A loud bang made him jump. He spun around in time to see a pod, with a blown tyre scraping against the ground, come skidding towards him.
KEL
Kel woke to a radio report of a fatal accident on the Don Valley Flow, feeling like she was surfacing from some long, horrific dream. She cracked her eyelids open a tiny bit and saw a man a metre away from her, mouth agape, snoring. Nothing around him looked familiar. She closed her eyes again, thinking furiously, trying to understand.
She was moving, she realised. Or, more accurately, she was in a vehicle that was moving. Kel risked another quick peek. She seemed to be lying in the back of a cargo pod. It suddenly felt to her she had been here for a while. She focused on listening to the radio, and after several tense moments, she was relieved to hear it was a CBC station. In spite of the movement, she was at probably still in Canada. Okay, good. Then it dawned on her that if the news had reported on something in the Don Valley, she was likely in Toronto. That was even better.
The radio programme changed from the news to one of the station’s regular features, and the announcer said the date was July 17. That felt wrong.
Then everything came flooding back and she had to suppress a gasp: she was a captive, and had been so for more than a week.
Kel tried to piece together what had happened. She remembered being shot and being dragged out of her apartment. Then there was… a gap in her memory, because then she had come to, and she had been… here. Yes, she’d been here all this time. The two men had seen her awake and again ordered her to hand over plans for the implant and provide improvements. Kel had unwisely told them to go to hell, and the first man had stomped hard on her gunshot wound. Another blackout.
She had brief flashes of lucidity after that. Once, she woke up sweating, feeling as if she was on fire. Kel had demanded treatment, reminding them she was no good to them dead of an infection. The man who had shot her had dumped a beer on her leg, causing her to scream and swear. The other had at least fabbed some horrible-tasting antibiotics. The men had argued… a lot. Yes, nearly every time she’d been conscious, she’d heard them arguing between themselves. There were also excruciating memories of being dragged in and out of the pod to use a bathroom, but where? How had she not been seen?
Kel opened her eyes again to study her captor. He was slumped in the corner of the pod now, oblivious. While before he had looked, at least superficially, like a mysterious and very dangerous government agent, now he looked like an average guy. He was dressed in ordinary clothes, and his shirt had what appeared to be a drink stain down the front of it.
Kel tried moving and almost cried out. Several days of lying on a hard floor and a gunshot wound had left her feeling stiff and weak. Keeping one eye on the man, she ever so slowly propped herself up on one elbow, grinding her teeth to stifle the sounds she needed to make from the pain. She was still in the outfit she had been wearing when she was abducted; one trouser leg had been cut off, and her thigh was wrapped tightly with a dressing and sticky gauze tape that looked like it might have come out of a first-aid kit. Well, that was something at least. She didn’t know what a bullet wound was supposed to feel like, but she figured it must have gone straight through, or else she’d be in even worse shape.
There was one overhead light in the cargo bay but no windows, so she couldn’t tell whether it was night or day. The floor was littered with takeout containers, far more than a week’s worth. Some of them looked like they had started to biodegrade. Kel was suddenly conscious of all the smells in the small space: her own, unwashed body, the smell of him, and the pungent odour of spoilt food. She tried breathing through her mouth.
Kel spotted a toolbox and a mobile fabber, which made her think this might be a roving repair station rather than a cargo pod. That would make sense if they were travelling in circles around the city, as it would be a good way to hide. She remembered the gunman’s damper field and wondered why no network had yet noticed there was a moving dark spot on the grid.
She glanced up at the walls of the cabin and stiffened in shock. A portion of one wall was covered in printouts of photos of her. There was one of her at the bar. Another of her going into the hab building late at night. Another was of her stepping out of a pod outside of her apartment. The hairs on her neck rose and prickled.
The other printouts were even more chilling. One was a lengthy screed on how the lunar base was supposedly a hoax: people approved to travel there were secretly selected by the government for elimination and then forced out an airlock. Another explained how digital tattoos were supposed to be a United Nations mind-control technology that would be activated soon, turning everyone who had one into an obedient soldier of the Illuminati. Half of the other wall was a complicated chart dedicated to tracking of the movements of the Prime Minister. By the time she was done looking at everything, Kel was terrified.
She was in the hands of two people who were certifiably insane.
Fighting rising panic, she returned her gaze to the man and flinched when she saw him upright, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes, his hands clenched into balls in his lap.
RAY
Ray was numb.
It was now three days after the night at the park. Not knowing what else to do, but sure he couldn’t run away — not yet — he had come into work every morning since, only to be told to go home by midmorning. At home, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
This morning, as he came down the stairs at the plaza, he was aware of a buzzing, angry tension. He knew instantly that meant they had found Tomasso. Ray sighed. He should be petrified, he realised, but could only muster a painful, throbbing ache in his chest.
He walked into the lion’s den.
Dominic, who had a commanding view of the entrance, saw him and motioned for him to come over. His eyes were darker than Ray had ever seen them. “Ray, Raymond, il mio mago. It is good you are here.”
“Is it?” Ray said.
