Matrix Man (21 page)

Saxon smiled. "Guilty as charged. I take it you have something better in mind?"

"Yeah," Kim said thoughtfully. "I do. Let's give Martin a buzz. Maybe
he
can get us in."

Saxon looked startled at first, then he looked thoughtful, and then he began to laugh. Not just a chuckle, but a belly laugh, the kind that makes your stomach hurt. Finally he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and said, "Thank you, Kim, I heeded that. It's so ironic it's funny." Saxon held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong—it's a good idea. It might even work. I'll get on it right away. Does Corvan know?"

Kim shook her head. "It's kind of hard to get his attention right now.''

Saxon nodded his understanding. "He needs some time, that's all. See what you can do to cheer him up and I'll make some phone calls. I should know something by later today."

But when all was said and done, two days passed before Saxon had all the answers and they were ready to move. When Kim went to get Corvan, he was watching a memorial service for Mary Hawkins. It was a public affair held in a huge Baptist church and much more meaningful than the private ceremony held earlier in the day.

The private ceremony had been a farce. The president's staff claimed that Hawkins wanted to mourn in private, but Corvan knew the real reason and it made him furious. The president was dead! Assassinated! And the bastards were getting away with it.

The public ceremony was a good deal more sincere, but it was marred by Carla Subido's presence. She was a vision in black, with just the right amount of lipstick to accentuate the whiteness of her face, plus blood-red nails. Corvan willed her to die, tried to destroy her with the blackness of his thoughts, and swore out loud when she laid a white rose on the pew where Hawkins usually sat.

Kim stepped in front of the holo and turned it off. Then she laid a garment bag across his lap and stepped back to look at him. Corvan looked down at the bag and up at her. His eye cam whirred as he zoomed in on her face. "What the hell is this?"

"It's a chance," Kim replied. "A chance to get off your ass and do something for a change."

Corvan opened his mouth to say something and snapped it shut. He unzipped the garment bag with one angry motion. There was a uniform inside.

"Congratulations," Kim said calmly. "You're now a full colonel in the WPO commandos. That's your uniform. Put it on."

Now Corvan realized that Kim was wearing the uniform of a WPO captain. In the place of the facial tattoo she now wore a scar which started over her left eye and cut down across her face. Her pageboy was gone in favor of a military-style crew cut. Corvan found himself smiling. "If you lose any more hair you'll be bald."

Kim made a face at him. "I'd still be better looking than you are. Get dressed."

To Kim's surprise Corvan did as he was told, disappearing into another room and returning as a bird colonel. He snapped her a salute. "Nice fit. What the hell's going on?"

As Kim explained, people came and went all around them. Having already used the safe house longer than Saxon liked, they were moving out. Com gear, holo sets, even the crummy furniture was on its way somewhere else.

When Kim was finished, Corvan slapped her on the back and apologized as the force of his blow drove her a step and a half forward. "Ooops. Sorry. It's a helluva good plan, Kim. One question, though. Assuming we make it inside the studio, and assuming you figure out how to operate the VMG, what will we say?"

Kim looked up into Corvan's face and smiled. "Beats the hell out of me, Colonel. You're the reop. Remember?"

And on the way to the staging area Corvan did remember. More than that, he looked back over the last few days and realized that instead of fighting back he'd surrendered. The realization came as something of a shock because it didn't match his self-image.

While working on his master's degree Corvan had been assigned some really demanding intellectual problems and solved them. And later, while in the army, he'd confronted physical danger and met the challenge. So why crack now?

The answer seemed obvious when he thought about it. As he'd once explained to Kim, journalism was his calling, his religion, and when the VMG turned it inside out, his world had collapsed around him. The crisis wasn't physical or intellectual, it was spiritual. And it hurt like hell.

The back of the van was full of bogus commandos. They grinned and laughed like scouts on the way to a picnic. The van made a sharp turn and threw Kim against him. Corvan caught her and smiled. "Thanks."

Kim nodded. "It's good to have you back. I missed you."

