Authors: Peter Cawdron
Tags: #science fiction dark, #detective, #cyber punk, #thriller action, #detective crime, #sci fi drama, #political adventure fiction book, #science fiction adventure, #cyberpunk books, #science fiction action adventure, #sci fi thriller, #science fiction time travel, #cyberpunk, #sci fi action, #sci fi, #science fiction action, #futuristic action thriller, #sci fi action adventure, #political authority, #political conspiracy
The Road to Hell (14 page)
Kane sipped his whiskey, feeling the warmth flow down to his stomach, the strength of the liquor swelling at the forefront of his head.
“
Why did you ask?” As they were on the subject of loyalty and honesty, Kane wanted to draw some honesty out of the senator.
“
We’re alike you and I, driven by the same passions. But I’m an old man, in the sunset of my life. The doctor’s tell me I have less than a year to live, at most. When you get to my age, you think about your legacy. You think about what you’ve built with your life. You think about how you’ll be remembered.”
“
As history rolls by and the memory fades, I’ll be honoured as a founder, then I’ll become a paragraph in a history book somewhere and then, later, the name of a shopping mall or some suburban street, before finally and inevitably becoming just a passing fact, something lost in the obscurity of time, something to be dragged up on a talk show interview or in some quiz show.”
Kane was silent.
“
Eventually, they’ll revise history. They always do. They’ll say, the end never justifies the means. And they’ll ignore that drastic times demand drastic measures. It’ll become academic. They could have solved all the world’s ills if only they’d had the helm. And you and I, my friend, will stand condemned as villains.”
“
Is that what you think?” asked Kane, more relaxed now the attention had shifted from him and the conversation had become more open.
“
It’s the truth. You can’t fight the future. So for me, the question is, how will I be remembered, and for how long? Will I become just another name etched into a wall or will I be seen as someone that brought some substance to society. Will I be remembered fondly or with distain? They say the victors write history. That’s only partially true. History is brutal. It is revised by successive generations as they look back without the prejudices of the present. The victor's don't write history, our grandchildren do.”
The old man smiled.
Lightning cut through the clouds, lighting up the night, casting a ghostly pale flash across the city towers. Deep inside the clouds, flashes of light set the mood for the conversation.
“
And you think they’ll hate you?”
“
I doubt they'll understand me. They won’t understand what I’ve done and why. They’ll look at the council with contempt. They’ll see the sensational, the overthrow of the presidency and the suspension of civil rights. What they won’t see is you and I struggling with these very issues. History has a way of distilling the complexity of life into over-simplified terms. To them, it will be good versus evil, right versus wrong, freedom struggling against tyranny.”
With a tear in his eye, the senator continued. “They won’t see the forty-three grieving widows out there, somewhere, only now learning of their loss tonight. They won’t see the tears in the eyes of the police officers that lost a partner. They won’t see the funerals, the fathers and mothers, the brothers and sisters, all mourning the loss of those fallen officers. No, in the decades to come, all this will just be a line of text in some history book. And yet it doesn’t end here, tonight. It carries on for years, for generations, as families struggle on, as widows carry their burden alone, as children grow up without a father.”
The frail old man paused, his hand leaning on the glass, the rain outside lashing at the windows, lashing at his heart.
“
No, history will see us as heartless. History, my friend, has no shades of colour. There is only black and white.”
“
You’re speaking as though we’ve lost,” replied Kane, surprised at the tone of the conversation.
“
Nothing lasts forever,” replied the senator. “It would be naive to think otherwise. It’s not that we’ve lost. It’s that there is nothing left to gain so all we can do is lose. The rebels, those like this fellow Artemis, they sit smug and secure thinking they’ve fought for freedom today, thinking the blood they’ve shed is a noble act. Yet for every blow they strike, they strengthen the resolve of the hardliners, those that would keep power for themselves. Every act Artemis commits makes it harder to return freedom to the people.”
He seemed to falter. There were tears in his eyes. His hand pressed against the glass. It was as though he were struggling to carry some hidden burden on his shoulders, as though he were fighting to stay aright and not to fall beneath the load.
