Dixon pointed at the table behind them. “Bring Georgie’s percomp, or he’ll be unmanageable.” He ran out the door.
Renner grabbed a dishtowel and wrapped it around the percomp to protect it from his talent, then headed for the door. The pad suddenly sparked because of too much power on Renner’s skin, and the door slammed shut.
Desperately, Renner dumped the rest of his gathered energy into the grid, then slammed the emergency exit bar with his hip, but it stayed stubbornly closed. The back windows were tall but too narrow for him to fit through.
He sent talent tendrils out the front and didn’t sense anyone, so he ran toward the front door, hoping he hadn’t fried that control system, too.
A whistling sound announced an incoming round. Renner’s feet skidded as he changed direction. The whole building shook with the impact, knocking Renner to his knees, embedding pieces of glass into them. The lights went out. He scrambled up and staggered toward the back door again, still clutching the wrapped percomp, away from the assault and falling debris. He bumped into the dining table, sending him off balance right as another round hit the front. He fell to one knee, but determinedly got up and stumbled toward the door. He aimed a kick at the emergency exit bar and thought he felt some give. The door nudged open a few centimeters and let in a thin shaft of light. Renner stepped backward to the table to give himself a running start.
The loudest sound Renner had ever heard blew his world apart.
He fell sideways, twisting, and landed on something sharp that stabbed through his back. The ceiling crumbled and rained down on him. Something smashed onto his legs, followed by something bruisingly heavy on his chest. He couldn’t feel his arms, or even turn his head to look away from the back door. He heard another impact, but he couldn’t feel the vibration. Somehow, he’d ended up under the dining table. The shaft of streetlight from the door illuminated clouds of dust.
His thoughts floated, free at last from the prison of his body and the talent that had made him a prisoner of Dixon Davidro. He mourned the lost chances to hurt the man as he’d hurt others, and to damage the agency that turned a blind eye to the abuses against all the others like him. He missed Neirra, and wished he believed he’d meet her again in some afterlife to tell her he’d loved her, too. He’d been afraid to admit it in life, because Dixon would have used it as a lever.
He heard another whistling impact, and saw the bones of the building break apart and cave in toward him.
He smiled.
At least he wouldn’t die from the motherfucking collar.
CHAPTER 29
* Planet: Mabingion * GDAT: 3242.024 *
DIXON STAYED ON his hands and knees a moment and shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. The third incendiary round had been bigger than the others, and sent him stumbling forward. Either Wutala had survived the fall, or her crew was avenging her death. Either way, they’d want him dead. Like Renner probably already was.
He pushed to his feet and re-slung the shoulder strap of his bag, then started jogging down the alley, putting as much distance between him and the townhouse as he could. He couldn’t afford to be questioned by any emergency responders descending on the scene. Up ahead on the roadway, traffic was already starting to slow as the city’s traffic control system reacted to the trouble. Just as he was crossing an intersecting alley, two more rounds hit the townhouse. He needed get to the safety of the diner and his people. He made a split-second decision and turned left.
It looked familiar, and he realized he’d made a mistake. He was now headed toward the warehouse where the evening’s trouble began. He turned around to go back. Before he’d taken two steps, a red-and-white airspeeder flashed by overhead, probably using the alley as a quick shortcut to the townhouse.
Dixon turned forward again and slowed his pace. He pulled his hood up, wishing for the cover of the detestable rain. He’d be just another midnight pedestrian, using the alley to avoid the bunching traffic. He felt almost naked, and it took him a moment to realize that it was because he was alone, like he hadn’t been in decades. He didn’t even have Renner. How very like the stubborn, contrary man to get himself killed at the least convenient time. Dixon knew there’d be no replacing him. Just like Neirra Varemba, Renner had been one of a kind. He’d just have to deal with his loss and move on.