Corvan felt something warm inside and wanted to reply in kind, but the van came to an abrupt halt and everyone piled out. They were in a half-empty warehouse, one of the modern kind, full of robotic forklifts and computerized inventory equipment. Corvan saw two long tables piled with gear and beyond those, a command car and a personnel carrier. Both bore the WPO logo and looked factory fresh.

"Nice, huh? Instead of stealing the vehicles, we stole all the parts and built 'em from scratch."

Corvan turned to find that a portly man had materialized by his side. He wore a one-piece blue coverall which was stretched tight across his huge belly. The man's face was concealed by a monster mask like the ones kids use on Halloween.

"Sorry 'bout the mask," the man said matter-of-factly. "Had to grab it on the fly. You can call me Mac. Now listen carefully, 'cause we ain't got a lotta time." Mac turned to the others.

"Now listen up! When Sasha calls your name, step up to the table and draw your gear. Load your T.O. Weapon, and for God's sake, don't shoot yourself in the foot."

There was nervous laughter as a woman with a nylon stocking over her head stepped up to the table. She wore a smaller version of Mac's blue coverall with a hand-lettered name tag which said "SASHA." She had a voice like a foghorn. "Dyson! Front and center!"

Corvan looked at Kim. "T.O. weapon? I thought the plan called for us to finesse our way in."

Mac answered for her. "It does, Colonel. But what if the shit hits the fan? You were a Green Beanie. If they start shoo tin', you wanna stand there and suck lead? No? I didn't think so. Now listen up."

Mac gestured to the eight men and women who were busy drawing weapons and ammunition. "Every one of those jerk weeds has served a hitch in something. Recon, Rangers, Seals, we got 'em all. If the goin' gets greasy, they'll cover your ass, but if you screw up and kill 'em for nothin' you better be dead as well. You copy?"

"Perfectly, Sergeant Major," Corvan replied crisply. "I'll take good care of your people."

"See mat you do," the man called Mac replied, making no attempt to correct Corvan's use of his old rank. "Now, let's see what Sasha's got for you."

What Sasha had for Corvan and Kim included official WPO ID cards, printed orders, coded access cards, and side arms, complete with two mags of extra ammo. In addition, both received the tiny com sets used by the intelligence branch of the WPO. These fit inside their ears like hearing aids and were jacked into their implants. That way they could communicate with each other and with the team leader, Sergeant Fong, all without speaking out loud.

Corvan turned the ID over in his hands. "It sure looks real."

"That's because it is real," Kim replied. "Thanks to Martin and his connections with the FBI and CIA Colonel William Rudek is in all the right files and matches your description to a T. Here," she said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a new pair of electro-goggles, "you'll need these. For obvious reasons Colonel Rudek isn't equipped with an eye cam."

"That's a roger," Corvan said, slipping into the goggles and a military persona at the same time. "Let's kick some ass!"

Kim smiled and shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, world. I created a monster."

Corporal Ellis drove the command car with Corvan and Kim sitting in back. Meanwhile a private named Cerkin had taken the wheel of the personnel carrier and was doing her best to ignore Sergeant Fong's unending advice. It wasn't easy.

All the way to the E-FEX-1 studio Corvan felt something big and hard growing inside his gut. The more he thought about it, the more unlikely the whole thing seemed. They'd have to bullshit their way inside the building, secure it, scope out the video matrix generator, use it, and make their escape, all within a six-hour period of time. After that the guard would change and their cover story would fall apart.

The command car took a hard right and passed a huge piece of Exodus Society-sponsored graffiti. It covered the entire side of a run-down building and showed a family with a stylized spaceship in the background. The caption read, "EARTH, LOVE IT AND LEAVE IT."

Corvan was glad when the trip was over and the command car pulled in before a low, unassuming building with metal bars over its windows. The building might have been unassuming, but the guard around it wasn't. From Saxon's briefing Corvan knew that an eight-man squad was deployed around the structure. There were four troopers covering the front of the building, and Corvan noticed that they were heavily armed and well protected by prefab emplacements. At the sight of the vehicles they stiffened and did their best to look alert. A command car means brass, and brass worry about the way things look, so give 'em what they want. One of the troopers held a small radio to her lips and spoke into it.

