Run (46 page)

It had all led to this.  Jason had overridden Devorough’s return command, leaving him in Loston for John to find.  It had been a desperate gamble, one calculated to Activate Loston and bring the Fans out, to bring Malachi to Control, for Jason had realized when Malachi killed Lucas in the Ohio dome that the fight had to end.  The Fans killed a few every year, and Fran was the only woman left.  They had to be stopped, the fight had to be taken to
them
, or the Fans would win.

He knew they would find her eventually anyway, so he used Fran as bait.  He hated himself, for he had drawn her out and put her with John, knowing that she would appear an easier target while in Loston, hoping that John would be able to fight off the Fans.  He had put her at risk, and had killed many of his friends and loved ones by giving Malachi all the opportunities he needed to find Central Control, hoping that the man would be crazy enough to bring all the Fans with him in a last, final, desperate attack. 

Jason loathed the decisions he had made.  But it had all worked.  The Fans were broken.  Malachi was dead.  So was Sheila, whom he had loved.

He didn’t want to lose Adam, too.

Jason set the calibrator that sat atop the tube: 00:00:00:20:00.

Twenty minutes.  He hoped it would be enough.

FOUR – LOSTON REFOUND

DOM#67A

LOSTON, COLORADO

AD 1999

2:00 PM SUNDAY

(RECALIBRATED)

It seemed a day like any other.  Except the clouds hung motionless in the sky, defying geothermal physics to remain absolutely still.  No birds sang, no cougars roared their terrible roar.

Not a blade of grass moved.

And then, a sound.  The side of a rock broke in two as John stepped through the suddenly-appearing doorway, pulling Fran with him.  He cracked the pitted helmet off his suit, then stripped himself of the bulky outfit.  Ten minutes later he had taken Fran’s suit off her as well, and threw them both back outside, squinting against the harsh alien sunlight that shone outside the dome.

He pulled a handle on the outer surface of the cage he called home, then darted back inside as the dome sealed behind him.  The rock, split in half only moments before, mended itself and in seconds appeared solid and sure.  John resisted the urge to reach out and touch what appeared to be empty air next to the rock.  It was not empty, he knew now.  It was a wall that, through technology he could not understand, looked exactly like a rock, and air, and dirt, and life.  It was the bars on the cage where he would live out his life.

He rested a moment, then picked up Fran and began the last walk home.

***

Fran woke up feeling...well, fuzzy was the best word for it.  Dark blurs gradually resolved into lighter ones and one of those slowly morphed into the shape of her cousin.

"Hey, cuz," whispered Gabriel.  His voice sounded far away, strange.  "Sorry you gotta see me first thing.  Helluva way to wake up."

"Wha...," she managed.  The tiny effort made her head feel as though it was being slammed in a car door.  And not a small one, like a Toyota or a Nissan.  Something huge.  The door of a monster truck sponsored by Excedrin’s evil, migraine-causing twin.  She raised one hand to her burning eyes and realized that bandages swathed about her forehead like a turban.

"Seems you took a slip in the mines.  I told John not to take you, but –"

Fran bolted upright.  "The mines!" she shouted.  "They’re after us!  We’ve got to –"

A hand pushed her gently back down.  She looked at the arm that the hand belonged to.  Then the body.  The face. 

"John," she breathed, and his presence was enough to make everything seem all right.

"It’s okay," he said. 

Then a strange look came over his face, as though he wanted to tell her something.  

CONTROL HQ - RUSHM

AD 3999/AE 1999

Adam watched Fran’s face on the monitor.  Controllers picked through the refuse around them, finding the bits and pieces of machinery that Malachi hadn’t destroyed and getting them up and running again.

Jason stood at his right hand, quiet.  He had been quiet since the attack, and no wonder.  His wife was gone.  Adam didn’t know what had happened - he’d been knocked unconscious early on in the fight and remembered little beyond telling John to get out with Fran - but Jason had told him that Sheila was dead, and so, apparently, was Malachi.