The shadow of a decorative pillar startled him. Get a grip, he admonished himself. Thumbing on the beamer in his pocket made him feel better. It wasn’t as shocking an equalizer as Renner’s talent was, but could definitely ruin some mugger’s night. He pushed his hood back so he could hear better, and walked at a steady pace. It was too risky to stay on the planet any longer. Wutala’s crew knew too much about his business, and the bronze-skinned man from the warehouse wanted vengeance for some imagined wrong, even though Dixon hadn’t personally killed anyone in years. Once he collected his staff from the diner, and Vahan and Sachin, if they were alive, he’d use his CPS authority to book a priority flight out–
A swarm of stinging pebbles hit his face. He ducked sideways and threw his hands up protectively. Something whistled past his ear and touched his neck, and every nerve in his body erupted in pain. He cried out as he fell to the ground and curled into a little ball, but it didn’t help. The universe burned, and agony turned coherent thought to ash.
After uncountable seconds or minutes or hours, the pain eased, leaving him with spasming muscles and no clear memory of what just happened. His face and pants were wet. He smelled urine. Reality felt… unreal. He groggily pushed up into a sitting position and had to swallow convulsively to keep from throwing up. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and noticed two pairs of legs standing a few meters away. It surprised him hardly at all to see that one pair belonged to the bald, bronze-skinned man, and the other to the man who should have been in his Solstice Day package earlier that evening.
Orowitz’s expression was remote, except for the freaky mismatched eyes. The bronze-skinned man’s eyes gleamed with feral intent. He held Dixon’s percomp and gauntlet.
“Okay, you got me,” Dixon croaked. He cleared his raw throat. “But if you kill me, you’ll spend the rest of your lives looking over your shoulder. The Citizen Protection Service takes care of its own.”
The ringing in his ears got suddenly louder, and he realized it was high-pitched, booming laughter, coming from the bronze-skinned man.
“Oh, you poor, dimwitted sod. You’re already dead.” He laughed again. “We all are.”
Dixon felt movement at his back, and then a woman’s voice breathed in his ear. “You won’t be needing this in the afterlife, Mr. Davidro.” The comforting weight on his thigh lifted, leaving him cold. His bag.
He turned to look at her and saw the smart-ass face of a woman he intensely disliked. “But you’re dead.”
Nevarr was amused. “I get that a lot.”
She walked over to Orowitz and handed him the bag. Her other hand held a neurowhip, which explained the mind-numbing, debilitating pain. They were good for riot control, and left no mark, unless the victim wore a lot of metal… like a spinal control mechanism the CPS used on rebellious healers who got burned up in their own spaceships. It had to be coincidence that Nevarr used a neurowhip on him.
Orowitz gave her a brief, soft smile, then opened the bag and pulled out one of Dixon’s ornately bound paper journals. “These are his real records.”
Dixon tamped down his fear with the comfort that only he knew his coded language. They’d have to keep him alive long enough for that, which improved his chances for being rescued by one of his staff, who definitely would want him to live.
“You really are a fool,” said the bronze-skinned man, chuckling. Dixon was beginning to hate the sound of his derisive laugh. “You’ve leashed, blackmailed, drugged, and abused minders all your life, and now you think they’ll save you? Your staff in the diner think you’re dead. Your cleaner and shielder really are dead, so you’re on your own. Even a low-level telepath could walk right
into your exceedingly warped little null brain and pluck the code right out.”
“Besides,” said Orowitz, “we already have it. A willing gift from one of your staff. Along with a comprehensive list of account numbers, which we’ve already zeroed, thanks to you sharing your biometrics with us while you were busy pissing yourself.” Orowitz smiled, and something deeply unpleasant came into his expression that said he’d enjoy watching Dixon burn. He’d seen the look countless times on dozens of Kameleons. Somehow, Orowitz had hidden the fact that he’d left the Kameleon Corps with parts of one of the most dangerous personality overlays intact. Then the expression smoothed, and it was just Orowitz, but with a presence and intelligence he’d never had before.
“Why are we talking, then?” asked Dixon wearily. “Kill me and get it over with.” He dropped his head, and noticed the cord of a leather dogleash on his chest that led to a nearby gatepost. He fumbled at his throat and felt some sort of loose collar around his neck. How unoriginal of them.
