by Lee Bond
Harry Bosch -who’d taken advantage of their hysteria to sneak into the room unannounced- looked up from his perusal of their weapons cache. Beyond a pile of relatively decent assault rifles, the rest of the crap was run-of-the-mill junk. The only thing the idiots could do with their weapons was get themselves dead sooner rather than later. The mystery of the group continued to grow. Who could supply next-gen avatars but fall so short on guns and ammo? He sheepishly raised a hand. “Oh, uh, that’d be me.”
Tommy and Dianaca pointed their rifles at the enormous Latelian who stood there with his hand raised like he was in grade school. Tommy worried at a lower lip. The man showed no signs he was even aware his life was in danger so at a gesture, the rest of the company followed suit. “What’re you doing down here?”
“Me?” Harry shrugged his massive shoulders. “Thought I’d come down here and see … hey, what the fuck! I recognize you, you fucking fucker!”
Tommy backpedaled away from their intruder’s advances, rifle falling from his hands as he tried to scramble up a pile of boxes. “I … I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Fuck that, bro.” Harry snapped. “You were, uh, following a … friend … of mine. Yeah, that’s the ticket. A friend.”
Then, to show his pleasant side, he smiled a big, friendly looking smile that made the geek start sweating. Behind him, the God Squad betrayed their absolute lack of preparedness in dealing with Terrorist Group Number One by standing there with their heads up their asses. Whoever they were, they weren’t real terrorists or guerillas or even people who really knew anything about guns. Real whackadoos would’ve already tried shooting the shit out of him.
At first, Tommy didn’t understand what was going on. First, the big guy –maybe a God solider, maybe not- had seemed interested in grieving them over being The Museum and now he was going on about some ‘friend’ or other and looking very seriously upset at that. Tommy wasn’t smart, but he was quick enough on the draw to realize the emotional state of the intruder was about as opposite as could be. “Hey, I … I really … don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harry pushed closer to the skinny dink in the robe. He looked over his shoulder at the other kids. “You guys are holding those all wrong. You’d kill this feeb before you even poked me.” He turned back to Tommy, blunt forefinger the size of particularly evil-looking banana stabbing the air repeatedly. “You were standing in the alleyway. Smoking a cigarette. He described you to me. You took off when he started running around the block. Sound familiar? Are we getting there yet?”
“I…I…” Tommy licked his lips nervously and was about to answer the menacing figure when Dianaca put a bullet through the side of his head to keep him quiet.
“Son of a bitch!” Harry stepped out of the way. “You guys are so fucking lucky I ain’t in the mood to kill retards today.” He kicked the relatively undamaged fake head at the woman who’d shot Tommy dead. While everyone scattered, Harry went to work.
xxx
“Are you sure you don’t wanna tell me what the fuck you’re all doing here, or why you’re following my buddy Garth around?” Harry asked graciously, giving the bunch of morons a few seconds to clear their minds. They stared furiously at him from the other side of the fenced-in area, each one sporting a goose egg of truly painful proportions on the sides of their heads. None of them stood next to the dead body they’d so thoughtfully provided, cutting the size of their prison in half as they clustered, petrified, together.
“We should give him last …” Someone in the back of the group whispered.
Dianaca slapped the idiot into silence. “When we’re alone.” To their captor. “Not on your life.”
“Hey, look.” Harry shrugged, his ugly mug the picture of perfect indifference, “I ain’t the ones who were going to try and kill a hundred seasoned professional terrorists with bargain basement weapons, now am I? I’m totally doing you dudes a favor here. I mean, I’m one dude and I kicked your asses so hard -in less than five minutes- that if you live to have kids, their asses are gonna be automatically kicked! I mean, I’m not even out of breath over here. So how’s about you fess up and tell me what you got planned?”
“We’ll take out chances.” Dianaca crossed her arms.
“All right.” Harry dug through the pile of protes he’d liberated from the wannabe terrorists. They weren’t the best pieces of equipment available on the market, so the mystery of precisely how these bargain basement gomers had gotten hold of next-generation P2P encryption software continued to grow.
