Severance (49 page)

He thought back on his time as Supreme Commander. How had he
gotten here? He had done everything he had been told, as well as he could,
better than most others. There was something deeply, profoundly unfair about
how this had played out. It bothered him, like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.
He had done everything he had been told. Why wasn’t that enough? It was
frustrating and infuriating and exhausting to think about. So exhausting.

He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

The fabrication engine rumbled and hummed, making the floor
vibrate, a thin layer of dust dancing in time. The pitch of the hum grew higher
and fainter, past the limit of Harold’s hearing. Then it changed, slowing,
winding down, as the engine slowed to a stop. The light on the display panel
flickered yellow, then green. On the far side of the machine, a mechanical
noise, and a thin plastic sheet slid out into a bin. Harold picked it up and
examined it.

Andy’s Retro 40
^th
Birthday Party
Everyone wear your wackiest, Earthiest clothes.
Ice Cream!

“Is that as fast as it goes?” he asked.

Martin walked over to the machine and entered something on
the control panel. “Yeah. About thirty seconds per iteration for this template.
Hard part’s done now — the machine will keep spitting ’em out. You said you
wanted fifty?”

Harold nodded. “Can we use the other machines?” Fourteen
other identical fabrication engines sat idle, scattered across the floor of the
fabrication plant.

Martin looked around. “Could. What’s the hurry?” He activated
the program, starting the machine up again.

Harold didn’t want to push the point. “So, about half an
hour, then?”

“Your math’s better than mine, Doc.” Martin looked over
Harold’s shoulder to the office on the upper–level of the fabrication shop. “Come
on. We’ll take a load off.” He walked up the staircase set on one side of the
room. Harold took one last lingering look at the fabrication engines, then
followed Martin upstairs.

Inside the cramped office, they sat down on a pair of
bruised and battered chairs, Martin putting his feet up on the desk. It looked
like a familiar position for him. “Thanks again for helping with this,” Harold
said.

“No problem. I’ve never made anything like this. It’s a real
crazy idea.”

Harold snorted. “Yeah. You’re a regular Gutenberg.”

“Thanks.” A pause. “A what?”

Harold didn’t answer, looking around, examining the office. “Hey,
what’s that?” he asked, pointing over Martin’s shoulder.

Martin turned to look at the uninteresting chunk of wall
Harold was pointing at, then recoiled, clutching his neck where Harold had just
slapped it. “What the heeehhhhh…” he said, before falling to the floor,
unconscious.

“Sorry, Martin,” Harold said, bending down to check the
anaesthetizing patch he had slapped on Martin’s neck. He checked his pulse –
still there. Finally, he straightened out his friend’s limbs and stood up. “But
it turns out I’m kind of a maniac.”

Harold left the office and descended back to the main floor,
where he shut off production of the party fliers. Repeating the steps Martin
had just showed him, he created a nearly identical template with a different,
far more politically explosive message printed on it. There was a lot of
material to cover, and he had had to size the text quite small to get all of
his points across. He hoped it didn’t come out too crazy. He turned on the
fabrication engine and waited anxiously for the first one to emerge. It looked
pretty good — not that crazy at all. Setting the machine to repeat the process,
Harold then made a lap of the fabrication plant, programming the rest of the
engines to do the same. The room hummed and throbbed as his screeds streamed
into the hoppers.

Harold did some quick math. The patch on Martin’s neck was
good for about an hour, which meant he could get over a thousand of these done
before he woke up. He looked at the bag he had with him, wondering if a
thousand leaflets would fit in the thing. He had no idea how much room they
would take up or how much they would weigh. He was sure it would be fine. He
felt really sure, in fact, surer and calmer than he had in a while. He guessed
it was because, one way or another, it was all coming to an end. The story
would get out. It was the end of a work week — the bars and garden well parks
would be crowded with people, all of them certainly eager to read something as
novel as a flyer. And once they knew, well, security couldn’t kill them all,
could they?

Even if that was, ultimately, their plan.