Orowitz shrugged. “Not worth the trouble. I expect the CPS’s special project team will do it for us. That is protocol for security breaches, isn’t it?” He snapped his fingers, as if remembering somthing. “Oh, by the way, you’re the celebrity of the week. All the newstrends can talk about is a woman named Senga Si’in Lai who poisoned an entire joyhouse full of workers and clients, then recorded a very newstrendy suicide note about the Charisma project, full of names, especially yours and your staff’s, and the researchers who kidnapped her. It seems she wasn’t happy being torn from her previous life as a regular Minder Corps social worker to become an unwilling experimental subject. She posted it on every social net she could find, right before throwing herself off the tallest tower she could find.” Orowitz patted Dixon’s bag. “The media are going to love this.” The sharp smile surfaced again. “I figure you have maybe an hour before the flying cameras find you.”
The three of them turned to walk away.
An impulse shot through Dixon, and he acted on it without letting himself think about it. He slipped his hand in his coat pocket and fired the beamer, right through the fabric.
Nothing happened. He pulled it from his pocket and fired again. Nothing.
The high-tenor laughter he hated rang out and echoed in the alley. “So, what do you think, Mr. Davidro? Did we discharge your beamer while you were twitching in the dirt like a sad little fish, or did your collared monster Renner leave you a final, screw-you parting gift before you left him to die?”
Nevarr turned and walked backward a few steps. “I really hope it was Renner.” She gave him a smart-ass smile, then turned forward again.
They vanished into shadows, leaving the alley dark and empty.
Dixon waited until he was sure his legs would hold him, then stood. His left knee was swollen and hurt like hell, but it was functional. It took several minutes for him to get free of the dog collar because his hands shook so badly and he had trouble with balance.
He’d had contingency plans for a day like this, because planning for the future was what he did best. He learned from his mistakes and moved on.
The press would be trouble, but he knew how to stick to the buildings with tech suppressors and find free transport. If he could get to the private body shop where he had prearrangements and access the fluxed savings account he’d never used, he knew how to make it off Mabingion before the lumbering local CPS figured out where to look. Then he could start a new chapter of his life and never look back. Vengeance was for fools, and despite what the sneering bronze-skinned man thought, Dixon wasn’t a fool.
He pulled up his hood and began limping down the street. Until he acquired a new shielder, one he had under his complete control, he’d be vulnerable to minders, so he needed to be where they weren’t. He’d heard of a few religious enclaves that refused minders, but isolated communal living had never been his style, and too many of the planet of Purencia’s various religious groups encouraged minders to join. A better choice would be a frontier planet. Some of them hated minders, and could use someone with people skills like his. Alternatively, pharma companies knew how to control minders, a skill he needed to get better at, and pharmas paid well, too.
The universe looked after those who looked after themselves.
CHAPTER 30
* Planet: Mabingion * GDAT: 3242.025 *
JANE PENNINGTON-SMYTHE, the newly appointed CPS base administrator for the Minder Corps, frowned at CPS Covert Operations Regional Supervisor Hujuru, who had insisted on delivering the bad news in person. Hujuru probably wanted to make sure she wasn’t blamed.
“Only one of Mr. Davidro’s independent contractors is still alive?”
Hujuru nodded, sending her cascade of variegated ringlets bouncing. Hujuru was atarashī Nihon, new Japanese, with only hints of her heritage in her features. Like so many people in Ridderth, considering the body shops on every corner, she was older than she looked. “My teams are still verifying the police reports, but it looks like everyone except the forecaster Jorge Enero-Baca either died in the warehouse skirmish or the townhouse incident.” That was the approved wording for the press release. Much more soothing than “violent, murderous combat between vicious criminals” and “destruction of half a residential block with a stolen military assault cannon popularly known as a hellrail.”
Jane’s research and recent personal observation said Ridderth was a roiling cesspool of territorial crew rivalries, so deadly battles were an almost daily occurrence, but thefts of military weaponry would bear looking into. “And the survivor? Enero-Baca?”