Now that he was in the room with the protes, it was a matter of seconds for Odin to rip the code out. He stood there, idly debating whether to spend the time decrypting the chatter flowing between each machine but decided against; with them penned inside the cage, there was no need. When all in The Museum was said and done, it shouldn’t be too difficult to track down the creators of the truly magnificent coding that’d gone into the P2P avatars. Then he could have a chat with them, see if there was anything else they had he could use for his quest.
“Well,” Harry/Garth nodded, “see you around, nerds.”
“Wait!” Dianaca shouted, curling her fingers around the wire cage that’d once been home to some expensive looking pieces of art. “What … what are you going to do?”
Harry smiled, displaying a mouthful of tombstone-like yellow teeth. “Lissen for the screams, boys and girls. And tremble in your highly functional if pathetically unfashionable onesies.”
“You’re not taking any of our guns, though.” Dianaca persisted. What was going on here? Who was this man?
“Pfft.” Harry snorted. “Guns. Who needs ‘em?” The holo-Goddie flexed his massive muscles at the prisoners, who quailed at the sight. “Gonna kick me some ass old school.”
They all watched their jailor shoulder his way out of the room, wondering how things could’ve gone so poorly so quickly.
The God Squad, down but not out, gave Tommy Dinkins his Last Rites before moving on to the far more pressing matter of busting out of their makeshift prison. Their goal now wasn’t to confront the real terrorists at all. They saw now that was stupid.
All they wanted now was to get out of The Museum before Doans sent in the God soldiers.
Who forgets to turn off their phone during a Terrorist Action?
“Yeah?” Garth’s voice hissed in frustration.
He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to turn off the call receive function of his prote! Here he was, a ‘master professional SpecSer operative’ cruising around a heavily fortified Museum involved in the tricky prospect of avoiding gun-toting terrorists, and he forgot the simple –and unbelievably important- task of turning off his effing cell phone! What kind of hero does that?
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” It was Si Alixia van derTuppen. Before the crazy bitch got a good look at his holographic face, Garth killed his end of the video feed.
Alix was very worried. Haggard, almost as though she expected her spastic client to be knee-deep in blood already and shouting about how good lungs tasted when they were fresh. “Where are you, sa?” Regardless of her appearance, Alix’s skills had her sounding completely nonchalant.
Down at the far end of the hallway, a terrorist runner was thumping towards his location at somewhere near the speed of light. “Kinda busy, Alixia.” Before the message carrier got any closer, Garth skittered away behind yet another one of the apparently mandatory statues.
“You’re there, aren’t you? You’re there!” Alix lit another cigarette and tried to take a drag from it before realizing she already had one lit. She rolled her eyes, moved the second cigarette alongside the first, and took a drag from both. This was a two-at-a-time cigarette problem. “Why are you there?”
“It’s called ‘private time’, you horrible woman.” Garth whispered. A timer counting down the seconds and minutes until the next runner came zipping by stared inexorably ticking down; by Naoko’s accounts, Vilmos Gualf was leaving the situat
ion in the outer hallways and other rooms as it was.
This was good news. Having to deal with a sudden influx of terrorists going back to the relatively boring task of guarding empty hallways had struck him as problematic.
If he could sneak from the area he was in now to one of the others before encountering another runner, getting into The Tomb was just a matter of opening a few doors. “Of which you were so kind to remind me I have very little.”
“As your publicist, I must tell you it is a very bad idea for you to kill anyone. Especially under these circumstances.” Alix pronounced crossly. “Can you turn on the video feed please?”
A runner zoomed by, eliciting a quiet curse from Garth. Three minutes, plus or minus a few measly seconds. They’d increased their speed. Probably to deal with fewer relay stations. Not insurmountable.
Creeping slowly from his hiding place, Garth began jogging softly down the hallway. As long as he kept his ears peeled and Vilmos didn’t mix things up by sending runners the opposite way, he’d be safe. “Like you said, Alix, I’m in The Museum, aren’t I? You’re risking my life by calling me up like this. They got guns and shit. Hey. What? Wait a minute. How in the hell are you even making this call? This whole place is tighter than a fish’s ass. No one’s supposed to be able to call in or out!”