Adam had knelt over Malachi’s body, and shed a tear.  So much potential.  But the man had chosen another path.

Now, Adam felt himself hold his breath.  What would John say?  Would he go along with the plan Adam had suggested to him?  Would he tell Fran that it was all a dream?  Or would he destroy all their work by telling her the truth?

Then the voice came through the monitor: "It was a dream," said John.  "You’re home...you’re in Loston."

Fran’s face, larger than life on the three-dimensional screen, twisted as she fought to remember what had happened.

"I was so afraid," she managed.

Again, John’s disembodied voice came through the screen.  "I know, honey.  I know.  But it’s all right now."

The view changed as the camera shifted, bringing Gabriel’s face into frame.  "You shouldn’t have taken her into the mine, pal," said the coach.

"I know," said John, his voice floating through the cave like that of a ghost, a disembodied soul.  "I feel awful about it."

Jason thumbed a button.  The sound muted and he looked at Adam.

"Do you think he knows?" Jason asked.

Adam thought a moment, then shook his head. 
"No.  John still thinks he’s human.  Amazing how he asked me all those questions and never thought to ask the obvious ones: why Malachi never tried to kill
him
as a primary target; why all the attacks were against Fran.  Why every person in Loston was free to attack him, even though they weren’t able to harm those they knew to be human.  Why he couldn’t kill Malachi."

"I heard him talking to Malachi before I killed him," answered Jason.  "He said...he said he didn’t want to." 

Adam nodded.  "That’s the magic of the Series Sevens.  They can rationalize the choices they make so they fit into the existence they have no choice but to accept.  The Sevens have a greater illusion of free will, and that is what saves them."

"Have we found a likely mate for Fran yet?" asked Jason.

Adam shook his head.  "No.  We’ll let them stay together a while.  He’ll do an even better job protecting her that her last husband did."

"But the Fans are gone," said Jason, obviously startled at the implication that Fran would
need
more protecting. 

Adam shrugged.  "For now," was all he said.  "We’ll leave them together for a while."

"I’m glad," said Jason.  "I don’t really want to have to retire him."

"Neither do I," answered Adam.  "He’s a good Seven.  A good man.  But we’ll do it when the time comes, to make sure the race goes on.  We’ll kill John off and bring her a viable husband.  And they’ll have babies and we will go on as ever, watching and protecting them."

Adam looked at the screen again, looked out through John’s eyes, through the eyes of a machine, and almost laughed. 

"What?" asked Jason.

"A good man," said Adam.  "That’s what I said, and now I wonder: what if he
is
?  We know so little, here in this room where we play at being blind gods who are told what to do by still greater gods who are quite possibly as blind as we.  But those greater gods, those computers who tell us what to do each day, who to kill, who to save, who matters and who does not..."

"Yes?" prodded Jason, and Adam thought for a moment he saw something in Jason’s eyes, some fleeting sense of secrecy, of shadows.

Then the look was gone, and Adam shrugged.  "Maybe they lie," he finished.  "Maybe John
is
a real man, and the computers just told us otherwise for some reason beyond our understanding."  He was silent a moment, then smiled, wider than he had smiled since he became a Controller, since he gave up his life to serve.  "I will choose to believe he is.  That’s all I’m allowed to do, is choose what I believe, but I think...I think that will be enough.  To do what I must, whatever that will be."

Adam glanced at the monitor again.  "Sometimes I can’t believe how easy it is," he whispered.

"How easy what is?" asked Jason

"To make them believe the lie.  Or to make us believe it."  He turned to look at Jason.  He smiled, then gripped his friend’s arm.  He thought for a moment he saw something behind his right hand man’s eyes.  Thought again that Jason knew something. 

Then it was gone.  Gone, as if it never was.

            He turned back to the monitor, Jason at his right hand, and together they continued to do their jobs.

AND DON'T MISS
THE MERIDIANS
,

THE NEWEST THRILLER BY MICHAELBRENT COLLINGS...

