminated all the evidence, but we carve out a little niche that stores everything for us. In case we need it in court.
"But, in your case, Daryl, no judge or jury will ever see anything. That would not exactly be wise on our part, now would it? You see, my friend, you stumbled onto my own personal, private, profit center. We spent a king's ransom developing Servians, and the limited market that ridiculous international treaty restricts us to prohibits our making the profits we should be entitled to make. Do you have any idea what the market is for substitute soldiers and mercenaries? Or for tailor made hookers? Billions, Daryl. Billions, every year! Last year alone I made over five billion." He laughed. "Virtually every revolution going on around the globe is being fought on at least one side by Servians. The biggest headache isn't negotiating the contracts or making the money. It's hiding it!" And he laughed again. "Oh, man, if the government ever found out! Wow! I'd be wearing an orange jumpsuit for the rest of my life! And they'd turn me into an overnight pauper! Can't have that happening, now, can we?"
Daryl was still looking down. McPherson leaned into him. "So, Daryl," he said, softly, "here's the situation. You looked at a whole bunch of stuff that you shouldn't have. And that creates a real problem for me. I can't exactly have some 'terk' walking around with all that information in his head just waiting to have the authorities pull it out of him, can I? No, I can't. Now, unfortunately for you, there's really only one way to make sure that problem goes away. Forever."
McPherson sat up straight and looked at the hooded figure at the other end of the table. "David", he said, tersely. The one named David removed his ski mask, stared at sneeringly for a second, then reached behind his back and produced a small leather case. He unzipped and opened it, displaying it for us to see. Inside were two hypodermics, each held in place by an elastic strap.
"Daryl," McPherson said, now once more facing the man I loved, "what you are looking at is a choice. The needle on the left is loaded with a fatal overdose of heroin. That is intended for you. I expect you to let David administer it to you. Quick, painless, and not at all unpleasant. You will experience an enormous surge of euphoria, then just relax and go to sleep. Should you refuse, then we move on to the needle on the right.
"I don't know if you are aware, Daryl, but Servians do not feel pain like you and I do. We deliberately engineered them to have a much higher tolerance. That way, if they are injured at the same time you are, say, in an automobile accident, they can still take care of you while ignoring their own injuries. Now, if you decide not to cooperate this evening then I will be forced to ask David to administer the drug in the needle on the right to Amy. What it will do is exponentially increase her ability to suffer. It will lower her pain threshold to pretty much zero. Breathing will hurt. And then David and Brent will go to work on her. It will take her hours to die. And you will have a front row seat to everything. Then, David and Brent will hold you down while I administer the heroin to you. So, you see, either way this evening's outcome will be the same. You saving me some time and hassle will prevent Amy's suffering. It's all up to you." He smiled yet again, then leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together, and rested them in his lap. He was the picture of arrogant, merciless confidence.
I was fighting an urge to fly across the table and gouge his eyes out. But I knew that would be futile. His goons would put a dozen bullets into my body before I got a foot. And Daryl would still die. I looked at Daryl with every ounce of compassion in my being. I knew exactly what he was going to do. The man I loved more than my own life was going to die and there was nothing I could do about it.
My emotional agony was shattered by McPherson. "I need an answer, Daryl. This has turned into a very long night, and I need to get some sleep at some point. So which will it be?"
Daryl never looked up. "Will you let Amy go?"
"I'm afraid that's not possible. However, I can promise you that she will never suffer, nor will she die. Daryl," he grinned, "Amy is still worth a tidy sum of money. I'm not about to waste that. No, she won't die. She'll eventually wind up not remembering you, but she won't die. You have the word of a man who loves his money, and Amy is money." And he laughed.
Daryl continued to look down, then just whispered. "Yes", was all he said.
"I'm sorry, Daryl. Yes what?"
"Just do it."
"Do what? I need to hear you say it."
"The heroin."
"Ah," McPherson smiled, "true love. How enchanting. But I will give you credit for protecting Amy. Admirable."
"Fuck you, McPherson", Daryl whispered. McPherson just chuckled.
"No, my dear Daryl. I believe it is you who is about to be fucked." And then he laughed out loud. He turned to David and nodded. Tears boiled in my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks. Daryl finally looked up at me and smiled feebly.
"I love you, babe", he whispered.
"I know, Daryl. And I love you, too." He grinned a little wider.
"You take care, OK Amy?"
"I will, Daryl. Don't worry about me. I'll take care. Believe me. I'll take care. And, Daryl?"
He looked at me with nothing but love and regret in his eyes. "What, babe?"
"Forget what this asshole says. I'll never forget you. That will never happen. Never. They can do whatever they want. My love for you will never die." I looked over at McPherson who was grinning malevolently. "Understand one thing, Edward McPherson."
"What's that, my dear?"
"I am going to kill you. I am going to listen to your screams as your life slips away. You're going to know you are dying, and that there's not a thing you can do about it. That I promise you."