“I … that … none of your business. Look,” Alix’s normally very animated face went panicky. “I’m begging you. Don’t kill anyone, even if they are terrorists. It won’t do well in the demographics.”
Garth determined right that second that he was going to do everything in his power to kill his fame, no matter the costs to his personal happiness. Nothing was worse than Alixia van derTuppen. Killing terrorists, saving lives, it wasn’t about demographics. It was about the right fucking thing to do. Garth had to give the woman credit for one thing, though. He did hate her. A lot.
Against all believable intelligence, his prote registered another call trying to push its way through. How in the hell were these people calling him up? More to the point, where were they getting his new number? Odin did have a standard prote profile that had been registered with the appropriate government facilities, but he once again recalled paying someone an extortionate amount of money to keep it unlisted.
Was there anything on Hospitalis that was as advertised? From completely and wildly inaccurate digital brochures to BCU monsters roaming the streets, it was beginning to look like that answer was a resounding ‘no’. With bells on.
“Look, Alix, I gotta go. Someone else has apparently decided they’d like to talk to me, neatly forgetting the fact that I am surrounded by people with guns.”
Alix –mouth open to hotly insist he remain on the line and answer questions- was immediately replaced by Chairwoman Doans’ scowling countenance.
“Yikes.” Garth stepped into a room full of lesser-known competitors the moment the timer started flashing; Chairwoman Doans was to the sort of person who needed a more in-depth conversation. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”
Without preamble, Doans started in. “Why are you at The Museum? Who were you talking to just now? Why isn’t your video feed working? What’s going on there?”
Garth crouched behind a crappy looking urn big enough to hide a dinosaur in, whispering, “Uh. Well. Barring the fact that you are the second person in as many minutes to call me up in an allegedly ‘LINK-dead Museum, I am in the middle of a hostage situation, which is why my video feed isn’t on. That’s common sense. The first person calling me up was my nightmare-made-flesh-and-cigarette-ash publicist, confirming an interview with my fucking coroner because people keep fucking calling me when I’m in the middle of a fucking hostage situation. And since you asked so nice, I’m at The Museum because my girlfriend wanted to bring me here. Are you sure you’re the Chairwoman? I met her. She didn’t strike me as this dense.”
Garth’s retort made Alyssa blink. Her mouth worked her way through several different responses before she wound up settling on the one that was easiest to deal with. “Girlfriend?”
Garth flashed a happy smile. “I know, right? Between Terrance trying to set me up and me being blown to smithereens, who would’ve thought? But hey, love is, right?”
Recovering from the shock of Garth’s unexpectedly venomous tirade, Alyssa rebounded. “Do you by any chance recall the warning I gave you about being near any kind of crisis? I would say this counts, yes?”
“Knock it off, lady.” Garth watched the same runner speed by, a look of total rapture on his face. Clearly a kid who liked to run. Plop that futuristic version of Forrest Gump down on an open stretch of freeway and he’d run from Port to Central without thinking twice about it. “You and I both know that shit won’t stick. It’s Gametime. My girl is a Gamehead, I’m a new citizen desperately trying to fit in with all you gung-ho weirdoes, so we decided to head over here to The Museum. What, you’re going to blame me for everyone getting food poisoning at a restaurant I eat at, too? Who could have known some crazy maniacs would take this place hostage? I sure as shit didn’t. I was all ‘hey, this sounds like fun and I might get a little smoochie-smoochie in the process. No one looks for terrorists on their days off, Chairwoman. Anyways. Can we hurry this along? Buddy looks like he’s going to shoot someone, and I’d kind of like not to be him. Since you’re already risking my life, how about you spell out what you want from me in nice, easy phrases and small words? I’m fresh out of the hospital, you know. I mean, blown up arm? Survivor of the Spaceport Ultra-Disaster? Ring a bell?”
