The Unincorporated Future (37 page)

“Wa da heel?” he slurred as Marilynn gave him a gentle shove and then followed him in.

As they shot forward like bullets through a barrel, the corporal suddenly woke up and began laughing and whooping out loud.

Marilynn was screaming along with him, though whether in fear or exhilaration she could not tell.

*   *   *

Joshua Sinclair looked around the Grand Ballroom and had the beginnings of hope that this plan was actually going to work. It had been relatively easy to get all the people he wanted removed from power into the ballroom using the President’s own award ceremony as the lure. The President, her staff, and the entire Cabinet with their staffs as well as all the TDCs had gathered under a single roof. He waited patiently for the last of the periphery TDC patrols to enter. Then he activated a concussion bomb, which knocked out everyone, including himself. Once he’d been revived, he went and took care of the lone TDC in Sandra’s office himself. It had been a simple matter: drop his DijAssist, wait for the corporal to bend down to pick it up, insert hypo.

And now he was seeing the next part of his plan come to fruition. Ten empty suspension units were being wheeled into the ballroom by his handpicked assault miners, and the ten bodies were being put into the units. They were Sandra O’Toole and her Chief of Staff, Catalina Zohn. Rabbi; his secretary, Alonzo Chu; and his bodyguard, Agnes Goldstein, went into three. Ayon Nessor went into the sixth, and Eleanor McKenzie went into the seventh. Mosh had been upset by that part of the plan, as he thought Eleanor would come around once the situation was explained, but Sinclair had been firm. Eleanor was smarter and more independent than Mosh thought, though why the normally perceptive Treasury Secretary couldn’t see it, was curious to Sinclair. But he didn’t let it get in the way of his decision. Secretary of Security was too important a position to leave filled by a potential liability during a coup. She could be revived later, once the new government was well established, but Sinclair would fill the post with his own supporter. The same went for the Relocation and Technology departments as well. Karen Cho would have to be made the acting President. That was risky, but she brought Saturn, and that was the heart of the Alliance for the time being. Mosh had wanted the Presidency to end the war quickly, but Sinclair knew that a missing President being replaced by a peace-proposing Shareholder would not be politically viable.

The last three capsules were filled with Sergeant Holke, his wife, and Parker Phvu. The need to get rid of the sergeant was obvious. He’d never rest till the truth came out. Sinclair regretted involving the sergeant’s wife, but she’d been in the ballroom and he knew she’d be trouble if allowed to ask questions concerning the disappearance of her husband. Mosh had been confused by the inclusion of Parker Phvu. But Sinclair knew the man was a brilliant analyst who’d become loyal to Sandra O’Toole. Sinclair didn’t need him poking around while the new order was trying to establish itself.

When the bodies were all loaded into the suspension units and all of them activated, Sinclair and Mosh sighed in relief. Nine of the capsules were going to the
Rumrunner.
The frigate would take them to an automated ore hauler that would bring them all to Earth/Luna. Before they arrived, a message would be sent, letting the UHF know exactly who was in the ore hauler. An investigation of the affair would hint that the Rabbi was actually a spy for Tricia Pakagopolis—nothing definitive, of course, but very suggestive.

The tenth suspension unit, containing Eleanor, would remain hidden in Ceres till she could be safely removed. It would also ensure the good behavior of Mosh if it ever came to that, but Sinclair hoped that it wouldn’t. Joshua Sinclair also liked the plan because it delivered the woman who ordered the deaths of a billion people into the hands of those she’d wronged. With any luck, by the time anyone suspected anything was wrong, everything would be finished. Once he received word that the units were on the
Rumrunner,
all that would be left for him and Mosh would be to get knocked out again and discovered by the first staff member in the Cliff House who got curious enough to come down and see what was taking so long. Once Sinclair was woken up, he would order the
Rumrunner
to “search” any suspicious ships. One of which would be the automated ore carrier.

The last of his Martian assault miners were leaving the ballroom when his DijAssist emitted a very unwanted emergency signal.