"You'll forgive me, dear girl, but given your current situation you'll have to understand if I don't take you too seriously."
"That's a big mistake on your part." He cocked his head and stared at me, still grinning.
"Spirit", he finally said. "I like that."
David stepped over to Daryl, took his arm and turned it up. He wrapped a leather strap around Daryl's upper arm and tightened it causing Daryl's veins to stand out. Then he inserted the needle. He pushed the plunger slowly until all of the contents of the syringe had emptied into Daryl's arm. Once the hypodermic was empty David released the leather strap. Daryl never took his eyes off of me. Seconds later they rolled back and he sighed, his head lolling backward. David released Daryl's arm and it dropped to hi
s side. We all watched in silence for several minutes until Daryl's chest stopped its rhythmic rise and fall. Then I whispered, "I love you, Daryl."
David checked Daryl's wrist and neck for a pulse, then turned and nodded at McPherson, who stood and turned to me. "Alright, my dear. It's time to go. You'll be coming with us."
"What, you're not going to kill me, too?", I said defiantly. "I know what Daryl knew."
"I know you do. But the simple fact is that, once back in our facilities, we can wipe your memory clean. Then you can be resold. I ought to be able to get another quarter million for you that will go straight into my bank account. After all, it's not like I can enter you on the company books, is it? That would be a little difficult to explain." And he chuckled. "OK, let's get going. Brent, double check to make sure we're not leaving anything behind. David, plant the drugs, then meet us at the car." McPherson took my arm and I promptly jerked it out of his grasp. He grinned, then fastened his hand around my upper arm, digging his fingers in hard. Hard enough that I knew they was going to leave bruises. "You can come quietly, or I can have David get the other syringe. Up to you." I glared at him, then spun and walked toward the archway that led to the living room. At the partition I turned my head for my last glance at Daryl, and the tears continued to stream.
McPherson's car was parked a block away. Once we arrived at it he opened the rear door and motioned me to get in. I was sandwiched between David and Brent. The driver was the third man whose name hadn't been mentioned. McPherson climbed into the front passenger seat and we drove away.
"Head for the main facility in San Jose", McPherson ordered the driver.
"Yes, sir."
McPherson pivoted to speak to me. "First things first, my dear girl. We need to get your memory wiped. Then I have some contacts in Singapore I'll be getting in touch with. I have no doubt that they'll be interested in a lovely thing like you. Those folks are always looking to add to their stables." He chuckled, then turned around to face front.
We merged onto the 101 and headed south. Of course, there was little traffic at somewhere after four in the morning, but the driver kept his speed just under the limit. They obviously didn't want to attract any attention. We drove along for over half an hour. No one spoke a word.
We were somewhere south of Palo Alto when we were overtaken by an eighteen wheeler moving at least fifteen miles an hour faster than we were. He had just passed us and had put his blinker on to move back into our lane when one of his trailer tires blew. There was an enormous boom, like a canon going off, and a huge chunk of rubber flew backwards, impacting with the windshield, shattering it, and one end of the chunk of tire tread continued into the interior of the car, smashing the driver in the face and knocking him out. The car spun out of control, slammed into a retaining wall, then overturned and skidded a hundred yards before coming to rest on its roof. I was left hanging from my seatbelt. No one else had bothered to fasten theirs, and the result was bodies piled on top of each other. I used one hand to push up against the roof while using the other to release my seat belt. I tucked my head and dropped onto my shoulders. I was dazed, but I started feeling around the bodies for a gun. I intended to blow McPherson's brains out. Unfortunately, a California Highway Patrol cruiser must have been right behind us when the accident occurred, because I'd no sooner felt the grip of David's pistol when I saw the flashing lights. I let go of the gun and started crawling out of the wrecked car.
"Lady! You OK?", the CHiP officer called. I extricated myself from the shattered side window and waved a hand at him while still on my hands and knees.
"I'm OK, but I think the rest of these guys are in pretty bad shape. You'd better see to them." The cop helped me to my feet, then walked me back to his cruiser, opened the passenger door, and got me seated.
"You stay right there until the EMT's show up. You need to let them look at you."
"OK, OK. Just go check my friends. I'm worried about them." He nodded, then spun and set off running back to the overturned vehicle. He ran around to the driver's side and knelt down to look for injuries. That's when I took off. I bounded a guard rail and skittered down an embankment, crossed a dirt road, and ran into a stand of trees.
I walked about three or four miles, and just as the sky was getting light I was able to hitch a ride. An attractive, barefoot woman in a nightgown standing on the side of the road with her thumb out. It didn't take long. A nice looking young guy in a Porsche. I gave him a story about an abusive boyfriend, showed him the bruises on my arm, and explained that I was trying to get back to mom and dad up in the city. He bought it and took me all the way to Daryl's house and dropped me there. I knew I was taking a risk, but I doubted that McPherson or any of his thugs would want to be anywhere near Daryl's body. Assuming they weren't in the hospital or dealing with the cops. I went around back, took a baseball sized rock from the garden just off the patio, and smashed one of the panes in the French doors, then let myself in. I walked to the dining room. Daryl still sat there in his chair, silent, and now growing cold. I brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead, leaned, and kissed his dead lips.