His backup plan was also, for now, completely undetected; no
one had said a peep to him about his work on the tinkering engine. If
everything went right, if his flyers exposed the plot and he emerged a hero, no
one would ever even know about it. He would quietly remove the patch from the
tinkerers, leaving no one the wiser. He felt a little annoyed by that; it was amongst
the most brilliant things he had ever done. But still,
morals.

He was about halfway through the print run when the doors of
the fabrication shop opened, three security officers sliding into the room,
pistols drawn.

“Hands up, asshole!”

“Put your hands up, asshole!”

“Hey! Hey! Asshole! Asshole! Hey! Asshole!”

Harold watched all this happen without moving. His stomach
sank; he knew there was no point in resisting. He was shoved to the ground, a
knee pressed into his back, binders slammed around his wrists. He wheezed and
sputtered, struggling to breathe with the officer’s weight on him.

A familiar voice. “Let him up.” Harold was grabbed roughly
by the arms and pulled to his feet, to see Chief Hatchens standing in front of
him. “Hello, Doc. What
are
you doing here?”

Harold resisted the urge to look at the drifts of
incriminating evidence scattered around the room. “Friend’s having a birthday
party,” he offered, nodding at the small pile of flyers that wouldn’t get him
killed.

“Uh–huh.” Hatchens inspected one of the birthday leaflets. “Sounds
like fun. Although,” he added, looking thoughtful, “I wonder if people will be
in the mood for a party with all these horrible murderous conspiracies that
have been going around lately.” He set down the birthday flyer and picked up
one of the others, fresh from the machine. “You’re going to tell me these were
here when you got here, right?”

Harold ignored him. “You were monitoring the fabrication
engines.”

“That’s right.” Hatchens smiled. “Not for this of course —
this was actually quite creative of you. No, just for regular old fashioned
contraband.” The smile left his face. “So, let me see if I can piece this
together. Somehow your boy Kevin passed you a message. Is that right? You don’t
have to answer; that part’s obvious. We found a copy of it on that poor
reporter. He said he found it in a men’s room. That was you who did that? Also
pretty creative of you — though maybe a bit cowardly. Wouldn’t you say?”

Before Harold could reply, he was interrupted by a noise
from above. He looked up to see two of the officers dragging Martin’s still
unconscious body out of the upstairs office. “Who’s that?” Hatchens asked.

“He didn’t have anything to do with this,” Harold said,
voice tight. “I knocked him out before I started.”

“Did you?” Hatchens asked. He watched the officers deposit
Martin on the floor, then bent down to inspect the patch on his neck. “Yes, I
suspect you did.” He stood up, turning back to face Harold. “The problem with
that though, Doctor, is that if I’m wrong, if you’re lying to me, then this
nonsense will keep going on. He’ll tell his friend, who’ll tell his friend, and
they’ll all have to die. It’s an awful big risk. You can see my problem.” He
looked away from Harold and tilted his head back and forth, deciding something.
Finally, Hatchens bent down, rolled Martin over on to his front, withdrew a
knife from his boot, and thrust it into Martin’s back.

An unearthly moan slipped from Harold’s lips as he sank to
the floor. He wanted to cry, knew he had to cry, felt the misery course through
him. But the tears weren’t there. He could only stare and shake.

“You see what’s happening here, don’t you, Doctor? Everyone
who finds out about this has to die.
Has to.
We can’t have it any other
way.” Hatchens peeled the patch off Martin’s neck and pocketed it, then stood
up and pulled his pistol from his holster. “See this, Doctor? Looks just like
all the other pistols we have, doesn’t it? Works just like them, too.” He
smiled. “Essentially. Sometimes it hits a bit harder, I guess. Doesn’t stun
very effectively. Or is it too effectively?” Another smile. “You get me? Now,
tell me about this evidence you have. How many copies are there? Where have you
put them? Because if someone else stumbles upon it, they will die. And don’t
start squawking to me about that not being right.
I know it’s not right.
It’s not fair, and it’s not just, either. But it will happen. And only you can
stop it.
If you tell me what I need to know.
”

Harold moaned. He had been sure he was ready to die for
this. He had told himself he could do it, that it was important enough to die
for. That he had nothing left to live for with Kevin gone. But he had been
wrong. Here on the floor, snot running out of his nose, he knew how brave he
actually was. “Please don’t kill me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Hatchens strained to hear him, or at least pretended to. But
he seemed to get the message. He swallowed. “Because of your particular skills,
we might be able to do something about that. Your recent work has done you much
credit. But you have to tell me everything. Okay?”

