Nerve Center (18 page)

KEVIN PUNCHED THE SIDE OF THE HALLWAY WALL AS HE walked to the elevator. He hated Jeff. Who the hell did he think he was, criticizing him? No one else in the freaking fucking world had mastered ANTARES, and the Flighthawks, and the interface, and all the other crap so quickly, so easily as he had.

Damn him. Damn him.

“Kevin, excuse me.”

Madrone turned and saw Geraldo, hurrying toward him. He felt an impulse to jump into the elevator and shut the door, but resisted, waiting for her.

“Thank you,” she said. As they got into the car, he saw how old she was, how old and small. He’d never noticed it before.

“What happened during the last exercise?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I told you. Nothing.”

“I saw wave patterns I’ve never seen before. Explain to me what you felt.”

“I felt, you know, like I was flying. I had control of the planes.”

“Did you?”

“I may not be as good a pilot as Zen or Smith,” he said, “but I’m getting there.”

She looked at him oddly. He resisted the impulse to keep talking—that was how they got you.

Was she one of them?

“How have you been sleeping?” she asked.

“Fine.”

She put her hand to his skull where the spider had been implanted. Her touch was gentle, but still he winced. “Headaches?”

“No.”

“This doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re afraid when I touch?”

“No.”

She pulled her hand down, smiling as if she had caught him in a fib. “We have a battery of tests we need to do.” She glanced at her watch. “Eat first. I’ll see you in an hour from now.”

“Yup.” He fixed his gaze on the floor. His head had been fine until she asked about headaches—now his temples felt like they would implode.

“Are you ready to fly without me?” she asked.

“You don’t think I can handle ANTARES alone?”

The words came out so harshly they snapped her back. Madrone felt her stare stoking the pain in his head.

He couldn’t afford to have her as an enemy.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a little tired. The, uh, the exercises wear me out.”

“Of course. I understand,” she said in a tone that suggested otherwise.

The elevator arrived at the main level. He smiled, ducking his head against the light, letting Gerald() go first. “I’m going to get some lunch,” he told her.

She nodded and walked out of the hangar.

Madrone remained standing a few feet from the elevator on the long cement ramp. He put his hand on the metal rail, felt its coolness. He was tempted to put his head on it, let the cold metal soften the throb, but there were others around; they’d think it odd.

Aspirin, he told himself. He needed to get something for the headache.

He didn’t have any back at his quarters.

Quarters—a stinking tiny little room the size of an old-fashioned phone booth.

He deserved better—he deserved a mansion with a pool and someone to fix dinner, someone to greet him at the door in a silk nightgown, fold him into her arms, lay back while he bonked her brains out.

Red railroad spikes smashed into his head.

He didn’t want violent sex. He wanted to wrap himself in the warm rain, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to breathe slowly, he wanted to escape. escape, escape.

Dreamland Bunker B, Computer Lab
18 February, 1600

JENNIFER GLEASON PULLED THE LAPTOP CLOSER TO her, punching the function buttons to redisplay the graphs. Sometimes it was easier to use the visual displays of the different control segments to catch anomalies in the programming, but the graphs were smooth.

The fact that C3 had turned off the safety protocols bothered the hell out of her. The fact that she couldn’t figure out why bothered her even more. But she believed she could isolate the problem; there was a flood of integer overflows in the code mandating approval of the pilot that either accounted for the error or would show where it started.

More worrisome was C3’s decision to ram the aggressor.

Assuming it had been C3. Tracking Madrone’s commands through the electroencephalogram graphs and the gateway registers could be tricky and time-consuming; ANTARES kicked up a lot of back-and-forth and superfluous code. But the major commands were all marked out clearly.

There was no indication C3 had given the command either.

Jennifer slid over to another display, keying up a set of numbers that corresponded to command flags originating in the robots themselves. Even when flown directly by the remote pilot, the Flighthawks actually carried out many of the flight functions themselves. To lessen the communications burden between the main computer—C3—and the planes, most of these were precoded in the robots’ onboard brains. The Flighthawks, for example, could be told to land at such and such a place and would do so without further instruction, setting their own speed, trimming control surfaces, etc. Several two-and four-plane formations were hardwired in, as was the command to close on another plane’s tail. Combining different commands would lead the planes to recognize an enemy, close to gun range, and fire.

