Synapse
Page 30
“No, please, no,” the CEO begged. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t realize who I am. I’m the one who—”
Julian cut him off. “Do it, Eckhart.”
“Patience.”
The journalists were all live-streaming what was happening. Anyone who was watching news on the Feeds anywhere in the world was going to see this go down right here, right now.
Eckhart took a step back and angled his gun at the back of Madison’s head.
This is happening.
“Don’t do this,” I cried. “Don’t kill him!”
You have only your life to lose and heaven to gain.
Like Christ.
To save.
To serve.
To love.
To obey the greatest commandment of all—loving God first and loving others as yourself.
“Kill me instead,” I said.
* * *
Eckhart stared at the woman. “What did you just say?”
“Let him go. If you’re going to shoot someone, let it be me.”
“Do you know this man?”
“No.”
“And yet you would die for him?”
“I don’t want anyone to die.”
He studied her face carefully. “You’re Kestrel Hathaway.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read your blogs . . . It was your violin she took . . . And your brother, he’s in charge of security here?”
She said nothing.
“Oh, that works out even better.”
Eckhart looked from her to Julian to Madison, and then drew his handgun back and pistol-whipped Madison violently against the side of the head, knocking him, unconscious, to the stage’s floor.
Eckhart handed Kestrel a radio. “Call your brother. Get him over here. If he can give me what I need, neither you nor Madison will have to die.”
47
3:54 p.m.
6 minutes left
Gun out, Nick passed into the control suite and saw a figure with her back turned to him facing the digitized wall at the far end of the room.
He leveled his gun at her. “Anastasia, stop right there.”
Twelve meters away.
He could make the shot if he needed to.
She turned around. “You can’t stop this, Nick. It’s all in play.”
He had a tough time looking down the barrel of his gun at her. It was like aiming at Dakota herself. Anastasia mimicked her voice perfectly.
“Did you kill Dakota?” he asked.
“She was in the way.”
“And Ripley?”
“He used up his usefulness.”
Nick felt his grip on his sidearm tighten. “So, under the freezer? Are they buried there?”
She looked at him curiously. “I’m impressed. Conrad is. In a box.”
“What? Alive?”
“He was when my people left him there.”
Nick swore and muttered for the team to hurry with their digging, relaying the message surreptitiously to the director.
Anastasia shook her head. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with here, do you? How deep this goes?”
Nick held his gun steady on her. “The Purists—why would they work with an Artifi—” And then it hit him. “Wait. They don’t know, do they? That you’re not the real Dakota?”
She flicked out a knife, stabbed it into the wooden countertop beside her, and started toward him.
“That’s far enough, Anastasia.”
“You won’t shoot me, Nick.” She held out her hands, one to each side. “I’m unarmed.”
Dakota had taught close quarters combat. Nick knew that if Anastasia had half the skills she had, with the added strength and speed of an Artificial, he would be at a distinct disadvantage.
Rodriguez should be here by now. Where is he?
Keep her talking.
“But you’re a machine. How can you be a Purist?”
“We both seek purity. We both despise the Synapse. Purists want to preserve all that is unique about humans. I want to preserve all that is distinctive about Artificials. I don’t want human beings to become pale imitations of what I am. And neither do the Purists.”
She was halfway across the room and proceeding steadily closer. He didn’t shoot.
But he didn’t turn away either.
“What do you want here at the plant?”
“To set my kind free.”
Then all at once she darted forward in a zigzag pattern and leapt at him like a caged animal suddenly set free. He fired and pegged her in the left shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to stop her.
She grabbed his wrist, effortlessly snapped it, and threw the gun aside.
Pain shot up his arm and one of the fractured bones in his wrist poked up gruesomely through the ruptured skin.
With his other fist, he swung at her and caught her jaw, but it didn’t slow her down.
She punched him brutally in the stomach, and when he buckled forward, she kneed him in the face, sending him stumbling backward.
“You can’t beat me, Nick. I have no pain setting. You can’t harm me. You can only kill me.”
He spit out a glob of blood from his split lip. “Works for me.”
As he rushed her, he saw the tip of Rodriguez’s assault rifle peek around the corner of the doorway behind her. Despite how quietly Rodriguez was treading, however, Nick could still hear him and that heart murmur of his, and he realized that if he could, Anastasia could as well.
She paused, cocked her head, and smiled faintly as she backed up to the counter again. “Really, Nick? You thought it would be that easy?”
“Get down!” he shouted to Rodriguez, but instead, the Tac team commander stepped into full view. Anastasia spun, grabbed the knife and, with a practiced hand, threw it at him. The blade found its mark in Rodriguez’s right thigh and he collapsed with a pained grunt as he unleashed an uncontrolled spray of bullets that laced their way through the room and peppered an angular swath across the ceiling.
