Robyn's Egg (19 page)

“You didn’t do anything. She’s a prisoner, and prisoners are often used in experiments. What happened to her was a result of committing crimes and not your responsibility.”

“Do you know what her crime was? She taught from banned books. She never hurt a soul. And soon it won’t be only her. Digi-Soft is planning to release the program this way. Millions of people are going to be devastated by my faulty code.”

Robyn smiled sympathetically. She took the glass from his hand and set it down, and swiped the gold cap from his head. She stood and pulled him off the sofa and onto his feet and guided him to the bedroom. Inside, she tugged off his clothes and tucked him under the covers the way his mother used to.

“Sometimes I think you are too sensitive to survive in the real world,” she said after kissing his forehead.

Monday, 19 March

As Moyer conducted the second round of follow-up interviews, he noticed many of his subjects were missing, including Anna Bonderenko. He was finishing up with Mrs. Katherine Van Dyke, a woman imprisoned for failure to repay debts. Unlike Anna, she had no negative reaction to the Worm implant. Moyer theorized it was because she didn’t hold her beliefs that closely. To Van Dyke, mores were clothes she could easily shed in favor of something more fashionable.

“Do you know Anna Bonderenko?” he asked. Van Dyke nodded. From her reaction it was clear the question made her nervous. “Do you know where she is, or if something has happened to her?”

Van Dyke made a come hither motion and Moyer leaned in close. “They don’t tell you shit, do they?” she whispered. A self-satisfied grin spread across her face. She knew something he did not and she craved the feeling of superiority it gave her. She leaned in again. “She’s dead. Hung herself in her cell with her pants.” When Moyer pulled away, Van Dyke was nodding to emphasize it was the truth.

Moyer rubbed his eyes until they hurt. When he felt confident he could speak without his voice cracking, he asked, “Have there been any others?”

Van Dyke nodded. “Seven so far and a few more that seem on the verge. They cry all the time and don’t eat, just like the ones who killed themselves. I tried talking to the men when they transported us over, but they won’t talk. It looks to me like some of them are missing too. One thing is for sure, there are a lot more empty seats on the transport than there used to be.”

Chapter 17

A
fter all his interviews were complete, Moyer found Petro and pulled him aside. “Were any of your subjects missing?”

The question raised Petro’s brows. He glanced at his data pad. “A few.”

“How many is a few?”

“Eleven.”

“They’re dead,” Moyer said. “Dead because of the Worm. Dead because of us.”

“They’re sick. Some bug is going around the prison.”

“According to who?”

“Berman.”

“And you believe him?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Petro replied.

“How would an illness affect both the men and women? They live in separate facilities.”

“They meet here don’t they? It must have been spread in the big room while they were waiting.”

“Why didn’t we get it? We made contact with every one of them.”

“Why are you getting so worked up over this, my man? We only work here. Let it go.”

“Because I have a source on the inside. I’ve been told our subjects are dying. Do you realize what would happen if this program goes live? Who knows how many it will kill. I’m taking this to Berman.”

“I wouldn’t,” Petro warned.

“No, I suppose not.” Moyer shook his head and started down the hallway. As he neared Berman’s office, his resolve, so steely and strong moments before, softened to the consistency of pasta. He climbed the stairs at a trot afraid if he didn’t get there soon, he wouldn’t have the courage left to go through with it. Maybe Petro was right. Maybe confrontation wasn’t the best approach. Then he remembered the way Anna looked the last time they spoke. Moyer knocked on Berman’s door.

Confronting Louis Berman was like asking for a heart attack. Berman wasn’t the sort of trouble a person went looking for. Two gruff syllables were barked back in response to Moyer’s knock which he interpreted as
come in
.

Berman was typing and motioned Moyer over with a nod of his head. Moyer sat in the chair beside Berman’s desk. Berman turned his eyes toward him and Moyer felt jittery. “What is it Winfield?”

“I’m missing some test subjects. I need to know what’s happened to them.”

Berman shifted in his chair and rubbed his hands through his closely cropped hair. His fingers settled on the scar and traced its path along his scalp. “There was an outbreak of flu at the prison,” he said. “I guess I should have told you. It didn’t seem important at the time. I apologize for the omission.”

