Severance (24 page)

She stared at the ceiling, knowing it was hopeless, but
feeling her old familiar stubbornness rearing its head. Slowly, she eased
herself back to lean against the wall. “Okay, think about this. Yesterday
morning, you remember being ordered to report to the aft? All the security
officers rushing to the rear core? Why do you think that happened
before
the bulkhead doors closed? Which happened
before
this terrorist attack?”

Hogg snorted. “I wasn’t ordered anywhere.”

Stein blinked. “I saw it happen. I saw security officers
running south just before those bulkhead doors closed. You must have been.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, crazy lady,” Hogg said,
smiling. “I was in bed. Went to the office around nine. This office.
In the
bow.
Rest of my unit was here, too.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. They would
take all the security with them. Unless…” She looked at Hogg and started
laughing. “Heh. Okay. Wow. You’re not going to like this.”

Hogg cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“If you weren’t recalled to the aft before they tried to
separate, that means they were going to leave you behind, too.”

Hogg laughed. “Oh, that’s cute. I love you guys. Everything’s
always a neat little package.”

It did sound a little neat and tidy, Stein had to admit.
But
didn’t the truth always tend to do that?
“Okay, fine,” she said. “I get
that you don’t believe a word. I don’t care that you don’t care. I just thought
you should know.” She looked him in the eye. “If you don’t believe me…”

“I don’t.”

“Fuck, I get it, okay? Look, try doing your own research.
See if you can find out why every security officer except for you was ordered
to the aft of the ship yesterday morning. At the very least, it might let you
know where you stand.”

Hogg’s lip curled a bit, as if he was about to say
something, before it slid back down. Then, without a word, he walked away, the
sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall. A door closed.

“Hit a nerve, did I?”

She rolled over onto her stomach, her arms sore behind her.
She didn’t know why she had told him all that. A pointless endeavor. He
obviously wouldn’t believe a word she had said. But lying there on her scratchy
gray blanket, she had felt a burning need for him to believe her. She buried
her face in the hard pillow.

Stein had spent a large chunk of her youth on the outside,
looking in. With a bit of work, she had managed to convince herself that she
liked it, that the life of a loner suited her. But lying to yourself was a kid’s
game. She had grown up, gotten friends, a good job, a veneer of social
respectability. For a decade, she had been on the inside, and
it was
awesome.
People talked to her. Sought out her opinions. She mattered.

And Helot had taken all that away from her, condemning Bruce
and her to a life as fugitives. That’s what really annoyed her. The scope of what
he was really doing — the stupid goddamned Split Plot — that was too big. Too
much to comprehend. But taking away her life? Her reputation? That was small
enough to just piss her off. That’s why she had tried to convince Hogg. She
wanted him to believe her. She remembered Ellen’s laughter upon hearing the
same story.
That bitch.
Stein rolled over to her other side, trying to
find a comfortable position to orient her constrained limbs. Hell, she would
settle for
anyone
believing her.

§

For the fifth time, Kinsella read the news bulletin. He
drummed his fingers on the desk, then checked it once more to see if it had
changed.

UNDER INTERROGATION, TERRORIST LAURA STEIN CONFIRMS SHE WAS
ACTING UNDER ORDERS OF MAYOR ERIC KINSELLA. ERIC KINSELLA IS CURRENTLY BEING
SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING. CURRENT LEVELS OF SECURITY WILL REMAIN AT ELEVATED
LEVELS UNTIL THE THREAT OF MORE TERROR ATTACKS SUBSIDES. — SECURITY CHIEF
THORIAS.

“Well, that was only a matter of time.” He leaned back, the
filthy chair beneath him creaking and groaning in protest. He hated that chair
and lashed out at it, kicking wildly with his heels. “Arrrrrrrgh!” he yelled,
connecting with it solidly with one of his bruised heels, bruised from a
similar tantrum an hour earlier. “Stupid damned traitor chair!”