“
It’s not that I think we’ve lost,” said the senator, staring at his empty glass. “It’s that I think I’ve failed. I’ve committed my hand in steering this ship and still she’s run aground. There’s only so much one man can do.”
Kane was silent, uncomfortable with what was being said. He’d always looked at the council as being right. Never doubted, never questioned. In the decades since the war had ended, it was the council that brought stability. And now, here, he’d heard more than he cared to, realising that, like everyone else, the council was human. The council, too, had to live with both its successes and its failures.
“
So I guess I called you here to clear my conscience,” said the senator, pulling his shoulders back as he spoke. “If history will not hear me, at least you have, at least you’ll understand. All we have done has been done for the good of the people. From here, well, no man has a crystal ball. The future is shrouded to us all.”
Kane stood, taking his leave from the senator.
“
You will little remember these words,” said the senator. “None of us ever do. But you will remember the heart, the intent, and that is what I need you to take with you. I need you to fight for a cause you believe in, not one you’re loyal to. I need you to do what is right, not what is expected. I need your loyalty to lie with principle not with people.”
“
Thank you, sir,” Kane replied as he shook the senator’s hand. Although he wasn’t sentimental, Kane felt the gravity of the moment.
The doors to the turbo-shaft lift opened as they walked towards them.
“
I know you’re separated,” said the senator. “But think of your kids. Think of the world you’re raising them in. The inheritance you should give them is not counted in terms of money, it’s counted in the choices we make, in the direction we give to the future.”
Kane stepped inside the lift as the senator spoke softly, patting him on the back.
“
I have confidence in you, my friend. When the time comes, I know you’ll make the right choice.”
Kane turned to see the senator standing there smiling. It seemed impossible to think he was dying; he seemed to be an immovable tower of strength. As sacrilegious as it felt, somehow it seemed as if he’d been talking to a prophet, not a politician, someone with a vision beyond his own life.
As the doors closed, Kane felt alone for the first time in years.
Rain fell softly in the alleyway.
Puddles formed in the potholes, overflowing and running on down the alley toward a flooded sewer at the far end of the road. As tempting as it was to dart across the alley in the dim light, Harrison knew it would be a mistake.
“
Nice and casual, Harry, nice and casual,” he muttered to himself. He wondered if there were a set of cross-hairs zeroing in on him. The eye is too keen, he thought, picking up change more rapidly than colour. If he made a break, it would only draw attention to himself, like a mouse darting along a wall trying to avoid a cat. The quicker it scurries the more interest it attracts. Instead, he walked slowly, moving from behind a trash compactor, making out like he was walking away down the alley and then, keeping to the shadows, he doubled back along the wall toward the abandoned loading dock.
Only fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Harrison reminded himself as the adrenalin rose up within him, urging him on. Patience, he thought, you’re a long time dead. Better not to move too quickly.
A broken window at the back of the loading dock allowed him to clamber inside an abandoned office. Looking around, he realised it probably belonged to the stock controller or warehouse manager. Scattered files lay everywhere, filthy and muddied. A couple of empty food cans sat piled in one corner. Squatters.
Broken glass crunched softly beneath his boots. Looking down, Harrison saw long shards from a broken mirror lying scattered across the ground. Looters had stripped the adjacent toilets, dragging the sinks, cisterns, vanity mirrors and seats out into the hall. Anything of value had been ripped out, with the broken, shattered remains left behind, clogging up the hall. Harrison bent down and picked up a fragment of the mirror, a piece about the size of his palm. This could come in handy, he thought.
Shadows seemed to move around him as he stepped over the debris and walked deeper into the factory. Shadows played with his mind, feeding on his fear. Not a sound could be heard, nothing but the beating of his heart welling up in his throat. Rats scurried across the floor as he stepped out into the warehouse proper. The offices in the loading dock had been built up from prefabricated blocks, glorified shipping containers cut down and partitioned into cubicles. Beyond them, the bare concrete floor of the factory stretched into the darkness.
Moonlight broke through the clouds outside, shining in through the broken windows set high above the factory floor.