Perhaps the error was in the fire command itself, or the combination, she realized. It seemed far-fetched, since the presets had been thoroughly tested without incident for nearly two years.

The fire flag was not depressed.

But that didn’t make sense—it
should
have been set by C3 at the top of the exercise.

The flags directing the planes to close weren’t set either.

C3 could have sent a flow of commands to the planes for each movement. In other words, it had either not realized the command was in its library—unlikely—or decided not to bother with the preset—even more unlikely.

Jennifer wound a thick stalk of hair at the back of her neck around her forefinger and pulled at the roots. She was going to have to dump all of the coin code from that sequence and go over it line by line. And she was going to have to do it on hard copy. It would take all night, at least.

Wearily, she punched in the commands and went to make sure the big laser printer was on. As the printing drum sucked up the first sheet of paper, Jennifer walked to the far side of the lab where Mr. Coffee sat alone on a long work bench. She took the carafe and started toward the door to fill it in the rest room down the hall. But then she realized she had the printer running; security regulations forbade her from leaving the room until it was finished, which wouldn’t be for quite some time.

Fortunately, she had a jug of water for just such emergencies. She retrieved it from the bottom filing cabinet next to the old Cray and emptied it into Mr. Coffee, leaving it out on the bench so she’d remember to refill it later. Then she spooned some grinds into the paper filter and started the machine.

Only two more filters left. Have to remember to pick some up.

Waiting for the coffee to brew, she thought about her visit back home for Christmas. Her family lived in a large farmhouse in frigid northern Minnesota. As a girl, she’d stood before the front window with its sixteen small panes of glass, watching the sun rise over the glittering field across the road, the brown heads of weeds fluttering with the wind. The light flooded into the house from the window, turning everything bright and blurring the face of the grandfather clock near the fireplace.

She missed the sun, but not the cold.

Although Nevada could be damn cold too. She shivered a little, sliding her coffee cup across the black Formica top of the table as Mr. Coffee began doing his thing.

The door to the lab whooshed open behind her. Jennifer glanced back and saw Kevin Madrone standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.

“Kevin, come on in,” she said, pulling out the carafe. A drip of coffee slipped past the drip guard on the hot plate. “Want some coffee?”

“How about aspirin?”

“Aspirin?” She filled her cup and slid the pot back into place. The coffeemaker spat a pent-up stream into the carafe, hissing loudly. “I think there’s aspirin in the ladies room down the hall. Want me to get you some?”

As she turned back to face him, she realized he wasn’t by the door anymore—he was next to her, so close he startled her. He started to say something, his hand reached for hers; confused, she jerked her hand up, forgetting she had the cup in it. The liquid flew wildly, splashing all over Madrone.

He stepped back, stunned for a moment. Then he plucked at the top of his flight suit and cursed.

“Shit! Shit! This is hot!”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, putting the cup down on the bench. “You just—you startled me.”

“Why did you do that, you bitch?” said Madrone. His face turned red and his whole body seemed to rise up. Jennifer froze, overwhelmed and suddenly powerless to move. Madrone raised his right hand, and the space seemed to shrink to nothing, her world evaporating into a void of fear. Jennifer felt her throat click; she tried to raise her hands to fend off the oncoming storm, but could not.

“What’s going on?”

The loud, sharp voice froze everything. Jennifer took a step back, glancing toward the door. Colonel Bastian was standing in the doorway.

“I uh, I spilled some coffee on me by accident,” said Madrone.

Jennifer looked up at his face. Had she imagined his anger? He looked small and meek, completely perplexed. The top of his flight suit was soaked with the hot liquid; a few drops plopped down onto the floor.

“Actually, 1 spilled it,” Jennifer heard herself say. “I was working and I didn’t quite hear Captain Madrone come in. When I turned around he was there and I’m afraid he startled me. I’m sorry, Kevin. Here, there are some paper towels right here.”