“Yes, because you are not out there,” replied Dominic, pointing up at the outside world. “It is about to get very dangerous. You will be safer here.”
This was not the answer Ray was expecting. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t, poor Raymond. Nobody tells you anything.”
Ray suddenly noticed there was a newly printed gun on Dominic’s desk and everyone around him was heavily armed.
“Tomasso is dead. The Sǐwáng have told us to take it as a warning.”
“What?” Ray knew from his research — his now laughable research — they were a triad gang trying to reorganise in Toronto; but he also knew they hadn’t hit Tomasso.
“No one,” Dominic said quietly, “takes out my second without… a penalty.” The steel in Dominic’s voice caused Ray to twitch. Dominic saw it. “Oh, don’t worry, you don’t have a long line-up of mago work ahead of you. We went out last night and took out several of them.”
“But…” Ray felt like the ground was shifting beneath him. Was their blood on his hands, too? “But the Sǐwáng is…” He struggled to find a way to question the claim without giving himself away. “They’re small. Would they have dared?”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed, and Ray tensed. “Interesting. You’re more observant than I realised. Yes, I am aware they likely didn’t do it. But the fact they would try to take credit for it deserved a response. No, it was almost certainly Posse Wild. We hit them too. Even harder.”
Ray’s mouth opened and closed. He slowly shoved his hands into his pockets to steady himself.
“You’re worried, I can see that.” Dominic smiled, a shocking hint of kindness in his eyes. “I agree, I wish we’d been able to keep it civilised. Doing hits is so last century. But you know, two steps forward, one step back.” The faintly maniacal look returned. “Although I have to admit last night was a rush. Old times are sometimes good ones, and anger … anger, my dear Raymond, has such a purity to it.”
The room swam in front of Ray’s eyes. He remembered the adrenaline surge wh
en he had charged Tomasso and before, when he had raged at the hospital attendants and the many times before that, as a young kid bouncing from shelter to shelter, blind fury at the world fuelling his strength. There was a kind of purity in those moments. Had he been stupid to leave the district? He looked at Dominic. Was this what he was meant to be?
There was a thunderous crash upstairs, followed by a scream — Sylvie! — and several fast popping sounds.
Dominic grabbed his gun. “Here?” he roared. “In my house?” He vaulted over the desk, heading for the stairs.
But before he could get there, an ear-splitting boom rocked the whole building. The ceiling exploded downward, debris flying everywhere. Ray dove for cover behind a basement support column. He heard feet hitting the ground heavily… one… two… three… four… and then the room erupted with automatic gunfire.
Shards of cinder block went flying as the bullets strafed the column. Parts of the wall disintegrated as dozens of rounds penetrated the drywall, tearing it to pieces. Someone came running out of the bar room, gun ready, only to be mowed down, sliding, collapsing in a heap near Ray’s feet. A round smashed into the light above his head, and it blew up with a bang and a shower of sparks. Ray felt needles in his scalp as he hit the floor beside the dead man, sprawling flat, and facedown. His shirt was warm and wet.
The gunfire kept going, punctuated only by soft grunts and the terrifying sound of bodies thumping onto the hard concrete. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped, and all he could make out was the last few bullet casings tink-tinking to the floor in a gentle shower. Ray stayed very, very still.
“Which one was Dominic?” said a man’s voice, in a heavy East-European accent.
“There, I think. In the fancy white shirt.”
“Milosh, stand cover. Vojin, and you and you, check we’ve got everyone.” There was a movement. “Hey, Dominic, eat this.” There were three more gunshots in quick succession. “Now you no do your brain sorcery on me or nobody else.” More movement, and the sound of a fist striking dead meat several times. “Kopile.”
Ray felt, rather than saw a man brush past him. The body beside him got a sharp kick, and he braced, holding his breath in the hopes he wouldn’t give himself away if was kicked.
But the man moved on, and Ray slowly exhaled, quivering.
There was muffled conversation in the distance, the sound of guns being dumped, and then footsteps receding up the stairs.
Ray waited as long as he dared. If he moved too soon, he could be shot by anyone still watching the scene. But the warm wetness had spread up on to his back. What did it feel like to bleed out?
Mustering his courage, he rolled sideways and sat up in one scrambling motion, crouching behind what was left of the column. No one shouted. No one fired at him. He risked a peek from his hiding spot.
There were bodies everywhere. The pipes in the ceiling, broken in the explosion, were gushing water straight down onto Dominic’s desk. There was already a large, red-tinged pool rolling steadily towards him.
He stood up and pulled off his shirt, patting himself all over. Ray couldn’t feel anything — no holes, no broken ribs. He glanced down at the body he had hidden beside and saw his own outline in the puddle of blood seeping out from the other man. He put his hand to his head; it came away sticky and glittering with glass fragments. Ray nodded to himself as though it all made sense.
The stench of toxic smoke reached his nose, reminding him of the garbage can fires of his childhood. Emergency services would be here any minute.