“Perhaps I should go to the prison to collect the rest of the data.”

“That won’t be possible,” Berman said through a sympathetic smile.

“Why?” Moyer asked. “Could it be that a large number of my subjects have committed suicide, and a number of others are psychotic and on the verge?”

The muscles of Berman’s jaw rippled. “Where did you hear that? It’s misinformation, pure and simple.”

“From subjects who are there witnessing it happen.”

Berman was still for a moment. Moyer felt Berman’s mind churning to weave out the next lie like an automated loom knitting out cheap socks. “Prisoners are unreliable. What they say can’t be trusted. It’s why they are in prison to begin with.”

“Produce my missing subjects or I’ll halt the program.”

Berman slammed his fists down on the desk. Moyer and the desk jumped in unison. Berman cocked his head and gave it a sharp twist. Several vertebrae cracked. The big man spoke in a tense growl. “This is a project that can make you a hero, Winfield.” Berman stood and went to the window at the back wall of his office. He opened the blinds and peered out over the empty basement cubicles. He stared down at Hugh Sasaki’s desk, his saliva cup left behind and close to overflowing. “Or it can ruin you. You can’t stop this project. It’s too big now. It’s a boulder careening down a mountainside. There’s too much momentum behind it, too much power. Stand in the way and it will crush you.”

“I-i-is that a threat?” Moyer asked.

Berman smiled. “I’m simply telling you how it is.”

“The death rate is nearly twenty-five percent so far. It can’t be launched. I’ll put the information out on the net, if I have to.”

“Are you willing to risk everything?” Berman asked. “And I mean everything — your freedom, your wife, your baby?”

The fact that Berman knew about his child stunned Moyer. How could he? “What are you implying? Are you threatening my family?”

“Me? No. But you have to realize we are both cogs in a very large machine, and the driving force behind it all will crush those stupid enough to stand in the way. If you persist, I will simply step aside when they come for you. You wouldn’t believe the pressure I’m under to get this completed. Do you understand? I will not go down over this. This program is far too crucial to delay.”

Berman turned from the window and focused his gaze on Moyer. “Petro warned me about you and your high principles. Ask yourself this: is it ethical to stand behind your principles at the expense of all you hold dear? Is it fair to put your ideals above the wellbeing of others? Where is the morality in that?”

Moyer couldn’t answer. His mind tried to come to grips with the fact that Petro and Berman were talking behind his back. What else did they discuss? What was Petro’s motive? Was he setting Moyer up to take a fall while positioning himself for advancement?

“Maybe I can help you," Berman said. “Have you considered that the reason the data is so negative is because the subjects are deviant?”

“Deviant?” Moyer blinked rapidly. “I interviewed them myself. Their only crimes were holding unpopular opinions or failure to pay bills.”

“Well, maybe that’s it. What underlying condition made them different from the rest of us, different enough to be sent to prison? Perhaps whatever that is, is responsible for the suicides? Retest if you have to, or make adjustments to the software. Do whatever you believe you must, but the program will go out on time. Either you’ll be a hero and rewarded, or else swept under and crushed. The choice is yours.”

Chapter 18

P
etro waited until Moyer was gone before he made his way from the break room to the stairs leading to Berman’s office. He waited before the door gathering his courage. The big man frightened him and seemed to take delight in it. But this was the perfect chance to be bold, something every Brazilian relished; flamboyance, the grand move, the opportunity to grab the spotlight.

He stood with his knuckles poised near the door perplexed by how hard it was to knock.
Fate does not reward the timid
, he told himself. He struck the door and listened, inwardly hoping Berman might have already gone home.

“Enter,” he heard Berman bark.

Petro pushed open the door. Berman sat at his desk with a sandwich spread out in front of him on a paper bag, his feral pig eyes warily on Petro while he chewed a mouthful of food. Berman raised an eyebrow. “My, my, I seem to be very popular lately. Have a seat Mr. Martinez. What’s on your mind?”