"I'm so sorry", I whispered. "I love you so much. They'll never take that from us. And I will make them pay, Daryl. I promise." I lightly passed my hand over his forehead once more, then turned and left the room. Upstairs in our bedroom I opened the safe behind the elegantly framed, masterfully painted Rembrandt copy and removed the cash that Daryl kept there for emergencies. There was a time when twenty thousand dollars would have been considered a nice chunk of cash, but not in 2073. Although it wasn't much, it would get me away from San Francisco and let me hide until I could decide what I was going to do.
I took a very quick shower, dressed, packed a few things in a backpack, then went downstairs to Daryl's study. I removed the thumbnail sized quantum memory processor from his computer and dropped it into my pocket. McPherson had indicated that their firewall had carved out a niche in Daryl's computer and backed up everything he'd done. I hoped I might be able to find it.
I walked to the entrance to the dining room and looked once more on the body of my lover. I blew him a kiss, then turned and left the house just as the sun was clearing the roof lines across the street.
I caught the BART to Oakland, made my way to the Hyperloop station, the pneumatic tube transport that had just opened a couple of years before, and bought a one-way ticket. An hour and a half later I was in Chicago. I caught a cab to the mag-lev station and two hours later boarded a train to Oklahoma City. I wanted to get someplace they would never think to look, and I figured Oklahoma City was about as far away from McPherson's way of thinking that was possible. After arriving in Oklahoma City I climbed into a cab and told the driver that first I wanted a liquor store, and then an out of the way, inexpensive motel. He drove me first to City Liquors, a tiny street corner place where I bought a bottle of scotch, then to a place in the southeast section of the city, on Reno Avenue. It certainly met my requirements. No self respecting CEO would ever be caught dead anywhere near the Freeway Inn.
I paid for my room using a fake name. Ellen Braithewaite. Just something I made up on the spot. I opened the room, went in, and closed the door behind me. It sure as hell wasn't much, but it would be home for awhile. A queen sized bed, fake paneling, worn, stained carpet, a couple of cheesy prints, and an atmosphere of despair. I left the room with the plastic ice bucket and returned with enough ice to, hopefully, get me drunk. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Daryl and I had shared a glass of wine and he'd told me about what he'd found that had scared him so badly. And justifiably so. In that time I'd watched the man I loved be murdered, had been kidnapped, escaped, traveled halfway across the country, and was now hiding from people who wanted to obliterate my memory and sell me into sexual slavery. I wanted to cry, get smashed, and pass out.
I succeeded at all three.
Two months later I was staying in Pueblo, Colorado. I had made it a habit to only stay in one city for a week. Always smal
l cities. And never a city whose name might naturally occur to someone. I did my best to avoid any kind of pattern. I sometimes slept late, sometimes got up early. I only ate twice a day and took my meals at varying times. I never walked or traveled the same routes. I paid very close attention to my surroundings, constantly looking at others to see if they seemed overly interested in me. And I never called anyone. Not that I knew anyone to call. The only people I knew were Daryl and some of the people he knew. He only had one real friend. Bob Baxter. But I didn't really know Bob that well. I was literally all alone.
I had spent a precious chunk of my cash to buy a used virtual computer. It was old, but still in good condition. The holographic screen would flicker once in awhile, but other than that it worked fine. A week after McPherson murdered Daryl I found an article in the San Francisco Chronicle about the police finding his body as the result of a tip from a neighbor who realized he hadn't seen Daryl in a while. His death was ruled an accidental overdose. The coroner surmised that Daryl was a first time heroin user and had misjudged the dose, resulting in his accidental death. The police were looking for his female companion, a woman named Amy, for questioning. Amy was believed to be a Servian.
The main purpose of the computer I'd bought, however, was research. I dug into Edward McPherson and I did so like a woman possessed. Which I was. By the time I reached Pueblo I knew pretty much everything there was to know about Edward McPherson, including his shoe size. I knew where he was born, where he grew up, that his mother had died of a very rare blood disease when he was just six, that he'd gotten in trouble in grade school for reprogramming his teacher's computer to give all the other kids bad grades. I knew that he had a weakness for Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon wine, a Napa Valley wine, that sold for an average of $70,000 a bottle. I knew that he had a sexual quirk that involved pear brandy. Daryl had taught me a lot about hacking, and I had put it to extensive use. Schools, medical records, past employers, investment patterns, bank records, choice of cars, tastes in women, how many fillings he had, who his tailor was. I knew it all.
The Helpers: A Novelette Page 2