All of a sudden, he felt bone tired. For a long moment, he surveyed the carnage, imagining what it would be like when the police came charging through the door upstairs and found him. He saw himself kneeling, hands on head, giving up.
Giving in.
No more struggle. Accepting his fate as some anonymous thug, destined for jail since the day he was born.
He climbed gingerly upstairs on the ravaged staircase.
It was hot up here. Through the doorway, the booth where he had once slept was on fire, and flames were licking the bar top, making the varnish bubble and stink.
Ray threw his bloody shirt at the fire and watched it sizzle and curl and then vanish.
His fingers found the fob on the chain around his neck. He pulled hard until the chain snapped, and looked at it in his hand. It held a fortune in cryptocurrency.
Ray tossed it in the fire and saw it burn.
Yes, he could give in.
Or he could try, just one more time.
He found the back door and slipped out.
KEL
“I’m getting tired of waiting for you to smarten up,” the man said. He reached into the toolbox and pulled out a heavy wrench. “I don’t care what he says anymore. We’ve got work to do, and you’re just in the way now. And you’ve cost me a fortune in food.”
“Why didn’t you explain it to me?” Kel said, swallowing hard.
The man, who had started towards her, stopped, looking confused. “What?”
“All of this,” she said, gesturing at the walls. “Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea all this was going on.”
The man looked at the walls, frowned, and looked back at her.
“Look, I’m sorry for being rude and stubborn before,” Kel continued. “But I’m a scientist, you see. I required evidence. You should have just explained this at the beginning.”
The man’s eyes widened in surprise as he processed this.
Kel gave him some time before deciding he needed another nudge. “What else don’t I know about?”
Still eyeing her suspiciously, he reached into a box she hadn’t spotted until now and pulled out what looked like more printouts. He shoved them at her.
Trying to keep her breathing in check, she made a show of inspecting them one by one. There was a piece on how induction-charging plates in the flows were designed to produce waves to control people’s minds. Another lengthy printout discussed the chemical content of the water supply.
“Unbelievable,” Kel said, and meant it. “How long do you suppose this stuff has been going on? Right under our noses!”
Now the man nodded emphatically. “You see it, don’t you? Now you know why we need your tool. We’ve got to get rid of the heads of the hydra!”
“Okay, let’s get started.” She extended a hand. “What do you want me to do first? Here, help me up.”
He reached out and she took it, making as though she was getting to her feet. At the last second, just as the vehicle curved into a turn, she heaved on his arm, pulling him off balance and heaving him forward to smash headfirst into the wall behind him.
Groaning with the effort, she rolled over and grabbed desperately at the wrench he had dropped. As he rolled onto his back, clutching his head, she scrabbled on to her hands and knees. She gripped the wrench with both hands and raised it overhead, brought it down hard onto his groin. He screamed, sat bolt upright, and then curled over into a tight ball of misery.
Still keeping a firm grip on the wrench, she hauled herself up, feeling dizzy and faint. She put a hand on the mobile fabber unit to steady herself and surveyed the back door of the pod. She didn’t know how to stop the vehicle but she also had no idea if she could keep him incapacitated long enough to figure it out. Her last move had been as much luck as quick thinking.
She glanced down at the hard surface under her hand. A fabber unit. Kel still had her wristband on. She might not get another chance to upload her virus.
Working quickly, she unlocked her band and popped it open to reveal the universal hardware port that still came as standard with every band in case over-the-air connections failed. Kel plugged it into the fabber and instructed it to download a design schematic for immediate printing. The design resembled her implant prototype. Embedded in the fake were a set of calculations that would unlock and extract a virus payload. The virus would make a copy of the fake and send it across the fabber network to as many nodes as it had direct links to. Fr
om there, it would try to print itself, starting the cycle all over again and, more importantly, it would copy itself over any of the real prototype schematics resident in memory. From now on, Kel hoped, anyone who tried to print a new copy of her device would just relaunch the virus.
And, she prayed, not mess up the entire network.
The man groaned and writhed. Muttering under her breath, she made impatient hurry-up gestures at the fabber. When she was sure the virus had launched, she clipped her wristband back on and limped painfully to the back of the pod, leaning on the wall for support. She grabbed the interior door handle, pushed the release button, and shoved.
The door swung open, flapping as the pod zoomed along. It was dark outside, and there weren’t any pods behind them. Kel guessed they were on a service flow route and it was late at night. She gulped. It looked like they were going very fast.
Her legs were shaking with exhaustion. Her captor would not stay down all night, and she couldn’t stay upright for long either. It was now or never.
She jumped.
MAURA
“You did what?” Pauline looked appalled.
“I said I arranged financing for the takeover using my personal assets as collateral,” Maura replied.
“But,” Pauline sat heavily in the chair by Maura’s desk, “that means if the company fails, you’re done for.”
“Yes,” Maura said.
“Why would you risk that?”
Maura resisted the urge to tell Pauline she’d asked herself that twenty times since this morning. “It’s a calculated risk,” she said, as much to reassure herself as well as Pauline. “It’s a tactic to shore up our third quarter.”
Echoes of Another Page 22