“
Yeah,” Harrison mumbled. “We just be dancing in the moonlight.”
Even under pressure, he kept his sense of humour about him like a security blanket. A light quip every now and then, even if only to himself, helped him break through the tension of the moment. Every sense was alert, looking for the slightest sign of movement. His hearing pricked at the slightest groan from the old building as the wind howled by outside. He checked the charge indicator on his blaster, the soft green glow reassured him he'd have a fighting chance in a firefight.
As quickly as it had come, the moonlight faded, disappearing behind the clouds, leaving him alone in the darkness.
Harrison cursed himself for leaving his spectrum specs with Susan and prayed his adversary had been just as negligent. Sound was his only ally. In the moody grey darkness, everything looked coarse and grainy, nothing was distinct. Slowly, softly, he walked out on to the factory floor, moving from one support beam to another, trying to use whatever natural cover was around. Still, there were no sounds, nothing to break the deafening silence, nothing but the howling of the wind outside.
No one likes to admit they’re scared of the dark, he thought, but everyone is. Walk into this place in broad daylight, no issues. But at night, with the wind drifting through the rafters, the ambient light fading in and out, and knowing that someone, something is out there, well, that’s a different story. Damn, he hated this part of the job.
After twenty feet he came to a broad stairwell climbing up through the interior of the building. From what he could see, a series of offices set above the factory floor looked out toward the hotel. That had to be where the flash came from.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the top of the first landing, Harrison moved slowly up the stairs, grimacing with each creak from the floorboards.
Something scurried across the top of the stairs. Too large for a rat, it had to be a feral cat or maybe a raccoon. It was a good sign, it meant there was no one else on the first landing at least.
Above him, an old wooden board flexed under the weight of someone creeping along the upper hallway. With a clear audible signal giving away his adversary’s position, Harrison felt he had the upper hand. Or perhaps it’s a trap, he thought, a decoy, someone trying to flush him out and expose him to a second shooter. It was a classic ploy, one he’d used time and again. Damn, he hated this job. There’s got to be an easier way to make a living, he told himself as he crept up the stairs.
At the top of the landing, the stairs turned through 180 degrees, tacking back as they proceeded up to the next floor. This is it, he thought, knowing that if he were up there, this is where he’d stage a fight. Holding the high ground and having time to set a snare, he’d be lying prone at the top of the stairs ready to pop a cap in the first fool to show his head around the corner.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. His hands felt cold and clammy. Kneeling down, Harrison used the broken mirror to see around the corner. It was useless. It was so damn dark someone could have been staring back at him in the mirror and he wouldn’t have known it.
The moon came out from behind the clouds for a brief moment. For a second, he was able to catch a glimpse of the stairwell. As best he could tell, it was empty. With his blaster leading the way, Harrison crept slowly around the corner, his eyes fixed on the dim reflection in the mirror until he had a clear view himself.
Nothing moved.
Seconds passed like hours.
If anything, he’d have rather had it over with. The suspense was torture. With each step, the inevitable came closer, like tiptoeing through a minefield, he thought, just waiting for one of the bastards to go off.
As he approached the top of the second set of stairs, he slowly saw more and more of the adjacent room. The flickering neon light outside the Astor cast a dim red glow in the room, allowing Harrison to make out some rough shapes. A desk, a couple of long boxes, possibly suitcases, something on a tripod, some kind of electrical equipment with lots of wires coming out of it.
It had to be a stakeout, but how many where there? He knew the classic formation was three, two on watch and one sleeping, twelve hour shifts overlapping every six hours. More than likely, the sleeper was in another room. If Harrison had been on the crew, he’d have the sleeper kitty-corner, diagonally opposite the stakeout room, that way if things went pear shaped, you had a natural crossfire set up and any fool game enough to come up the stairs would be caught in the middle. Yeah, he thought, any fool like him. This was going from bad to worse.
