Matrix Man (20 page)

"The woman's name is Kim Kio, a television engineer, and thought to be Corvan's lover."

Kim made a face as if that were the worst lie of all.

Now the shot changed again and Corvan saw a burning building. Fire fighters were struggling up ladders, and frightened people were pouring out onto the street. After allowing the natural sound to establish the scene, Laro resumed her narration.

"After killing Bethany Bryn, a promising young actress, police say the fugitives escaped in a helicopter. During the subsequent chase they fired a missile at an unarmed traffic patrol chopper, missed, and killed three people in this high-rise condominium."

Corvan shook his head in dismay. The WPO had not only wiggled out from under; they'd turned the entire incident around!

The fire dissolved to a tight shot of Laro. Her forehead was furrowed with concern. "Shortly thereafter their helicopter was downed over the bay. And while Corvan and Kio may have perished with their chopper, authorities say they have recovered only one body so far, and it belongs to an unidentified male. Possibly their pilot. It is possible that Corvan and Kio escaped. If you see either one of these people, don't try to stop them. Call the police. These fugitives are presumed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Until next time, this is Lia Laro for BAYSCAN news."

Saxon pressed a button and the holo faded to black. He looked from Kim to Corvan. "The video matrix generator."

Corvan realized that he'd been holding his breath. He let it out in a long sigh. "Yes. The video matrix generator."

 

 

 

14

 

 

In keeping with his rank, Dietrich was the last one to enter the conference room and take his seat. The room was long and narrow, with a wall-sized holo-com screen at one end and ceiling-to-floor glass at the other. It revealed a dramatic cityscape and forced people to squint when they looked at Dietrich.

The computerized table was long and black, its touch-sensitive surface flickering with barely seen images, ready to perform any of a thousand different tasks.

The table could seat thirty, and twenty-seven of the leather-upholstered chairs were filled, squeaking slightly whenever people moved. Most had been up all night and looked extremely tired. They looked at Dietrich and waited for him to speak. Eight were employees of the WPO's security arm, two were members of the FBI, one represented the National Security Council, two were from the Secret Service, five carried DEA badges, three worked for the San Francisco Police Department, one was Nicolai Slovo, and the last was Dietrich himself. He cleared his throat.

"As you know, we have a problem on our hands, and that's why I called this meeting. Last night, in spite of numerous opportunities to catch them, you allowed two fugitives to slip through your hands."

None of the men and women present missed the switch from "we" to "you." They shifted in their seats. Shit flows downhill and an avalanche was on the way.

Dietrich steepled his fingers as he looked the length of the table. "To say that I'm unhappy would be an extreme understatement. The fact is, you allowed some nationalistic fanatics to kill an innocent woman and escape untouched. I say 'escaped' because there's been no sign of their bodies."

Dietrich looked at Rita Farnsworth, San Francisco Chief of Police, and saw her eyes drop toward the table. "And," Dietrich added conversationally, "it now appears that Corvan and Kio may be connected with the attempted assassination of President Hawkins."

Dietrich found this somewhat hard to believe, but that's what Carla Subido had instructed him to say, so that's what he said. When he'd talked with her an hour earlier, he'd expected to get his ass chewed at the very least, and if Subido was really mad, well, that didn't bear thinking about. But she'd been laid back, almost cheerful, as if her mind was on other things.

Dietrich hoped so, because in spite of what he'd just said, it was he who'd screwed up. After Kio's phone call to Seattle and the crosstown chase, Dietrich had expected the fugitives to turn up at Corvan's apartment and had concentrated most of his forces at that location.

Now Dietrich realized that he'd systematically underestimated Corvan. With or without help from the Exodus Society, the reop had detected the stakeout at his apartment and gone to see Bethany Bryn.

What happened after that got really weird. There hadn't been time to do an autopsy, but the coroner said Bethany Bryn had died of a single high-velocity slug through the spine, a finding which would make sense if a sniper had nailed her from across the street. And the sniper, some guy called HoJo, was supposed to do just that if and when Corvan showed up. The medical evidence suggested that he had, but Dietrich couldn't be sure, since the sniper had since disappeared. The question of whether HoJo's disappearance was forced or voluntary was still under investigation.

