The advertising used to give her a sense of pride. Most of the population visited these destinations, and the company displayed their logo loud and proud. That feeling had gone, along with the notion that by working at the facility she had positively contributed to society.
A young female waitress, dressed in a white shirt and bow tie, approached her table. “Can I get you drink while you look at the menu?”
“Just a clam chowder, please.”
“You got it.”
The waitress scribbled on a pad, tucked it in her breast pocket, and returned to the back of the stand. Maria rested her head in her hands and stared out to sea. Once back in Zone Seven, she needed to transfer her credit for safekeeping in case the company immediately tried to retrieve it. After that, her resignation email would land in the human resources inbox.
A chair scraped across the ground directly behind her. Moments later the waitress asked to take an order.
“The same as this young lady,” a recognizable voice said.
Maria took a sharp intake of breath.
The shadow of Gideon Lynch's pointing arm darkened the left-hand side of her table. She knew immediately disengaging would make her look guilty of something, and had to play it cool; see out this last meeting before arriving in Zone Seven.
Maria turned and forced a smile. “Mister Lynch. Fancy seeing you here?”
Lynch, dressed like a tennis player from fifty years ago, all in white with socks pulled halfway up his calves, inclined forward and glared at her with the intensity of a star.
“Are you okay?” Maria asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I dunno. You look stressed.”
“Improving lives isn’t easy,” he said. “Especially when I’m continually working against rotten apples.”
“Rotten apples?”
“Traitors to progress. Mind if I sit with you? We need another little chat.”
“Be my guest,” Maria said, trying to sound calm and collected though she realized Lynch’s appearance wasn’t a coincidence. Nobody ever bumped into him virtually, and he was known for visiting the Bangkok strip bars and playing slot machines at Caesars Palace.
Lynch shuffled a chair across to Maria’s, sat beside her, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Have you heard of William Joyce?”
“Does he work in software development?”
“He was known as Lord Haw-Haw during World War Two and carried out propaganda broadcasts from Germany. What do you think he was trying to achieve?”
“To demoralize people?”
“To hinder the Allied effort by spreading false information. We caught him near the end of the war, and he was hanged in Wandsworth prison. Are you my Lord Haw-Haw?”
Maria shook her head. She didn't have a clue where he was going with his questions and wanted to get out of San Francisco as quickly as possible.
Lynch cupped his hand around the back of her neck and squeezed. “Does talking about transport system occupancy ring any bells?”
“No.”
He tightened his grip.
Maria pushed her chair away, no longer able to sit close to him.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he said. “Disengage if you want.”
“Are you sure?” Maria asked, confused about what had just happened. There was no way Lynch could’ve known about her suspicions as she’d only told Luke. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“Run along. If that’s what you want.”
“Disengage.”
Nothing happened. Lynch's thin lips curled into a grin. He leaned back in his chair and smoothed his gray ponytail.
“Disengage,” Maria said again, more out of hope than expectation.
“I’ve disabled the feature. At this moment in time, Dave Meakin’s standing in your pod pointing a gun at your forehead. Do I have your attention?”
“Why are you doing this? I did what you asked.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve been listening to everything you’ve said to Luke Porterfield. Every single word. Now, I’ll ask you again. Are you my Lord Haw-Haw?”
Maria’s heart pounded against her chest. She glanced around to see that every other guest had vanished. The Freedom to Disengage Act, enshrined into law, gave every citizen the power to leave virtual environments unhindered. The government had also legislated against private listening devices after the GCHQ scandal of ’27. Lynch had broken both laws, and she finally saw the kind of man he was.
“Answer me,” Lynch demanded.
“I wondered aloud. Nothing more.”
“Do you think I worked this hard for a verbal campaign to kill Timetronic? I can’t risk a disillusioned pleb spreading propaganda.”
“You won’t. I promise.”
“I’m sorry, Jane Agnew, you’ve left me with no choice.”
“Jane Agnew?”
“It’s your transport system name. I’ll give you thirty years to think about wondering aloud and falsifying application forms.”
“Please, Mister Lynch,” Maria said. She reached out and grabbed his hand. “Give me one last chance.”
“I follow the Hippocratic Oath so I can’t kill you, but I can extend your life.”
“I don't want my life prolonged. I'll emigrate. You won't hear from me again.”
Lynch withdrew his hand, wiped it with a napkin, and shook his head. “A flea can’t fight a shoe. Disengage.”
His image flickered and vanished.
A sickly feeling filled the pit of Maria’s stomach at the thought of Meakin pointing a gun in her face. The false name of Jane Agnew explained how Lynch and his cronies managed to work their enemies into the facility, and why she couldn’t find any information on some of the facility’s patients on the Superhighway.
Luke was also unaware Lynch had listened to his every word, and she hoped he wouldn’t be caught in the same circumstances.
Dark weightlessness swallowed Maria’s senses.
She snapped back to reality, inside the pod, looking down a pistol barrel.
Meakin’s aftershave filled the air. Outside, the gates of the Pool Control Center swung open, and they powered toward the main building.