As Petro sat, Berman turned to the window and flexed a louver in the blinds upward to scan the floor below. He turned back with a smile. “I see you timed your visit for after Winfield had left the office.”

“Yes sir, I’m worried about him.”

“Worried how?”

Petro swallowed and spoke slowly at first, as if testing whether his voice still worked, and to assure if under pressure, he wouldn’t slip into his native Portuguese. “Sir, I find him far too sympathetic toward the test subjects, to the point that it might be affecting his judgment where testing is concerned. I’m afraid his sympathy might jeopardize the entire project. I would recommend he be removed from the Worm, and his duties and responsibilities shifted to me.”

Berman shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth and chuckled. He then wadded the greasy paper sack into a ball and pitched it at a waste basket near the door. The paper ball bounced off the rim and skittered across the floor. “Why should I hand this responsibility to you?”

“I’m next in line and the logical choice. No disrespect to Moyer, he’s a friend, but no one knows better than I that he’s ill suited for this type of responsibility. He doesn’t have the head for business that you and I do. He doesn’t comprehend the bottom line, the importance of schedule. I do.”

Berman nodded. “If this is how you treat your friends, maybe you do have what it takes to get ahead. I’ll take it under advisement.” He pointed at the crumpled bag on the floor, “Do me a favor and pick up that trash on your way out.”

Moyer felt weary as he settled into the seat on the tube. His flesh yielded to the sculpted fiberglass contour, and he reminded himself not to succumb to sleep and miss his stop again. The rhythmic rumble of the rails found a harmonic resonance within his head. Moyer’s lids slowly dropped. His thoughts slowed to the speed of chilled Hollandaise.

When his chin bobbed against his chest, he snapped awake. He checked the transit map above the windows. He was okay. There were still four stops before his.

When he woke again, a security agent had taken up the seat across from his. It wasn’t uncommon for agents to ride the tube. Their frequent presence was considered a deterrent against crime and the presence of punk gangs. But Moyer sensed the agent was interested in him. He thought of changing seats, though that might further arouse the agent’s suspicion. The tube was nearing the next stop. As the car slowed, Moyer stood though home was still two kilometers away. Another train would be along in ten minutes. When the door opened, Moyer stepped out. A hand clamped down on his elbow.

“Moyer Winfield, come with me,” the agent ordered. The agent knew him by name. Moyer scanned the landing hoping someone he knew might come to his aid. No one in the crowd looked at him or acknowledged what was happening. They were relieved the agent’s attention was directed at someone else.

The agent pulled Moyer off the landing toward the Hannon Avenue exit. He realized then that Berman had lied to him earlier in his office. Everything he’d said was merely a delaying tactic to allow Security Services to get into position to intercept him and keep Moyer from doing anything that might threaten the Worm. He’d never intended to let Moyer choose his course of action. Berman had planned to rehabilitate Moyer from the start.

People parted, eyes averted, as the agent dragged Moyer up the stairs and toward the street. Hannon Avenue was in the better end of the Professional Quarter, nearer the city center. Outside the tube terminal, apartment buildings crowded close to the street. A steady drizzle fell putting a shine on the concrete. The sidewalks were empty of pedestrians as most commuters opted to travel via sky bridge to keep dry.

The agent dragged Moyer down into the darkened stairwell of an emergency exit at a nearby building. In this manmade cavern, the agent could do anything to Moyer he wished and there would be no witnesses, no one to come to his aid — as if anyone ever would, even if the agent snuffed him in the center of Freedom Circle.

“Did Louis Berman send you?” Moyer asked. His voice broke as he said the words. It might well be the last question he’d ever ask.

The agent shook his head and released Moyer’s arm. Moyer scampered back until his back smacked a wall. Escape was but a short flight of stairs away, if he could only find a way past the agent. Armor was heavy, and agents couldn’t run well as a result. However, the agent’s massive silhouette effectively blocked the narrow corridor. Moyer knew he had no chance of overpowering the agent, not even with the element of surprise on his side.

“Do you know Anna Bonderenko?” the agent asked.

“W-what?” Moyer’s shock found its way to his face and into his voice. The question made no sense. “What has she got to do with anything?”