In the meantime Corvan was killing Bryn in prime time while Kio watched. Someone was hard at work with the video matrix generator. The VMG was outside Dietrich's area of responsibility, but he marveled at how well it worked. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the footage was real.

Dietrich looked the length of the table and wondered how many of the people present knew about the video matrix generator. All? None? Given the WPO's passion for security, there was no way to be sure.

And who were they anyway? He hadn't even heard of them until a few days before. Dietrich had always assumed that he and people like Carla Subido were special, a handful of loyal operatives that Numalo had sprinkled throughout the WPO, a small and elite group. Now he realized that he was just one of thousands. Every day more and more of them popped out of the woodwork.

Dietrich didn't know all the answers, but like any well-trained soldier he knew when to keep his mouth shut, and the time was now. Suddenly he realized the silence had stretched long and thin. They were waiting for him to speak.

"So," Dietrich said, hoping his voice sounded somewhat ominous, "Carla Subido, the president's chief of staff, and a member of the WPO's North American Executive Council, has something to say. Mr. Slovo, perhaps you would do us the honor."

Nicolai Slovo was seated at the opposite end of the table next to the door. He nodded, aimed a remote at a wall holo, and pushed a button. Color swirled and Carla Subido appeared.

She wore a white linen suit, her usual gold jewelry, and a rather stern expression. Dietrich felt a lump form in the pit of his stomach. This was a different Subido from the one he'd dealt with an hour before. He knew the signs: she was going to dump on someone. Her eyes ran the length of the table and stopped on him.

"Good morning. After last night's display of monumental incompetence, I'm sure that each one of you has a great deal to accomplish today, so I won't keep you any longer than necessary. There was a time when it was considered obligatory for the captain to go down with his sinking ship. These days I'm happy to say that we're more humane, offering second and even third chances to people who make mistakes. But failure cannot be tolerated indefinitely. Some sort of limits must be set and maintained."

Blood rushed to Dietrich's face and he felt his belly muscles tighten. She'd set him up, allowed him to think he could wiggle off the hook, and now his time was up. Dietrich's eyes darted this way and that, searching for a way out. Now the gleam in Slovo's eye—and his position by the door—took on a special significance. The German knew that he was trapped.

"With that in mind," Carla continued, "Mr. Dietrich will resume his duties as a captain in the WPO's military arm, where he will be assigned to a special security group. I trust he will be more successful there than he's been here.''

Everyone turned from the screen to Dietrich. He rose. Was the reprieve real? Or just another aspect of his punishment? He swallowed hard. "Thank you. With your permission I will leave and attend to my new duties." It would have sounded good, almost suave, except that Dietrich's voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.

The wall-sized Subido nodded. "You may leave."

There was absolute silence as Dietrich walked the length of the table. With each step he expected to hear Subido's voice, or feel a bullet hit him between the shoulder blades, but nothing happened.

Finally he was there, only inches away from Nicolai Slovo, painfully aware of the bulge under the other man's jacket. Dietrich had seen Slovo on the police range. He knew the other man could pull and fire his weapon in half the time it would take him, and felt the sweat trickling down his back.

Then the door slid open. Dietrich stepped through, and much to his own amazement discovered that he was still alive.

 

 

 

15

 

 

Three days passed, during which millions of people watched Corvan kill Bethany Bryn morning, noon, and night. But even blood and gore gets boring after a while so the media added "depth" to its stories by asking relatives, friends, and people on the street what they thought. They thought murder was bad. They hoped the murderers would be caught and punished. And Louis Platero, the receptionist at News Network 56 in Seattle, added that "Kim was a weird little chick who lived in the basement and never came up for air. No wonder she freaked out."

Meanwhile police and military personnel all over the world were looking for the two fugitives, their efforts coordinated by the WPO and closely followed by an army of journalists.