But Madrone had already started away, head down, passing Bastian and continuing out into the hallway.

“Something wrong here?” the colonel asked her.

“Oh, no.” She smiled weakly, then retrieved the paper towels to clean up the coffee from the floor.

God, he must think I’m a loony, she thought to herself.

“I was—I get wrapped up in my work sometimes,” she said. She bent to the floor and began wiping up the mess. “I can be a real slob. I think I burned him.”

“We can get someone to clean that up,” suggested Bastian.

“By the time they clear security it’ll evaporate,” she said, trying to joke. Jennifer rubbed the sodden towel on the floor, scraping her fingertips. She pulled the roll close to her, worked her way slowly across the puddle. After watching for a while, Colonel Bastian bent, picked up the pile of wadded towels, and carried them dripping to the wastebasket.

She wanted to jump up and kiss him, feel his arms around her.

Wouldn’t that be the topper—then he’d know she was crazy.

Bastian picked up her plastic coffee mug and refilled it as she finished cleaning the mess.

“Vikings, huh?” he asked, handing it to her.

It took a second for her to realize he was referring to the logo on the mug.

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’m from Minnesota.” She looked into his steel-gray eyes for a moment, then glanced to the floor.

“I was wondering if you would kick on the Megafortress simulator for me,” said Bastian. “Major Cheshire has gone home and I can’t find Bree or anyone else.”

“Oh,” she said.

She would do anything for him. Anything.

The print dump. She couldn’t leave it. Security.

He wanted her too, didn’t he? His eyes said so.

No, not really. Jennifer took a sip of the coffee. “I would, but I have a job running through the printer and it’s going to take forty-five minutes. I can’t leave the room. Security.” She shrugged. “It’s a little silly, but—”

“No, no, that’s okay,” said Bastian.

He started for the door. Don’t leave, she thought. Don’t leave.

God, was she really in love?

The door whisked closed as she considered the question.

Dreamland Dorms, Pink Building
18 February, 2345

LYING ON HIS COT, KEVIN FELT A THOUSAND KNIVES JAB his head from every angle, tearing and twisting the gray matter of his brain. He’d taken four aspirin and two Tylenol besides, tried a hot shower and Geraldo’s tea, yet felt as bad as ever.

What had happened this afternoon with Jennifer? The memory was lost behind the shards of colored glass prying open his brain. Karen was there, beautiful Karen, her eyes turning into snakes, her tongue fire.

And then Christina, his daughter, lying in the middle of the floor, crying softly but incessantly. Her sob reverberated in his head, his body trembling.

He couldn’t save her.

Geraldo and her assistants had run him through a battery of tests. She said he passed them all—he knew he passed them all. But something was happening to him.

The headache. Geraldo said it was normal.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone his entire life without headaches. If he’d known Christina would die before she was two, he’d never have had her.

She rose from the floor. She walked toward him, sobbing, holding out her chubby fingers.

Kevin jerked upright. He felt as if he were still connected to ANTARES. His mind spread out before him.

He held his hand to his daughter. Her soft flesh brushed against his fingertips.

A team of doctors pulled him back as they touched. The doctors were laughing and sneering at him.

The pain flashed.

He was dreaming; he’d fallen asleep.

He could make it stop if he could breathe. He could make it stop if he could breathe.

He could breathe. Picture the air at the bottom of your lungs and push it up slowly. Very, very slowly.

“Push the air up slowly.”

It was Geraldo’s voice, but it wasn’t her. The dark woman stood at the rim of his vision, hidden in the trees. He got control of his breath, pushed the air in and out slowly, very slowly. Rain began to fall. The harsh light that had hurt his eyes retreated. He was in the forest.

“Breathe slowly,” she told him. “Gently.”

Jennifer?

No, Jennifer was thin, almost a wisp, with light hair. This woman’s shadow was thick and dark, more seductive, moving from beyond the trees. He reached for her. The pain crescendoed.