*   *   *

Sandra’s emergency escape route had been designed to shoot a person or persons out a hatch overlooking the vast Smith Thoroughfare. The idea had been that once the person exited the tube, their parachute would deploy and they would float gently down to the thoroughfare below, where, lost in a crowd, they could further their escape.

Sadly for Marilynn and Corporal Langer, what Sandra had forgotten to adjust for in the rush of events of the Battle of Ceres and the destruction of Mars was the fact that Ceres was no longer spinning for centrifugal gravity. That critical oversight was something Marilynn had not realized until she’d exited the tube at a much higher velocity than she’d expected. Instead of slowing down, her and the corporal’s speed increased. They overshot the center of the thoroughfare and, as designed, their parachutes immediately deployed. Only the chutes hadn’t been designed to function while moving at such high speeds and so, barely slowed the two bodies hurtling through open space at ever-increasing velocity—toward a wall of apartments directly across from the Cliff House.

Seconds later, Marilynn and the corporal flew through, as luck would have it, an open set of balcony doors, grabbing whatever drapery they could to try to slow themselves down. They hurtled through three permiawalls that puckered open and closed as they roared past a few surprised residents, trailing the torn curtains behind them. Their ride finally came to an end as they slammed into the fixed wall of a hallway and finally dropped to the floor.

With a groan, Marilynn and the corporal were helped to their feet by a smattering of concerned residents who’d come running out of their apartments as soon as they heard the commotion. It was only after a moment that Marilynn noticed one of the residents was the Congressional from Neptune, Oliver Oliveres. “Congressional,” said Marilynn, respectfully as she and the corporal both ran past him to the staircase. The corporal waited until they were three flights down before he came to a stop directly in front of Marilynn, at the foot of the stairs. He turned to face her. There was, saw Marilynn, nothing loopy about the corporal now. His eyes were cold; the professional killer had returned.

“Questions,” he demanded.

“There isn’t much time, Corporal. The President’s life is in danger.”

Langer tilted his head. “Then I suggest you answer quickly.”

Marilynn’s face grew grim, but she knew the drill. “Go.”

“Why are you disguised?”

“Officially, I’m not supposed to be here. I was on a quiet mission for the fleet admiral.”

Langer considered her answer, then moved to the next question. “Do you have
any
idea why I was attacked by Admiral Sinclair?”

“I believe Mosh McKenzie and Joshua Sinclair are attempting a coup. I discovered your body but apparently was being watched as well. We were both locked into the Triangle Office. Hence our unorthodox escape.”

Langer’s eyes narrowed as he pushed his lips hard up against his teeth. He began to reach for his combat communicator but was stopped by Marilynn putting her hand on top of his.

“That’s compromised.”

“Then we have to get to the Grand Ballroom”—he began running once again—“and now!”

“Corporal,” Marilynn called after him, “if you go, they die.”

Langer stopped in his tracks and looked back toward Marilynn, who hadn’t budged an inch.

“The best chance we have to defeat this coup is for you to trust and guard me, standing right where I am.”

The corporal, primed to fight, anticipatory energy in every move he now made, ran back up back to Marilynn and stared at her intently. “What the fuck are you talking about, Commodore?” Apparently standing and doing nothing hadn’t factored into any course of action he was preparing to take.

Marilynn gave him a one-sided grin. “I’ve been upgraded with an internal Neuro interface.”

Langer’s brow folded together. “A what?”

“A VR rig.”

Langer’s head jerked back as he eyed his superior officer suspiciously. “But the edicts,” he muttered.

“Fuck the edicts, Corporal. You
know
who I am. You
know
what I do.”

He answered with a quick nod.

“So now you have a choice. You can either trust me when I order you to do something—strange as it may seem to you, or how what I’m doing may look—or you can go to the Grand Ballroom and try to fix this thing on your own. As a TDC, it’s understandable that you’d have high regard for
your
survivability, but by
not
working with me, I can assure you you’ll lower the probability of survival for everyone in that room. Mark my words, Corporal. You cannot do this alone.”

