Freedom Incorporated (49 page)

Dan looked cautiously
around the room, searching for cameras. “You got somewhere we can
talk in private?”

“
Nope,” Simon
replied with a hint of irritation. “They’ve wired everything. You
get used to it after a while, living without privacy. But then I
never break the rules so I just do things the way I always have.”
He raised his voice for the benefit of whoever might be listening.
“D’ya hear me? I’m straight!” Simon winked.

“
I need to
talk to you, alone. It’s very important,” Dan pressed.

Simon shook
his head, remaining firm. “Anything you want to say to me as
Chief Inspector
West must
be said in front of cameras.” He paused briefly. “But if you’d just
like to chat with an old friend we can grab a cup of coffee. I’m
off in five minutes.”

Dan nodded. “That’d be
great.”

Parramatta’s top
detective spent those final five minutes busily clearing his desk
and closing two departmental files. “Okay, I’m ready.”

The sun
glowered angry yellow as it sunk toward the horizon. It was a warm
spring day that would turn bitterly cold minutes after the sun
vanished. Dan sweated inside his heavy coat, annoyed that worldwide
travel necessitated preparing for several seasons in one outing. It
was worse in summer and winter, trying to balance the two extremes
from the northern and southern hemispheres. He knew he’d be in for
a rude shock when he portaled to America’s East Coast International
Terminal. America was having a
chilly
autumn.

The Parramatta
precinct was nestled in one of the few thriving centres remaining
in the sprawling metropolitan tumour of Sydney. It was a hub of
activity. Yuppies parading crisp business suits and expensive silk
ties scuttled importantly around. Office towers huddled toward an
imaginary centre, as if seeking safety in numbers. And a throng of
small stores clustered beneath the monstrous towers, catering to
the demands of uptight office workers. The majority were grab-n-run
fast food outlets, which didn’t
provide
seating. Others were more
stylish and offered non-artery-clogging food and a few stools, but
they were sparse. So coffee houses had filled the void created by
the food industry when it shunned restaurant-style
settings.

“
I like
Stan’s,” Simon was saying. “It’s less, uh, hippie than
Ron’s.”

“
Can we go to
The Snowfield?” One corporate giant owned all three cafés but each
establishment catered for different tastes. They played different
music, greeted patrons differently, and offered a choice of
plastic, wood and metal for interior décor.

Simon shrugged. “I
suppose.” None of his friends ever went to The Snowfield, which was
precisely why Dan had chosen it. It mostly attracted
adolescents.

They wove
through the five o’clock crowd of homeward bound drones and reached
The Snowfield’s automatic doors. They were glass and had cute
animal figurines grafted onto them. To make things even more
garish, the glass was an angry fruit salad of colours and it made
Simon dizzy just watch
ing
them open.

Then the atmosphere
struck.

“
God, Dan.
Here?”

Dan looked apologetic.
“Yeah, sorry mate.”

There was a
jiggy tune blaring across the room and a chilly draft pumped from
floor and ceiling suspended
synthetic
snowflakes in the air. It was
like stepping into a freezer with
the added
irritation of airborne
floaters
that one
had to carefully
avoid inhaling. The ‘snowflakes’ reminded Simon of rough Styrofoam
balls. Of course, they weren’t harmful. Management had made sure of
that by thoroughly testing them on a barnyard of test
animals.

“
You want some
coffee?” Dan offered. “It might take your mind off the cold.” That
was precisely how The Snowfield sold their products: chill the
customers until their teeth are chattering for another cup coffee.
After they’re finished the first, they’ll want a second, just to
keep their fingers
warm
. Hypothermia was a powerful motivator. It was therefore
hardly surprising that people who frequented The Snowfield were
twenty
-
cup
-
a
-
day coffee
addicts. Some had since supplemented their caffeine dependence
with
Xantex
uppers,
jerking their nerves so taut they could sneeze with their eyes
open.

A chill shivered down
Simon’s back. “Yeah, tall dark and fucking hot.” He was glad to be
out of the precinct, he hated having to watch his language. Some
days he went home and swore just to make up for so much
restraint.

Dan paid for
two cups and selected a cute table, shaped
like
a snowflake and as white as
virgin snow.

“
So
what
’
s so special
you couldn’t tell me in the office?” Simon asked, swatting at a
hovering ‘snowflake’ before it landed in his coffee. Flakes had
already drifted into his hair and were wriggling their way inside
his collar. But perhaps the worst part of The Snowfield
w
as
the teenagers
who buzz
ed
around
with far too much unnatural excitement. He distantly wondered how
many crimes he could attribute to overindulgence in
caffeine.

“
I found out
who killed Katherine.” Dan got straight to the crux.

And that snared Simon’s
undivided attention. “What?”

Dan nodded. “I know who
it was.”

“
Who?”

“
Do you
remember the man who
didn’t
go to prison for assassinating
the opposition leader, Mike Cameron, back in ’59?”

Simon raised
his guard.
Not this
again.
“How could I forget?” He tasted
something bitter in his mouth, and it wasn’t the coffee. “I knew
that would come back to bite you.”

You were
right,
Dan thought, stopping short of
blame-fuelled mental self-destruction. He couldn’t afford that
luxury, not just now.
But it
was
my
fault,
he admitted, on the brink of
imploding. “Well it’s him.”

“
You mean
UniForce?” Simon frowned, unsure whether he really wanted to
know.

“
I don’t know
yet. Maybe. Or maybe he’s working alone. But he’s their
assassination co-ordinator so they must know about it.”