Harold nodded eagerly, gasping, snot everywhere. “Of course.”

“Where is the evidence? Every copy of it.”

Harold sniffed. “A dummy terminal in my office. Hollow shelf
in the cabinet.” He snorted, more snot pouring from his face. “That’s it. That’s
the only copy.”

“That’s it?”

Harold nodded. The tears were coming now.

“Could be lying,” one of the other officers said.

Hatchens tilted his head, looking at Harold on an angle. “Could
be. I don’t think so, though. And don’t look at me like that. We’re not going
to torture the man.”

Harold looked up, face soaked. “Thank you. I swear it’s the
only copy. I swear.”

Hatchens smiled. “Okay. I believe you.” He pointed his
pistol at Harold. “Still going to have to do this, though.”

“But you…”

“Of course I said that. But we’ve got kind of a thing going
here — need to frame you for stabbing that poor guy. Sorry, Doc.” Hatchens
smiled weakly, genuine sympathy on his face. The muzzle of the pistol flashed.

Millions of stars drifted past the window, Stein hating
every one in turn. She slumped forward on the bench, elbows on knees, chin
resting in hands. Beside her, Bruce listed a bit to the right, insulting a
number of different objects and persons, aided in this task by the large amount
of purple liquor he had just consumed. On her other side, Griese, sober,
quieter than normal, his arm resting on a small can in his lap.

It had been a week since the disaster in the aft. Kinsella
hadn’t taken long to fold, surrendering completely within minutes of the
ultimatum, presumably right after he had found a place to hide. True to his
word, Helot had immediately sent his rescuers in to save Kinsella’s trapped
soldiers. He had even been kind enough to provide footage of this to the news feeds.
The images were humiliating, stern and competent security officers caring for
the gasping amateurs. It was enough to make Stein ashamed, which was clearly
the point. Everyone watching would come to the same conclusion — fighting Helot
was hopeless. When they played the footage of the security forces retrieving
Hogg’s body — the feeds stressing his rank as “Supreme Commander” — she had
flipped off her terminal, eyes choked with tears.

Ellen’s body had been turned over a few days after that.
That was lucky — Stein imagined security would have been reluctant to hand over
anyone nearby the smart rifle. Griese had gone to the hospital alone, firmly
turning down Stein and Bruce’s offers of support, returning a few hours later with
the small can in his possession. In the days since, he hadn’t said more than a
dozen words.

An extremely conspicuous man walked in front of them,
eclipsing the stars with his passage. His eyes were fixed firmly forward,
almost deliberately not looking at them. Which didn’t seem very likely; Bruce
alone was in fine form, as worthy of attention as anything on the ship. Stein
was immediately suspicious of the man and only grew more so when he sat down a
couple of benches over, again pointedly not looking at them. Other than him, the
lounge was completely empty. Most Argosians seemed a bit shy of the big windows
since the vacuum disaster; the picture of the kid who had gone missing had been
on the feeds more or less permanently the past few days. Stein looked out the
window and shuddered.

A few seconds later, Stein heard more people arriving behind
her. She turned to see two more figures entering the bow lounge, the larger of
them a near twin of the conspicuous man who had first arrived. The smaller one
was a woman with an awful haircut, ragged brown locks hanging over her face. The
odd couple dropped down to the same tier of benches Stein and her friends were
on, then turned, coming directly at them. A tense moment before Stein
recognized the woman.

“Ms. Stein,” the mayor said from behind another one of his
disguises. He parted the hair of his wig so he could see them. Stein realized
he had it on backwards.

“Mayor. I thought you’d be torn to small pieces by now.” She
watched him for a moment, not getting any reaction, then for the sake of
politeness added, “Glad to see I was wrong.”