THE MERIDIANS

***

1.
***

Adrian Vedstedder had been known by many names in his life.  As a man who contracted to do certain things that others could not or would not do, he had to be willing and able to switch names and identities at the slightest hint of danger.  But though he had possessed no fewer than twenty names in his life - all of them real, all of them supported by legitimate identification cards tied to real social security numbers, for Adrian Vedstedder only purchased the best when he was buying something for himself - though he had been known by many names and had had to reinvent himself many times, never had he lost sight of who he really was.

Adrian Vedstedder was a killer.  And he loved his job.

Today promised to be a good day; a day that marked the start of a new contract.  He got an email on his special account, the one that was based out of a server and a network located in one of the smaller European countries.  The email simply gave a dollar figure, as most of them did.

The amount of money was more than enough, so Adrian emailed back, describing the location of a dead drop in a nearby park and giving the anonymous "donor" about one half an hour to get there.  It was doable by anyone with enough power to get the money together that Adrian required to perform his special services, but not by local or even federal law enforcement agencies.  That was the first line of defense against capture.

The second line of defense came when Adrian pulled up near the dead drop less than five minutes later.  He watched the few people in the area carefully, alert for anything that smelled of this being an undercover or sting operation.  If it was such an endeavor, the rules were simple: first, Adrian would make sure he could escape, and second, if he was able to he would put a bullet in the brain of every person involved in the trap.

There were no indicators that this was a trap, however, and in twenty minutes a man came up with a medium size paper bag that he deposited in the trash can.  Adrian, who had come prepared, dressed lightly and wearing a pair of crutches, asked a passing jogger if he could throw away an empty Coke can for Adrian.  The jogger obliged, and as he threw away the empty can, Adrian scanned the area for any movement or any signs that law enforcement was nearby.

Nothing.  No walking lovers who appeared more interested in the trash can than in each other.  No joggers on the verge of crashing because they were worried about the trash can and not where they were putting their feet.  No glints of light in the trees nearby that would signal watchers with binoculars.

A few moments later, Adrian limped over to the trash can, acting like an itinerant wanderer interested in nothing more interesting than possible recyclables.  He reached in and swiftly recovered the package that had been dropped there, then moved away without dawdling, but without moving overly fast, either.

Once back at his safe house - a ramshackle place in a poor part of the city - Adrian opened the package.  Inside was a sum of money - the exact amount named in the email, in fact - and three photos.  One man, one woman, one child.  Each photo had a name written below it.  The man: Scott Cowley.  The woman: Amy Cowley.  The child: Chad Cowley.

That was it.  There was nothing else, no other indicators of what the money was for or who the people were.  That was best.  Even if Adrian were arrested at this point, he could claim that he was simply dumpster diving, just as many of the denizens of this part of the city were wont to do from time to time, and had simply found the cash.  It was a thin story, and any cop worth his or her salt would know it was false - but knowing was not proving in a court of law, and Adrian knew that he would walk if someone came barging through his door at this point.

But Adrian
did
know what the photos were for, and what the money represented.

He turned the photos over.  As was the custom for his jobs, the pictures were labeled, one, two, and three, setting forth the order of the extermination.  The child was to be killed first, the woman second, and the man third.  There were no other instructions, save on the last photo, which had a written statement to be made to the third target before termination.

Adrian turned on his computer, a surprisingly high-tech and well appointed model for such an otherwise dilapidated apartment, and began researching the family.  It used to be much harder to conduct such searches, but with the advent of the internet, he could almost always find out what he needed to know - or at least find out a good place to start - by simply entering a search for the people in question.

After a few minutes, he had found his starting point.

The man was a police officer.

Adrian sat back, looking at the photo, and smiled.  Killing police always had a special zest to it for him.  They all thought they were so righteous, so perfect, that they seemed to think they were protected from the ills that plagued others.  As though guardian angels watched over them.