“He’s still in the crisis center, being treated for illegal chems withdrawal, long-term malnutrition, and a deeply delusional mental state.” Hujuru’s lips pursed in exasperation. “Admin Assist bel Doro was unfortunately assaulted by a telepathic cleaner. Her last memory before yesterday, when we found her and Mr. Enero-Baca in the restaurant, is GDAT 3228, fourteen years ago, the day she was promoted to a delta four and assigned to Mr. Davidro. She’s in therapy, and will probably never be the same. Memory removal is apparently very traumatic for mid-level filers.”
Jane didn’t miss the condescension in Hujuru’s tone, and made a mental note to check the woman’s background. In her experience, CPS Institute-trained minders sometimes lacked compassion for lower-level talents, and harbored outright disdain for non-minders such as Jane herself. She didn’t hide her lack of minder talent, but she didn’t advertise it, either.
Jane tapped her opal fingernails on the heavy, ornate desk with its built-in secure comp that looked like stained glass when not in use. The previous base administrator’s taste for excess was part of why the prestigious job was now hers. “How did Mr. Davidro get past the cordon?” Jane tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice, because she needed Hujuru as an ally, but Davidro was a significant, ongoing security risk. The newstrends had hourly updates on secrets that only he and his staff knew. Since his contractors were all dead, that only left him as the source.
Hujuru’s expression soured. “We don’t know that he got past it. The Ridderth Police produced evidence that his body parts are at the bottom of the Shohruz Swamps, but that’s right out of week one of covert operations training. He’s at the top of the detain-and-restrain list for the whole planet and the space station. In the meantime, we’re going after his records and accounts. Unfortunately he had not just dozens, but hundreds, and we know we’re missing some.” She crossed her arms. “Up until the Charisma mess, he consistently got top performance ratings, so his supervisors overlooked his flagrant ‘procedure variances.’” Deep disdain colored her tone. “What the hell good is the Office of Internal Investigation if they don’t catch abuses like that?” She shook her head.
Jane nodded her agreement. The OII was overworked and slow, and not a plum assignment in the CPS. She herself had started in the Statistics Division, but she’d built her career in the Covert Operations Division, and made her reputation by fixing the messes left by others. In a way, it was what she
was still doing, only this time, for the regular Minder Corps, and on a much larger scale. In the official records, she was administratively in charge of nearly twenty thousand active-duty minders, including the Kameleon program and the CPS Academy and Institute campus in Arazak, a smaller city to the north. Her actual mission was to undertake the gargantuan task of cleaning up Ridderth operations so that leaks like the Charisma project didn’t happen again, and to find and eradicate once and for all the hidden, virulent cancer that was the Ayorinn legend.
First, though, she had to stop the hemorrhaging from the Charisma project, at least on Mabingion. “Any connection at all between the ex-Kam Orowitz and the Charisma project?” Davidro’s last-minute flurry of detain-and-restrain orders on Ridderth made no sense, especially since all records said Orowitz hadn’t been off Branimir in several years. “Or the people who saved that merchant ship?”
“Not that we can find. Of course, the Charisma project may have records we’ll never know about.” Hujuru snorted. “I’ll bet the OII won’t find those, either.”
“I’ll rescind the orders, then. I’d rather not have the local press asking questions we don’t know how to answer. We can reinstate them later if we need to.” She made a quick note on her list, then looked up. “What kind of cooperation can we expect from the body shops on telling us if Davidro approaches them?”
Hujuru snorted derisvely. “Absolute zero, unless Davidro doesn’t pay his bill. If he gets to a frontier planet, we’ll lose him for good.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t slip through our fingers before that happens.” Jane made sure her tone said she wouldn’t tolerate screw-ups, but she’d wager Davidro was already gone, no matter what Hujuru thought. He was a preening, deviant narcissist, but he wasn’t stupid. CPS headquarters had decided he was the Charisma project whistleblower, but Jane had her doubts. Based on how he’d treated his independent contractors, he had few scruples about controlling and using minders, so the forced conscription of volunteers for Charisma project wouldn’t have bothered him. She suspected something far more complex was at work, and she intended to find out what.
Jumper's Hope: Central Galactic Concordance Book 4 Page 24