As he considered her words, Marilynn noticed every muscle in the TDC’s chiseled body tense up, pining to keep on charging down those stairs, as if the muscles themselves could separate from and therefore attempt a mutiny of their own against the will that controlled them.

But in a brief moment, the tension shifted slightly and the corporal gave a determined nod. “I’m yours.”

Marilynn nodded back and then took a deep breath. “I’m going to interface with the Neuro and find out what the fuck is going on. In there, I’ll have some control of things out here. That’ll help us. I don’t think the coup even knows about this ability, let alone that someone nearby wields it. If that’s true, we have a chance. When I interface, Corporal, I’ll appear to be catatonic. Find a hole and throw me in it, then make sure that no one can get to us. I must remain undisturbed if I’m to have any chance of saving our President and the lives of your comrades. With any luck, no one will come after us. You ready?”

The corporal nodded again.

“Then get ready to play catch.” Marilynn touched her fingers to her temples and collapsed into the waiting corporal’s arms.

*   *   *

Marilynn appeared in the Cerean Neuro, nestled behind a large single column, one of many lining a long walkway. Avatars were everywhere about, and that offered some comfort to her, as it should allow her to blend in reasonably well. She needed to get to the armory, but a direct route was out of the question. She’d use Tuscan Park; it was a large data node, and Sebastian would have to be circumspect if he tried anything overt against her.

She pulled a map from thin air and then used it to scan any structures within the park she could transfer to with minimal notice. She chose a small, abandoned open-roofed ruin and could only hope there’d be no avatars in it when she arrived. But, unlike the BDDs, using “public” transportation nodes didn’t allow her much choice. She’d have to go and pray her luck stayed with her and that Sebastian wouldn’t be able to monitor every single transfer. She arrived to an empty villa and sighed in relief. There were leaves and branches on the exposed earthen floor and a few small benches nestled up against the walls, presumably for afternoon respites. It would’ve been a lovely place to relax, she thought sadly. As she peered over the ledge of one of the villa’s hewn windows, she could see that the park was sparsely populated: only three or four thousand avatars lolling about. She then checked the avatar Cerean news feed. As she checked the info-load, her lips formed into an appreciative grin. Sebastian didn’t need to go after her himself; he’d already gotten everyone in the Cerean Neuro to do it for him, claiming that Marilynn was wanted in connection with the appearance of an Al and was to be considered dangerous, possibly even unstable.

Oh, you clever old bastard,
Marilynn thought. The second she showed her face, she’d be detained and separated from the rest of the avatars, which would give Sebastian time to have his human puppets, Sinclair and McKenzie, find her human body and dispose of it—likely eliminating the poor corporal in the process. Sebastian would have to fabricate a story, but without Marilynn and her evidence, he’d have weeks to work with. The evidence Marilynn had left with Allison on the
Warprize II
was compelling if not unequivocal, but with enough time to cover his tracks, Sebastian could use his popularity and guile to build a case against it.

The armory, Marilynn now realized, was out—as would be getting over to the Avatar Council. Sebastian would have every route covered. She couldn’t move anywhere for fear of being recognized, was lucky in fact not to have been noticed yet. She racked her brain for ideas but could find none. She’d been sealed off, apparently, in both worlds. And so she stood in the abandoned villa, alone, staring forlornly out the window, wondering if this was where it was all meant to end for her. She gazed across the lush fields, at the gently swaying eucalyptus trees, and finally rested her eyes on the park’s most recent installation: Al screaming in terror and the flashing light of a faux BDD acting as his tormentor, now Marilynn’s tormentor by virtue of its uselessness. What she wouldn’t give for the ugly blue phone box and its telltale howl right about now. As she continued to gaze toward the park, frustration building at a lack of any good options, she suffered yet another annoyance—the repetitive flash of that light was giving her a damned headache. She turned away in disgust and kicked in anger at some branches nestled by her feet. As the branches flew through the air, Marilynn’s heart skipped a beat. She quickly turned back toward the window and, now gripping tightly at its ledge, stared back out onto the field and for the first time since returning to Ceres, felt a burgeoning glimmer of hope.