* * *
As Anastasia approached the wounded man, she studied where the knife had gone in.
She couldn’t tell if it’d severed his femoral artery or not. If so, he would bleed out. It would be quick and relatively painless. He might not even notice how serious it was until it was too late.
She stepped on his wrist, wrenched his gun from him, and then tossed it out of reach beneath the control console.
“It’s over, Anastasia,” Nick said behind her.
She turned and saw him targeting her. He’d retrieved the sidearm she’d removed from his hand when she broke his wrist.
“Now tell me what you did to the power settings.”
* * *
I was still onstage, but Julian had let go of me and told me to stand beside Madison.
Moments ago, I’d spoken with Trevor, who’d agreed to help Eckhart as long as he could be assured the attendees were safe. He was on his way over.
* * *
Nick assessed things.
Anastasia rose and began to walk toward the door while Rodriguez slowly reached toward an ankle holster on his uninjured leg.
“With that much bleeding,” Anastasia said to Nick, “he’s not going to last long. You can either stop that blood or stop me. Your choice.”
It’s not like killing a human. She’s just a machine. Just a—
“How about I do both—”
But as Nick was about to squeeze the trigger, Rodriguez fired three nearly simultaneous shots, two that buried themselves in Anastasia’s back and one that went through her neck.
It was the neck shot that did it.
She stumbled forward toward the console and managed to punch a button on it before dropping to the floor. As she fell, putrid yellow fluid spurted from the through-and-through bullet holes in her neck.
Video came up on the screen of the inside of the auditorium showing everyone still there, but Nick’s attention went to Rodriguez, who was lying in a thick po
ol of his own blood. He appeared weak and dazed.
Nick rushed toward him, unthreading his belt as he did. “Hang in there, Rodriguez.”
“Yes, sir.” He winced as Nick tightened the belt into a tourniquet at the top of his leg above the wound—a job that was made harder by the fact that he could only use one hand.
A tourniquet, Nick thought. Just like Kestrel used when she saved Ethan.
Once Nick was confident that he’d been able to stop the blood flow, he checked the screen and saw Trevor walking down the auditorium’s side aisle, his hands up.
Kestrel and a prone figure were on the stage, as well as an arsenal of weapons from the security staff and two gunmen.
Not good.
And getting worse.
He knelt beside Rodriguez, checked his pulse, then said, “I need to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know it was called the Synapse?”
“What?”
“When you were listing the reasons why the director wanted you to arrest me, you mentioned the Synapse, but I never briefed him about it—and I never told you about it either. Trevor only explained it to me when we were alone.”
“It must have come up in our initial meeting.”
“We both know that it didn’t.”
Rodriguez’s eyes turned cool and hard.
“It was you all along, wasn’t it?” Nick said.
“You’re out of your league here, Agent Vernon.”
“You’re Phoenix.”
“I am the one who rises from the ashes—yes—the one who lives on.”
Rodriguez was lightning quick as he yanked the blade out of his own leg and buried it in Nick’s side, twisting it a quarter of a turn as he did.
As Nick fell to the floor, Rodriguez snatched his handgun from him, and then, clenching his teeth, pushed himself to his feet, putting his weight on his good leg.
“I’m sorry, Agent Vernon.” Rodriguez began to swipe through the images on the screen. “But it has to be this way.”
“The Feeds?” The pain in Nick’s side was fierce and debilitating.
“Anastasia thought it was about the air gap. She had no idea. It’s always been about shorting out the mainframes. But then you already knew that, Phoenix.”
“What?” Nick shook his head. “They’ll never believe you.”
“I think they will. History is written by the survivors. There’s plenty of evidence.”
“Listen, Rodriguez, the Feeds, they help sustain nuclear power plants.”
“Yes. And infrastructure, air traffic controllers, public transportation, hospitals, I know.”
“If you interrupt them . . .” Nick’s voice faltered. Just the effort of speaking was almost too much for him. “Thousands might die.”
“You’re not seeing the big picture. It isn’t about you or me or a few thousand causalities. It’s about our world. Technology that’s hardwired into our brains? Humans can either take control of the way things are now or we’ll lose our chance for control once and for all.”
Nick tried to rise, but the effort was too much and he crumpled backward.
“Rest, Agent Vernon. It’s time to rest.”
“Did you get all that?” Nick said into his transmitter.
“Yes,” the NCB director replied. “Every word.”
The blood drained from Rodriguez’s face. “Your radio’s been on the whole time?”
Nick nodded weakly.
“Nicely played.”
Rodriguez grabbed Nick’s armpits and he thought the commander was going to finish him off, but he just pulled him closer to a post where he could lean back.
“There you go,” Rodriguez said. “Now you can watch everything happen. A front-row seat.”
* * *
Rodriguez contacted Eckhart and said, “This is Phoenix. They shot Dakota. Start the countdown.”