Corporal Ellis piled out and made a production of opening Corvan's door. Even though it was early morning, the hot, moist air pushed its way in to fill the car with the odor of urine and decaying garbage.

As Corvan got out, a WPO captain appeared from behind the building and approached the car. He stopped three paces away and delivered a snappy salute. Even though his English was California perfect, Corvan knew the officer was Russian from the tiny hammer-and-sickle shoulder patch he wore on his uniform. He had a cheerful grin and a pair of trusting blue eyes. "Captain Sokolov at your service, Colonel. What can I do for you?"

Corvan returned the officer's salute with a casual wave of his hand. "Good morning, Captain. I'm Colonel Bill Rudek. This is Captain Chris Delany. She's got orders to evaluate certain pieces of electronic gear for shipment to another location. Somewhere that's a little easier to defend."

Corvan looked around as if evaluating the terrain. "Meanwhile the brass have decided to double the security around this complex. I have orders to put my team inside the building and assume overall command."

If Captain Sokolov found this strange, he gave no sign of it. "Excellent. My people will do everything they can to help. First, however, I must ask to see your ID cards and a copy of your orders."

"Of course," Corvan replied easily, and withdrew both items from an inside pocket. "I'm glad to see you're taking our security precautions seriously, and I'm sure you'll understand that I have a similar obligation."

Sokolov nodded politely, handed over his ID, and performed a smart about-face. As he headed off around a corner of the building, Corvan handed the ID to Ellis and said. "Take this over to the personnel carrier, fiddle around, and come on back."

Ellis nodded and was gone.

Somewhere toward the back of the building Sokolov had a personnel carrier of his own, complete with computer interface. Within minutes he could check the authenticity of their ID cards with the WPO data banks in Washington, D.C., cross-check them with the FBI and CIA, and verify their orders.

Their lives were in Martin's electronic hands. Had the computer covered all the bets? What if he'd missed something? What about the other computers, the ones that belonged to the FBI and the CIA? Were they in on the plan or had Martin managed to trick them? What if they discovered two bogus officers? There were plenty of questions and lots of scary answers to go along with them.

But when Sokolov returned from his errand, he had a smile on his face and a fax in his hand. He waved it as he approached. "You're all set, Colonel Rudek. The computers like you. You and your troops may enter whenever you wish."

Corvan smiled and felt the tension leak out of his arms and legs. He felt Ellis appear at his left side. "Thank you, Captain. And, according to Corporal Ellis here, you're the real thing as well." Ellis handed Sokolov his ID card, took two steps backward, and turned to stone.

Corvan straightened his electro-goggles. "There is one other thing, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Sokolov replied alertly. "What can I do for you?"

"I want complete radio discipline," Corvan replied. "Nothing in or out without my permission."

Sokolov frowned. "If you say so, sir, but what about my hourly reports?"

Corvan damned himself for a fool. Of course! Sokolov would be expected to report into some central location at regular intervals. And if he missed a report, boom, they'd send a small army to investigate the problem. He forced a smile. "Yes, your regular reports should continue as usual. I meant everything else."

Sokolov's face was sunny once more. Military routine would be preserved and all was right with the world.

Corvan lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "No mention of my team, though. Intelligence thinks the dissidents may have found a way to descramble our transmissions. Wouldn't it be fun if they decided to attack and found twice the troops they expected?"

It took Sokolov a moment to process this information, but when he had his eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Yes!" he said loudly, then caught himself and looked around. "I mean yes," Sokolov said in a whisper. "That would be wonderful!"

Corvan patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. Captain Delany and I are going inside. Corporal Ellis will stay here in case you need a runner." And, Corvan thought to himself, in case some of your friends arrive. In that case Corporal Ellis will happily cancel your ticket.

That thought triggered another. What was happening to him? Somehow he'd gone from objective journalist to violent dissident all in a few days. His entire thought process had changed from that of citizen to that of soldier. Sokolov seemed nice enough, yet Corvan had already classified him as disposable, a problem a bullet could easily solve. Was he thinking the same way Carla Subido did? Did one wrong justify another? These were ancient questions, and like thousands of people before him, Corvan found himself without answers. All he could do was move forward and do the best he could.