“Would you consider the possibility of risking your life for your new home?” Alyssa asked after a long, thoughtful gaze. Much as she loathed admitting it, Garth Nickels was a phenomenal asset. If he could be turned, things would go that much smoother. Especially with Barnes mysteriously absent.
“Hah! Not on your life, Chairwoman. These guy’s’ve got sniper rifles and all manner of guns. It's like an arms show in here. I might have been a super-espionage agent once, but you keep forgetting ... I was blown up awhile back! Besides, if something went pear-shaped, you'd blame your newest resident. No dice.”
Doans pursed her lips. “I would be willing to negotiate…”
Garth hung up on the Chairwoman.
Vilmos gets a Bit of what he wants and the Goddies Get the Go Ahead
Alyssa stared venomously at the Screen.
She couldn’t believe Garth Nickels had ended the call peremptorily on her like that. Didn’t the man know he lived in Latelyspace at her sufferance? Trinity had said nothing about her forcing the man to leave the system, and if it weren’t for the fantastic sums in FHSB, Garth Nickels would find himself on the other side of the Quantum Tunnel in no time at all.
She couldn’t believe her sister, either, though Alyssa supposed she should’ve known better; Alixia was the sort of woman who’d use any advantage she could get and was no slouch in discovering the undiscoverable. Alyssa very dearly wanted to know how her sister had managed to get a ‘LINK into the Prometheus Device without anyone being the wiser, but that was for a different day. Right now, she needed to continue dealing with Gualf and the mess at The Museum.
xxx
“Vilmos Gualf.”
The leader of the loyal terrorists applauded as Chairwoman Doan’s austere face appeared on the Sheets. The gaze in the woman’s eyes had an immediate calming effect on his prisoners, for which he was thankful. Though they were finally beginning to understand the nature of their imprisonment, some few imagined themselves to be in the position to escape or otherwise throw a monkey wrench into the works.
With Doan’s haughty face glaring at everyone, magnified a thousand times, everyone fell under the illusion that they were soon going to be rescued. Thus, calmness spread through the Viewing Room like a wind. He smiled.
“Chairwoman Doans, how wonderful to see you again.” Vilmos bowed deeply from the waist. He gestured to the reporter, who began recording the discussion on his proteus. He bit back a laugh. Sa Hamilton had no clue everythin
g he did would be his greatest –and posthumous- work.
“Vilmos Gualf, you are ordered to cease this political action.”
Vilmos turned to the audience. “You see? As I said. A totalitarian leader. This entire facility is netLINK dead, yet Chairwoman Alyssa Doans has the power to reach through cold wires to threaten me. Where are the questions to your health? Your well-being? She offers no opportunity for discussion! She is as I said: a dictator!” This last, he shouted ecstatically, his voice reverberating through the coliseum. Vilmos started clapping. “It fills me with such pleasure to see you exerting your true strengths, Chairwoman. Not since your early days in office have you seemed so strong.”
Alyssa said nothing, her matriarchal features turning to stone and ice. Her eyes, though, they burned. Many of the oldest people in the crowd remembered that look, and began to worry.
“Do you remember when I helped you destroy Scottsdale’s political standing, Alyssa?” Vilmos asked the question almost as an afterthought, even though he was revealing secrets he’d promised to take to the grave. “When you were so hungry to save our system from that fat, odious man’s carnivorous appetites that you willingly employed tactics even you labeled evil?” Vilmos nodded to a tech.
A list of events, painstakingly recorded by hand over a long, torturous period, replaced the Chairwoman’s hardened face. Vilmos resumed talking, gesturing with a showman’s grace. “Each entry on this list, good people, is a moment in time when OverSecretary Doans forced Chairman Scottsdale into issuing a Sigma Protocol. I know for a fact Scottsdale would have preferred to avoid such abuses, but the woman on the other end of this line maneuvered him with deft and wondrous skill! Dozens of Sigmas! Dozens! Hundreds -thousands- of lives, lost in the quagmire of revisionist history. All caused by her!”