“
That’s some
heavy shit.” Simon sipped his coffee and laced his fingers around
the mug to keep them warm. “Can you prove it?”

“
I don’t need
to,” he replied elusively.

Simon didn’t like the
tone of Dan’s voice. “What are you saying? Oh God… what’re you
going to do?”

“
Well, think
about it,” Dan said, keeping his voice low and level. “You know how
much I loved Katherine. You know how much she meant to me.” He
waited for Simon to nod before continuing, “I know who brutally
raped and killed her, and he’s well enough protected to evade a
very public assassination. What do you
think
I’m going to do?”

“
I’m not
hearing this.”

“
Well what
would you do?” Dan asked defensively.

Simon was
quiet for nearly a minute – 60 seconds that left Dan’s future
hanging in the balance. “I’d do exactly what you’re thinking of
doing.”
I can’t believe I’m about to say
this.
He took a slow, deep breath. “What can
I do?”

“
No.” Dan
shook his head. “You don’t want to get mixed up in
this.”

“
I’m not
stupid Dan, you must’ve come to me for something,” Simon said
flatly.

“
I did, but it
has nothing to do with breaking the law,” Dan replied. “He’s taken
someone else.”

A deep scowl
clouded Simon’s dark face. “
What?
”

“
Mike
Cameron’s granddaughter, her name’s Jennifer Cameron.” Dan lowered
his voice, forcing Simon to lean close to hear. “She was staying
with me in Andamooka. He kidnapped her, he’s going to kill her, the
same way he killed Katherine.”

“
Jesus.” Simon
was cold to his bones, and it wasn’t from the frigid
air.

“
It gets
worse. UniForce targeted her for apprehension, so
technically
they had the
right to take her.”

“
How do you
know that?”

“
I was her
bounty hunter,” Dan said in monotone. “I joined them a few months
after the Department tossed me. I needed something to do and that’s
where my skills lay.”

“
Oh,” he said,
clearly surprised and clearly trying to hide it. “Well, if it was
sanctioned there’s nothing you can do.”

“
Sanctioned
apprehension. Not rape and murder.”

“
But you have
no proof of that. If you try to get her back,
you’ll
be the one on the wrong side
of the law.” Simon knew him well enough to realise there was
nothing he could say to make Dan change his mind. Whatever he had
planned, he wasn’t going to walk away, not from this.

“
Again with
the proof,” Dan huffed. “And the law? The law doesn’t help the
people who need it; it just protects the people who write
it.”
I’m starting to sound like
her,
Dan thought.
A
week ago I wouldn’t have complained.
He
wondered whether he was a dormant activist, just waiting for the
necessary catalyst to erupt. “Anyway, the point is, she has two
friends who need your help.”

“
What could I
possibly do?” Simon asked. “You know I can’t harbour WEF sanctioned
apprehensions.”

“
As far as I
know they’re not, at least not yet. Look, all I want is for you to
protect them.”

“
I wish I
could man, but you know the rules as well as anyone. The
Superintendent
has to sign
off on that.” Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“
Just for a
few days,” Dan implored. “I know you can do that.”

Simon looked
at him suspiciously. Anyone else and he
would’ve
sent them packing, but he owed
Dan. He knew Dan would never remind him, he was too honourable for
that, but he’d twice saved Simon’s life. “All right, you’re lucky
it’s Saturday. Steward hates being disturbed on the weekend so I
can give them somewhere safe to sleep tonight and tomorrow. After
that, it’s up to Steward, but you already know he won’t agree
unless you come up with something spectacular that
isn’t
5,000 miles outside
our jurisdiction.”

“
And I doubt
that’ll happen,” Dan admitted sullenly.

“
Where are
they?”

Dan twisted in his seat
and motioned to a couple huddling in the corner, shivering from the
cold. They stood on aching joints and shuffled across the room to
join them. They both had blue lips and Samantha was mildly
chattering. They looked as if they’d gleefully knocked a
teenybopper unconscious for a hot mug of coffee.

“
Welcome to
Snowflake-Hell.” Cookie extended a welcoming hand. “I’m David but
you can call me Cookie, and this is Samantha.”

She inclined her head and
stilled her chattering jaw for long enough to smile.
“Pleasure.”

“
Simon West.”
He nodded once in greeting. “Let’s get out of here.”

*

Friday, September 17,
2066

23:42 Baltimore,
USA

Jen smelled cigar smoke.
It was the first thing she noticed when the fog lifted from her
brain. She had a nagging feeling that something was wrong, but it
was elusive and she couldn’t grasp it for long enough to make sense
of it.

She was
floating, drifting in and out of awareness and had been for nearly
quarter of an hour. It was like a restless sleep that she couldn’t
shake, but this time she was determined to poke through the
suffocating plastic sheet of drugs that kept her under. She tried
shaking her arms. It had worked in the past when she’d had
difficulty rousing from sleep, but they were numb and refused to
move.
Where are they?
First, she thought her arms had fallen off, and then she
thought she was paralysed, but she could think of no good reason
why either would be true. A tinge of pain radiated from her wrists
and she identified it as proof that she wasn’t paralytic.
Then why won’t they move?

She chased her most
recent memories, despite instinctively knowing they were
unpleasant. With great effort, she prised an eyelid open and saw an
unfamiliar ceiling, which added to her disorientation.

“
Ah, you’re
awake,” said a hauntingly familiar voice. The arrogant tone was
what finally plucked her memories from the spinning vortex of
confusion in her mind.

And once the gates had
cracked, her memories flooded back. She groaned, wondering why
she’d chosen to hurry their passage.