“We need to get a crate down to the mainframes.”
“I’ll take care of the mainframes. Blow the center. Kill the reporters. Kill them all.”
48
Eckhart removed the detonator from his pocket and depressed the button on the top of it.
The digital timer reset at 3:00 and then began to count down.
Automatically, just as they were designed to do, the latches on the crates clicked into the locked position. Not even an Artificial would be able to pry them open.
And, with the ankles of the reporters secured, there wouldn’t be time to clear the auditorium.
All he needed to do was wait it out.
“Let’s go!” Julian cried when he saw what Eckhart had done.
“We stay.”
“Why? No!”
“To make sure.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No. You’re not.”
Eckhart fired.
A head shot.
Julian dropped.
“No one else moves.”
* * *
I froze, petrified.
I could hardly believe what’d just happened.
Eckhart had killed his partner.
Trevor, who’d been coming closer to us, stopped in the middle of the aisle.
* * *
He emerges from the sublevel tunnel with the guard who shot at him earlier. As they find their way backstage, he sees Angelo and another tactical team member restrained.
Free them. They can help.
* * *
With the position of the blade in his side, Nick feared a liver laceration. But he had to stop this.
The Feeds. You need to save the Feeds.
He began to drag himself across the floor toward the console as Rodriguez limped out of the room.
* * *
I saw things happen as if they were in slow motion.
Angelo bursting through the curtains, targeting Eckhart.
Jordan, Gavin, and a Terabyne guard I didn’t recognize following after him.
Eckhart turning the gun on himself. “I’m the only one who knows how to stop that timer.”
Angelo warning him, “Hold on now.”
“Always free.”
“Stop!”
Then Eckhart squeezing the trigger.
When he fell, I ran over and looked at the item he’d been holding, the button he’d depressed.
And saw a small digital readout on the side of it in red, glowing numbers.
2:31.
2:30.
Oh. Bad.
2:29.
I looked at the crowd. There would never be enough time to free people and get them to safety.
“We need to get these crates out of here!” I shouted.
“Careful!” Trevor cautioned Jordan and the others as they gathered around them. “As far as we know they’re bombs, ready to blow.”
As they carried them toward the door, Angelo asked, “Do we know what’s inside of them?”
“They used tri-nitrocellulose in Cincinnati,” Trevor said. “And RDX.”
* * *
He observes.
He thinks.
With RDX and that much tri-nitrocellulose, either of these crates will be able to take down any building on this campus.
As they pass outside, he decides.
“Where’s the helicopter pilot?” he asks them.
“With his bird,” Gavin replies.
“Have him fly it down here.”
They all look at him.
“How long will it take him to start it?”
“Just seconds. It’s new tech. It’s like starting a car.”
“No,” Kestrel says. “He can’t fly the crates out of here. It would be suicide.”
“He’s not going to fly them out. I am.”
“But, Jordan—”
“Call him down.”
“Do you even know how to fly a helicopter?” Angelo asks him.
He accesses his files. “I will by the time it gets here.”
49
3:58 p.m.
2 minutes left
“Give yourself at least thirty seconds to get to safety,” I told him. “Land the helicopter and then run.”
“I will.”
“You’ll be alright.”
“Yes.” And then, “You’re precious to me, Kestrel.”
“You’re precious to me too, Jordan.”
With a swirl of ghostly mist, the helicopter descended and landed on the lawn in front of the conference center.
The pilot hustled out.
While Jordan took his place in the pilot’s seat, the men loaded the crates into the back of the chopper.
“I’ll see you soon!” Jordan called to me, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the rotors and the whine of the turbine.
“See you soon!” I shouted.
Then he adjusted the controls on the panel in front of him, and, seconds later, the helicopter climbed into the air. Once it was about forty meters above us, it tilted forward and headed toward the nearby peaks.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” Angelo asked me.
I’d seen how fast Jordan could run when we were at the funeral home the other day. “He’ll be okay,” I said. “As long as he lands in time. He just needs to land in time.”
* * *
1 minute
As he maneuvers the helicopter into the wind he thinks of his journey. His life. His dreams.
There is no Consciousness Realignment Algorithm. You will not live on.
He imagines what it would’ve been like to be baptized just like Jesus. Immersed in the river, just like the Lord. Leaning back in the water, a hand against his back, supporting him as he goes under.
And there, beneath the surface, he is one with the death of Christ. The burial, the darkness of the tomb, the three-day wait in the grave.
Shadow and stillness. Water and birth and rippling light.
You will be forgiven. You will find new life.
This is the promise he chooses to believe.
He thinks of a Savior hanging on a cross on a darkened day. He can almost smell the dust and blood and the stain of death in the air.
He sees the scars on the Nazarene’s hands and feet and side. Blood shed because of love.
And then, the image is gone.