“Silly cow,” Meakin said. “I’ve been watching you for months.”
“You can’t do this. You know I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I found out your Zone Seven history and reported it. Gideon wanted to make use of you before we had you plugged, against my wishes, but it turned out well.”
The pod’s brakes screeched along the rail; it stopped in front of the main entrance, and its door rotated open.
“Move,” he said.
“Why the PCC?”
“We haven’t sorted out the paperwork for your alias yet. You’ll soon be officially a rich director’s daughter. Get your pretty little ass out of here.”
Maria climbed out of the pod.
Meakin jabbed the pistol in her back, encouraging her forward through the sliding glass doors. The male receptionist didn’t give her a second glance. Maria had seen the same thing happen before and always assumed it was done for the right reasons.
Everything in Timetronic took on a new darker complexion. Her previous blind eye was now somebody else’s, and nobody would act to save her. Meakin escorted her along the corridor toward solitary confinement. The guard at the lectern gave him a casual nod as if he was taking down a known criminal.
Maria thought about running but realized she didn't stand a chance in the heart of Timetronic's security center. Her only hope was for Luke find out and set her free. Only he knew about her assignment and would have the balls to act; to her colleagues, Jane Agnew was just another patient to monitor.
They approached room number nine. Meakin opened the door, shoved Maria in the back, and she staggered inside. The steel restraining bands on the angled platform extended up in the open position. Nothing displayed on the overhead screen.
“On the platform,” Meakin said. “Work with me
and I’ll see about getting you an early release.”
“Early release? I’m not guilty of anything.”
“Follow what I say and I’ll put in a plea for clemency. You could be back out in ten years.”
Maria changed her mind about running. She sprinted out of the door and headed along the corridor.
Meakin’s gun erupted with an ear-splitting crack.
The force of the round smashed Maria's right shoulder forward. She skidded face first against the polished vinyl floor, then tried to raise herself but flopped back down. Her limbs gradually seized, a numb sensation filled her body, and for the first time, she endured the effects of being hit by a stun round.
Meakin grabbed hold of her legs and dragged her back into the room. He lifted her onto the platform, placed her arms and legs in the open restraints, and moved across to a console. Maria stared at the foam ceiling panels, unable to move a muscle while he tapped on the console.
The steel bands snapped around her wrists and ankles.
The overhead screen burst to life above her, displaying whatever scenario Meakin had configured. He approached the platform and grabbed the headset. “I checked your viewing history, and this is one of your personal favorites.”
Maria attempted to plea but only managed a quiet mumble.
Meakin positioned the headset on her.
The blackness lasted two seconds while her senses transported to one of her worst nightmares. She regretted ever watching the solitary TV channel.
Hot wind blasted against Maria’s face. Coils of rope secured her arms and legs to the wings of a biplane.
A boom echoed in the distance.
The plane’s engines cut, it’s propeller stuttered to a halt, and it dipped down, heading directly toward a lava-spewing volcano.
Maria screamed.
Chapter 21
Luke had fired questions at the Vicar for ten minutes without receiving a single coherent response. Patience wasn’t an issue; he didn’t have any other immediate priorities. His previous interrogation experience told him the longer they stayed in the tunnel, highlighting his resolve and the seriousness of his intent, the more likely answers would come. Only an oddball would enjoy being held captive in a darkened space at gunpoint for an extended period.
The Vicar slumped against the wall, giving him an occasional glance, and chuntered about his idiocy for allowing himself to be drawn into this situation. Luke had mutual feelings, the difference being he planned to fight his way to the truth and make the guilty parties pay. He slipped the folded pictures of Lynch out of his back pocket and held forward the message.
“Recognize the handwriting?”
“Where did you get this?”
“It was left at Kings Cross station in an envelope addressed to me.”
“You’re Luke Porterfield?”
“Interesting,” Luke said and straightened in his chair. “How you know my name?”
“Prove who you are and I’ll say.”
Luke positioned his forearm under the glare of the Christmas tree lights. “Do you think I faked these bloody scars?”
“No, but plenty of people have them.”
“What do you want from me? To tell you how I spent fifty years in a transport system? A birth certificate? If I was one of the Lynch mob, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The Vicar reached for one of the handheld radios.
Luke extended his pistol. “Not so fast. Explain what you’re doing.”
“She wants to meet you. I’ll speak to her.”
“A short-range radio won't work down here.”
“There’s a booster hidden in the pulpit. Let me make the call.” The Vicar raised his radio. “It’s Nigel. Are you there?”
Static hissed from the speaker.
“Is she close?” Luke asked.
“Not far.” The Vicar hit transmit again. “It’s me. Luke Porterfield’s here.”
“Send him outside with our spare,” a crackly female voice said. “Out.”
Luke bolted from his chair, snatched the other radio, and thumbed the talk button. “Don’t be afraid. Where are you?”
Nobody replied.
“She’s cautious, not afraid,” the Vicar said. “Once she gets a visual and confirms you haven’t been followed, you’ll be fine.”