And, to Corvan's shock, News Network 56 wasted no time in condemning its ex-employees. After all, their guilt was an established fact captured for all time on video disk.

Concerned that their earlier Man Cam promos might backfire and drive advertisers away, the suits sought to put some distance between the organization and the fugitives as quickly as possible, and did so by offering a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to their arrest and conviction. They even sponsored a "News Network 56 Bounty Hunter" and provided hourly updates on his progress. Their ratings soared.

As the network's ratings rose, Corvan's spirits fell, until he did little more man sit slumped in his chair, watching report after report, sinking ever deeper into depression.

Kim didn't want to feel sorry for him. After all, she had problems of her own, but found she couldn't help herself. His entire world was coming apart. Instead of righting this terrible wrong, his fellow journalists were making it worse. Thanks to the VMG the big lie was working, the good guys were in trouble, and the bad guys, the real bad guys, were busy taking over the world.

So as Kim sympathized with Corvan her anger began to fade away. Corvan was selfish, but at least he cared, tried to make a difference. When the sniper had killed Bethany Bryn, he'd accomplished something more as well: he'd transformed Kim from onlooker to participant, starting a fire which still burned.

As a result Kim gave Corvan opportunities to bridge the gap, started up conversations, and tried to get him going. But nothing seemed to work. He was withdrawn and seemingly unable to do more than stare at the holo and mumble to himself. Eventually it made Kim mad. Mad enough to swear at him. He didn't even look up as she stomped out of the room.

Furious at Corvan's lack of response, Kim took her case to Chris Saxon. He received her in a bedroom fitted out as a makeshift office. Officially he was on vacation from the Exodus Society's San Francisco headquarters, but in truth he was the self-designated VMG case officer. The last few days had been difficult for him as well. The authorities were working around the clock to determine ownership of the helicopter, and together with the press they were putting tremendous pressure on the Exodus Underground. If they could prove, or seem to prove, that the Underground had played a role in Bethany Bryn's murder, well, the political fallout would be devastating.

Of course, they could decide simply to manufacture some evidence through use of the VMG, but so far they hadn't done so, perhaps because the search was attracting so much attention. Why not milk it a bit longer? Presumably they could use the time to line up support for a global government. And once that was in place, the world's space programs were as good as dead. Or so the Exodus Society believed. Saxon was no exception. In spite of these thoughts he forced a smile as Kim entered the room. As always, Kim was extremely pretty and Saxon turned his chair to show her the good side of his face.

"We figured out why you look so washed-out in that VMG footage," Saxon said. "While they had lots of stuff on Corvan, they had hardly any footage on you. As a result they gathered up the stuff the Chip Heads had on you, ran it through the VMG, and bingo, poor video."

"But good enough for government work," Kim countered as she dropped into a beat-up chair. "The bastards."

Saxon raised his good eyebrow. "Do I sense a change of mood? You seem a little more passionate than before."

Kim shrugged. "It's easy to be passionate when people are trying to kill you. Besides, I'm tired of sitting around while they tell lies about us and allow the real murderers to run loose."

Saxon nodded. "So?"

"So, I've got an idea."

Saxon looked quizzical. "Okay. We could use an idea right about now."

Kim lit a black-market fag and took a deep drag. Her words came out along with the smoke. "I think turnabout's fair play. Since they used the VMG on us, I think we should use the VMG against them."

Saxon laughed and slapped the side of his box. "I like it! I like it a lot! Too bad it won't work."

"Won't work? Why not?"

Saxon's expression turned serious. "Well, we hadn't thought of using the VMG, but we had considered stealing or destroying it. With that in mind we sent a surveillance team to look at the E-FEX-1 studio, where Neely worked prior to joining up." Saxon shook his head sadly. "It made Fort Knox look like a candy store. After your visit to Bethany Bryn they put a company of WPO commandos in there. The place is sealed up tighter than a drum."

Kim blew a long, thin column of smoke at the dingy ceiling. "No offense, Chris, but you military types are all alike: you view everything in terms of physical force."