He stopped kicking and slumped down in the awful chair, his
chin coming to rest on his chest. When he was thinking calmly, Kinsella knew he
had done about as well as he could, given the circumstances. Unfortunately,
calm thinking thing was a bit of a challenge. He worked on that now, impeded
somewhat by his throbbing heel.

He didn’t recall how he had left the Captain’s office, he only
had the headache to tell him it wasn’t a gentle trip. The shaking that had
rattled the ship had roused him to consciousness, coming to in the middle of a
small side street on the fourth level. He had spent the next hour wandering the
crowded streets in a rage, hurling obscenities at closed bulkhead doors and any
members of the electorate who dared look at him. Bletmann had eventually
tracked him down, politely shepherding him back to his spacious home in the
garden well where he could vent without further damaging his approval rating.

Then the bulkhead doors had opened.
The bastard messed it
up.
The images on the feeds of security officers setting up barricades made
that clear enough. And when the feeds showed small groups of officers moving
through angry crowds, Kinsella immediately realized where they were going. Helot
would be scrambling to salvage his plot, and as perhaps the only other person
who knew what had actually happened, the mayor was now a hunted man. Within a
minute, Kinsella had abandoned his home, traveling belowdecks to this
regrettable little hovel belonging to Bletmann’s cousin’s friend’s drug dealer.
The place was appallingly ugly, stains upon stains upon green paint. Perfect
for his purposes; no one would ever think he would spend a moment in such a
place. He was uncomfortable even knowing it existed.

There, he tried not to sit on anything, and to think. Helot
was going to try again. If what he had said was true, he had no choice but to
leave half the ship to die. And Kinsella had to stop him.

Or more precisely, Kinsella had to swap places with him. If half
the ship had to die, who was he to argue with that? He just wanted to pick the
teams himself.

But if swapping places with Helot was the endgame, then he was
currently still stuck setting up his pieces. Hell, he didn’t even really have any
pieces yet. Right now Helot’s pawns and knights and queens were standing across
the board from Kinsella’s forces, which consisted of two buttons and a grape. So,
that would be his first order of business: find more buttons and grapes.

The sickly green door of the hovel opened, and Bletmann
entered, closing and locking the door behind him. “Everything’s set, sir.”

“Good,” Kinsella replied. A big public speech, that’s what
the situation called for. Like something from an old movie. Screaming crowds. A
huge picture of his face in the background. Women fainting. He had directed Bletmann
to make all the necessary arrangements. It evidently hadn’t proven too much of a
challenge for him — a wide assortment of people owed his lackey a variety of favors,
earned over a long and successful career of politicking and the light blackmail
that that entailed.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Bletmann continued. “I know you wanted
it sooner, but the fainting club has a thing tonight they couldn’t cancel. I
tried,” he added, shrinking from the withering glare Kinsella was directing at
him. He slunk across the room to a chair and sat down, carefully moving a wig
out of the way. “Do you know what you’re going to say?” he said, trying to
change the subject.

Kinsella blinked. He always knew what he was going to say.
How
else would I say it?
That said, a big speech on a stage was a new thing for
him; he usually did his speaking on feeds. But the concept was the same,
surely. Nouns, verbs, slurs. Pounding his fist into his hand. More slurs. He
even had the facts on his side this time. Helot’s plot was the most offensive
crime the Argos had ever seen. As soon as the crowd heard it, they would be clamoring
for their captain’s head. Kinsella would just tell them about that, then finish
it off with more slurring. Simple.

“Yes, idiot,” Kinsella finally said.
See? I knew I was
going to slur him, and then it happened. Don’t overcomplicate things, son.
His
eyes flickered down to the announcement on the desk display. “How far in
advance are you announcing it? I’m a wanted man you know.” He tapped the
display.

Bletmann rubbed his fingers against his pants leg. “I talked
to some guys about that. People are bored, sir. The whole ship’s primed to show
up for anything. I figure if we give them five minutes, we’ll fill the square
easy.” He jerked his head at the door. “Your bodyguards will provide cover to
spot for security, and the place I picked out has a couple escape routes. It should
work fine.”