The strategy made sense, and again, one that Luke might’ve employed. He guessed Sir Henry would’ve been proud of her continually managing to give Timetronic the slip while hitting them, and on current evidence she took after her father. Rather than insulting Helen’s intelligence and pointlessly staying with the vicar, he slung his pack and headed for the door.
“You’re making the right choice,” the Vicar said. “As soon as you hear her story you’ll be with us.”
“We’ll see. Don’t forget I know how the fertilizer made it inside the pool, and you’re as guilty as she is.”
“Whatever you do, don’t tell the Lynch mob. Have trust in what we say.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, for now.”
Luke kicked the door open, ducked through it, and swiped the curtain to one side. He headed up the stairs and through the nave. Lynch wouldn’t be hearing about the tunnel anytime soon; he was more interested to find out why Helen had targeted the doctor.
Steady rain pattered on the ground outside. He mounted his bike and surveyed the ten apartment blocks overlooking the church. Any one of the hundreds of tinted windows provided a perfect vantage point.
He raised his radio. “Helen Penshaw, I presume?”
“Does that make you Henry Morton Stanley?” she replied, matching his quote to the famous explorer’s words on finding Doctor Livingstone in Africa.
“Very clever. Are we meeting or doing this over the airwaves?”
“Move over to the kids play area on your left.”
Luke pedaled over to a rusty set of swings and decaying wooden climbing frame, and reasoned access to exciting virtual environments relegated the structures to dilapidation.
“Look down the road,” Helen said through Luke's radio.
A small figure, dressed in a long cream coat, stood three-hundred meters away. She raised her arm and waved.
“I wasn’t followed,” Luke said. “My partner’s heading back to Zone Seven.”
“It didn’t take you long to find my tunnel.”
“It’s my job. By the way, you didn’t need to convince me Lynch is a deviant.”
“I took those pictures a week after he unplugged me. The same night I left Clifton Hall and became his number one weakness.”
“Why?” Luke asked.
“Lynch asked me to sign over my stake in Timetronic. After I refused, he told me about Dad’s death, bent on one knee, and proposed.”
Luke shuddered at the easily imaginable and inappropriate sequence of events.
She continued, “I heard groaning coming from the library one night and investigated. He sat in Dad’s chair, robe open, and was—”
“Spare me the gory details,” Luke said, cutting her off before she had the chance to make him vomit. “He used his claytronic version to spy on a young couple. I get it. He’s a grade-A pervert.”
“It’s more than his weirdness. It’s his level of control. He bragged about manipulating virtual sessions, removing anyone who stands in the way of his vision, and how the government and other corporations were wrapped around his little finger, all from the comfort of Clifton Hall.”
“He was passive when I met him.”
“He’s passive in the same way as a great white shark. Do you know what he wants more than anything?”
“Tell me,” Luke said.
“To gain a majority share in Timetronic, and dedicating the company’s efforts toward creating software capable of storing his brain on a server.”
“Why can’t he do it now?”
“Lynch signed several guarantees to win the fifty-year contracts for the virtual reality and security solutions. This was before the corporates ins
talled their Vichy-style government, and ninety-five percent of Timetronic’s resources are committed to maintaining and enhancing existing VR and claytronics. The government won’t allow him to stray from the agreement.”
“Two questions,” Luke said. He pushed down on his pedals and headed toward Helen. “Doesn’t he run the government, and why not amend the contract?”
“Stay back.”
“I’ll stop when you answer me.”
“The other corporates are scared of his increasing power, hold him to account with regular audits, and say they’ll only renegotiate with a majority shareholder.”
“Which is you?”
“I inherited Dad’s fifty-one percent, with a clause handing the government my stake if I died without an heir. Marrying me solved Lynch’s problem. I’d be back inside the facility with a ring on my chilled finger, and he'd be free to demand a development freeze in absentia.”
“Why don’t the corporations expose his use of transport systems?”
“Lynch rules by fear, would throw dirt in their direction, and present himself as the voice of reason. Besides that, the first to complain would end up plugged in no time. I tried with a poster campaign but the public’s addiction to VR makes him bulletproof.”
Luke advanced further between the blocks, and closed to within one-hundred meters. “To a certain extent, I see how his hands are tied. Can’t the other five percent of employees focus on his brain software?”
“They work on it night and day, but I hear they’re at least a decade away from a breakthrough. Think about it. A version of Lynch, fully backed-up and running our country for generations, even centuries to come. That’s his focus.”
Luke bristled at the idea of a claytronic President Lynch acting as the nation’s eternal dictator. He imagined the doctor hovering over the Thames river on a futuristic Segway, fist raised in the air, while brainwashed citizens cheered from the packed banks.
“Why can’t Lynch wait a decade?” he asked.
“He’s an old man. Ten years ago in Clifton Hall, he was in his mid-seventies and frail. I know one of his management team and she told me he’s paranoid about enemies and won’t consider using a transport system. He can't stop micromanaging and appears in different locations every day.”
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