Creeping up another softly groaning step, Harrison was now level with the floor, hard up against the side of the stairwell, doing all he could to minimise his profile and hold the element of surprise, his blaster extended out in front of him. If things went hot, he’d have to move quick and he knew it, either make a break into the room firing controlled bursts, or back down the stairs to the landing. Either way, if things went hot, it was going to be messy. The only thing in his favour was surprise. People tended to panic under pressure and fire wildly, and that, he knew, would be to his advantage, so long as he could stay cool.
There was no movement inside the room.
Mentally, he pictured where the creak from the floorboards had come. It had to be from somewhere to the left, just out of sight down the hall. Was it someone taking a leak, or had they seen him coming and were lying in wait?
Another floorboard creaked, only this time he was sure it was from within the room. His eyes could just make out the soft red glow of a nightlight. His mind was playing tricks on him. Was it the same person moving about, or a second target? What had seemed like a good idea while he was in room 412 of the Astor, was now looking distinctly like getting him killed. Shit, shit, shit, he thought.
With the mirror, Harrison peered around the corner, looking down the hallway. Nothing. At least, no one he could see. Across from him, a shadow moved. Whoever it was, they now had their back to him, peering into what must have been a surveillance camera on a tripod. It was now or never.
Springing up and launching forward, Harrison darted across the hall and into the room. He grabbed the man standing by the tripod. With one arm around his neck, he swung the man around, using his body as a shield as he scanned the rest of the room with his blaster stretched out before him, ready to fire..
The room was empty. There was no one else there.
A messed up cot sat up against one wall. A pile of magazines lay spread out across the floor. A couple of empty water bottles and candy wrappers sat on a side table along with some left-over Chinese noodles in a takeaway box. But, other than that, the room was full of various types of recording equipment. No weapons. No rifles. No blasters.
His opponent swung his elbow back into Harrison’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to release his grip.
Harrison staggered backwards.
The tripod crashed to the floor and his blaster went off, searing a hole in the far wall.
Harrison dived for the other man as he scrambled over toward the cot. His opponent turned, holding up some piece of electronic equipment and then the world around him went white. The flash was blinding, disorienting. Before he knew it, Harrison had been struck on the back of the head. His pupils dilated with the flash, ruining his ability to see in the dark. What had been a misty grey of moving shapes in the soft red neon glow was now pitch black. With his hands, Harrison searched the floor for his blaster when another blow knocked him flat on the ground.
Down on all fours, Harrison’s hand brushed against the familiar shape of his blaster.
Suddenly, he was wrestling with the other man for the weapon, both of them struggling to gain the upper hand. Rolling over on the floor, they crashed into the cot and then the small table, sending computer equipment flying across the room. His sight was coming back, slowly, but all he could see was shades of black. Harrison rolled over on top of the man, wrenching the blaster free and bringing it swiftly to the side of his opponents head.
Pressing the blaster up hard against the stranger’s temple, he said, “Try anything smart, and you’re a dead man.”
The man released his grip, raising his hands in surrender. Harrison got slowly to his feet, his blaster trained on the stranger. He kept his back to the window so he was facing the door, the only way for anyone else to storm the room.
“
How many?” he asked.
“
It’s just me, honest.”
Out in the hallway, Harrison caught the flicker of someone moving in the shadows. In an instant, he was leaning around the corner of the door frame with his blaster trained on a woman standing there petrified.
“
Don’t be shy. Come on in. The party is just getting started,” said Harrison, waving with his blaster, signalling for her to move into the room.
The woman ran in and hugged the dark stranger, holding on to him for protection.
“
Who are you?” asked the stranger.
“
I’m the one with the gun,” replied Harrison. “I’ll be asking the questions. Who the hell are you?”
“
My name’s Lincoln Thomas. I’m an investigative journalist with NBC.”
Thomas reached out slowly toward the desk and turned on a small lamp, increasing the light in the room so they could see each other clearly.
Harrison scanned the room.
For the most part, the equipment was all stock-standard. Nothing he couldn’t have brought on the black market. If this guy was a cop, Harrison would have expected him to have a little more sophisticated equipment. And the girl, if she was faking it, she sure as hell had Harrison fooled. She looked scared to death.