“Should work fine,” Kinsella echoed.
Of course, if it
didn’t work fine; unlike the mayor, Bletmann would only be out a job, not his
life.
Kinsella briefly considered making a threat to bind their fates
together a little more tightly. “You know I can still kill people from beyond the
grave, right Bletmann?” Kinsella said. “You specifically, if necessary.”

Bletmann seemed almost bored by the threat. “Yes, sir. I
remember my job interview quite well, sir.”

§

Hogg sat at his desk in the back of the Community Outreach
and Policing Center, wishing it didn’t feel so quiet. Although large enough for
fifty full–time security officers, less than a dozen now occupied the space.
Outside Hogg’s office, he could see his team of high achievers moping around in
the bullpen. A depressed — and depressing — group at the best of times, getting
their asses handed to them by a pair of civilians had had a predictable effect
on their morale. The officers he had sent out searching for Redenbach had
returned empty handed, although all still thankfully conscious. Tired of
looking at the sorry bunch, a sizable minority of which were massaging their
bruised groins, Hogg stalked to his office door and pounded the control to
close it.

He returned to his desk, sat down, and re–read the terse
message from Thorias.
Deliver prisoner to barricade at Africa–1 and 9
^th
Ave.
He stared at the words, willing them to say something more. He had
captured the most wanted person on the Argos. The chief should have been ecstatic.
And yet, he hadn’t given Hogg so much as a scratch behind the ear. He didn’t
even ask about the one that got away.

The news bulletins only added to his confusion. Every word
of them was a lie. There had been no interrogation of Stein — he wouldn’t even
call what they had a conversation. Her talking and him ducking her slippery
words. The woman made him uncomfortable. Too many things were happening that he
didn’t understand, and she had an eerie ability to pick at the doubts already
fermenting in his mind. The central premise of her story, that the captain had
gone insane and was going to destroy half the ship, was nonsense, but like all
good conspiracy theories, there was enough genuine facts lingering at the
fringes to lend the mess an air of plausibility.

A beep on his desk. Linze, letting him know the van was
ready. Hogg stood up, picked the pistol from his desk, and slotted it into his
pocket. He would handle the transfer himself, not wanting to expose his men to Stein’s
lies. They probably weren’t stupid enough to buy her story, but there was just
a bit too much wiggle room in that ‘probably’ for him to feel totally
comfortable with the idea.

§

Bruce licked his lips, took a deep breath, then rounded the
corner across the street from the Community Outreach and Policing Centre. On 40
^th
Avenue, flush with the northern end of the garden well, the northern security
outpost had a smaller and friendlier public facade than the monolithic security
base in the aft. This was where security’s “Say Later to Drugs” campaign and
other soft programs were organized. But it housed regular police operations as
well, including holding cells. It was also the closest security base to their
hideout, and according to a couple of Fauxmless who had seen her get moved inside,
where Stein was apparently being held.

With his shoulder–length blonde wig, Bruce was disguised as
either an extremely unattractive woman or an unremarkably unattractive man.
Just a reconnaissance trip; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with the subterfuge.
It was really a role for Ellen or Griese, but he hadn’t told them what had happened
yet. They would just warn him to stay hidden. And, fabulous new disguise aside,
he had no interest in remaining hidden.

At a measured pace, he walked along the street, across from
the front door of the security office. He held his terminal in front of him,
tilted slightly towards the door of the security office with his head firmly fixed
forward, pointedly not looking across the street. He rotated the terminal around
as he walked, keeping the sensor pointed at the front door. Rounding the corner
at the end of the street, he continued a few more steps until he was out of
sight, then stopped and replayed the recording he had just made.

The doors were transparent, and he paused the playback at
the point where he was directly across the street from them. Here, he had
gotten a clear shot inside the office and could see a short entry hallway and a
large central room just beyond. Inside, two or three officers could be seen.
From the ship’s drawings, he knew the holding cells would be on the far side of
that room. The layout was problematic — with only one way in, they would see
him coming. A frontal assault would be both ballsy and stupid, though Bruce was
reasonably well–stocked with both of those commodities.